The Bachelor Chronicles
Author
Lissa Manley
Reads
19,0K
Chapters
12
Chapter One
Erin James stepped into Warfield’s, the hottest java bar in Portland, Oregon, and inhaled deeply, savoring the rich scent of freshly ground coffee. She adjusted her glasses, and her gaze landed on the guy standing behind the counter, studded-out in a designer suit, gold chains and enough hair grease to roast a pig. He had to be Jared Warfield. No surprise that he looked like a carbon copy of every other bachelor she’d interviewed in the past week for her article.
She moved toward the counter and mentally cursed “The Bachelor Chronicles,” her latest project. Interviewing rich bachelors who reminded her way too much of her heartless ex-husband, Brent, seemed trivial. But her editor had promised a fat bonus to the reporter who came up with the best story, and she was counting on getting the byline.
She hated the story idea, which involved featuring wealthy local bachelors in the Beacon and then having each bachelor go on a date with one of the women who wrote to the paper. But she would interview Frankenstein if it kept her house out of foreclosure, the wonderful legacy her ex had bestowed upon her when he’d lost his gigantic trust fund in day trading two years ago, then taken off to parts unknown with one of Erin’s best friends. She’d been stuck with his overdue credit card debt and a mortgage payment she hadn’t been able to cover in months. For the millionth time, Erin wished she’d had the brains to close out their joint charge account before their divorce had been final a year ago.
A pang of anxiety slid through her. She knew too well where uncontrollable spending could land a person. She had no intention of repeating her mother’s mistakes or of hanging on the hairy brink of homelessness. Never again.
Frowning, she pressed a hand to her midsection, systematically forcing herself to relax. She would be a fool to alienate Jared Warfield with a sour attitude before she could get the interview that could turn her life around.
Taking several deep breaths, she manufactured her best reporter smile, determined to free herself from the financial mess she’d been left in and make a new start, on her own.
“May I help you?” Mr. Oily Hair said.
“Yes, Mr. Warfield. I’m Erin James from the Beacon.” She extended her hand over the counter.
He shook her hand. “It’s very nice to meet you, Ms. James, but I’m Dan Swopes, the manager. This is Mr. Warfield.” He gestured to the man who had just walked behind the counter, a tray of dirty coffee cups in his hands.
Erin barely kept her jaw from falling. That was Jared Warfield, maverick entrepreneur, casually dressed in beige khakis and a navy-blue polo shirt? He looked more like the cashier than the millionaire owner of one of the fastest growing businesses in the city.
As Erin struggled to shift gears, her feminine interest exploded. Jared Warfield was good-looking—very good-looking—in an unconventional kind of way. His buzz-cut dark hair, while severe, enhanced the chiseled bone structure of his face. His mouth was generous yet masculine, and his eyes, which he turned toward her as she stepped closer, were the most unusual shade of brown she’d ever seen. They reminded her of the steaming coffee in mugs being handed over the counter. Rich, dark, yummy coffee.
His well-fitting, short-sleeved shirt accentuated a toned chest, broad, capable shoulders, nicely muscled arms and a taut waist. He was tall and lean and hot, and on second look, much too self-assured and imposing to be the cashier.
Her heart spasmed in her chest and she faltered, but quickly recovered, chiding herself as she moved toward the register. She wasn’t about to have a heart attack over the first really handsome man she’d encountered since her divorce. Brent had been just as gorgeous on the outside, but as ugly as a worm-filled, rotten apple on the inside. Appearances, she’d discovered, were very deceiving.
She took a deep breath and smiled politely. “Oh, I see I’ve made a mistake.” She extended her hand. “Erin James, Mr. Warfield.”
He put the tray down, wiped his hands on a towel and reached out and shook her hand. “Ms. James,” he said, pressing his lips together in a strange scowl. “I’ll finish up here, and then we can sit down and have some coffee and talk.”
As Erin wondered about his frown, hot sparks shot up her arm at his firm, warm handshake. She extracted her hand and words stuck in her throat like a glob of peanut butter. She had finally fulfilled her mother’s dream. She was speechless.
Jared pulled his brows together tighter. “Is that all right?”
Erin cleared her throat, thrown off balance by the ribbons of fire shooting from her hand into her bloodstream and by how unhappy he looked to be meeting her. It didn’t bode well for the interview. “Uh, sure, sure, whatever you say,” she said, hoping the warm blush she felt spreading through her face wasn’t too obvious. “I’ll wait over there for you.” She gestured to a blue flowered couch against the far wall.
He nodded and Erin walked over to the overstuffed couch and sat down. She took a deep breath and plastered a calm expression on her face. Heavens, she hoped her strange reaction to him was only surprise at finding him to be so good-looking yet so unflashy—at least on the outside. Whatever the case, with her house on the line, this was the wrong time to get in a muddle over a man.
But as she sat and waited, her eyes kept wandering in Jared’s direction to watch his capable movements behind the counter. She couldn’t help but notice how his muscled torso bunched and moved beneath his blue shirt as he reached for coffee mugs and made cappuccino.
When he came out from behind the counter and headed her way, she bit her lip hard. Figured. His bottom half was just as well put together as his top half. When he turned and greeted a customer, she found her interested gaze glued to his backside.
“Wow,” she whispered, her jaw hanging. He had the cutest, tightest pair of buns she’d ever seen.
She dragged her gaze away and closed her mouth, wondering why she was so enthralled by Jared Warfield. Maybe she’d been alone for too long. Yes, that was it. Not allowing a man in her life since Brent, who had cut out her heart, was obviously the problem. She was sure any reasonably attractive guy would have the same effect on her.
Relaxing, she leaned over and rummaged in her brief-case for her small tape recorder. She reminded herself it really didn’t matter how movie-star gorgeous this Warfield guy was. She didn’t need or want a man now, especially not after her disastrous marriage and gut-wrenching divorce.
As if the only man, other than her father, that she’d ever loved walking out on her wasn’t bad enough, the icing on the cake had been when Brent had announced he was broke because of bad investments. The day their divorce had been final, she’d sewn her tattered heart back together as best she could, thrown out all of Brent’s stuff, sworn off men and promised herself to avoid anything resembling love. She intended to stick to that vow and concentrate on writing her story, digging herself out of debt and saving her house and her self-respect. No man was worth the heartache or distraction, not even one with café au lait eyes and a body to die for.
Though he would rather shove bamboo under his fingernails than give an interview, Jared moved toward the stunning redhead from the Beacon, still puzzled by her strange behavior. A few minutes ago she’d looked downright flustered. He shrugged irritably and passed it off as simple embarrassment for mistaking Dan for himself.
Of course, she could just be putting her antennae up to scope him out, like he’d seen loads of women do to the Warfield men, hoping to marry a millionaire.
Balancing a mocha cappuccino in one hand and a plate laden with a fresh apple turnover in the other, he navigated over to the reporter. Hopefully this interview would be done soon and he could get back to work. He resented wasting his time on this stuff. He’d only consented because Warfield’s needed the publicity. If not for Warfield’s, he wouldn’t go anywhere near the press. He had Allison to think of now.
When he arrived at the couch, the reporter looked up at him, her beautiful moss-green eyes glinting behind her tortoiseshell glasses.
“Thanks for waiting.” He set the cappuccino and pastry down on the low coffee table in front of the couch, ignoring his sudden, strange urge to study those eyes and her flawless, creamy skin. Lowering himself into the wing chair behind him, he told himself to loosen up. He’d give a few stock answers and then send the reporter on her way. “Okay. Let’s get started.”
“Do you make a habit of working behind the counter?” she asked, her brows raised.
He sensed the surprise behind her question. “Not usually, but we’re short on help today, and I pitch in where I’m needed. I started Warfield’s with one store and one employee, so I’ve had plenty of experience waiting on customers.”
She picked up a small tape recorder. “Do you mind if I tape this interview?”
His first instinct was to refuse; why make her job easier? But it wasn’t as if he had anything against this particular reporter. Besides, he reminded himself, Warfield’s would benefit from a spread in the Beacon. “No, not at all,” he replied, striving to keep the impatience from his voice. “And help yourself to the cappuccino and apple turnover.”
She pulled her mouth into a tiny smile. “I love apple turnovers and cappuccino.” She picked the flaky pastry up and took a big bite. “Thank you,” she mumbled.
He smiled. Her enjoyment of the pastry, one of his own favorites, pleased him. Maybe this interview wouldn’t be so bad after all. Relaxing against the back of the chair, he drew his leg up and propped his ankle on the opposite knee, liking the sight of her unselfconsciously demolishing the turnover.
He knew he shouldn’t stare but did, anyway, letting his gaze wander over her rose-tinted face, liking the light freckles that dusted her straight, just-the-right-size nose. He wondered if that thick mane of auburn curls falling like waves of flame to below her shoulders was as soft as it looked. He wished he could run his fingers through the fiery strands to find out.
Enjoying his exploration, he let his eyes roam lower, taking in her full lips, the exact color of the delicate carnations he’d planted in his backyard. Drawing a deep breath, he moved his gaze downward past her blue skirt to her legs. Though her skirt wasn’t particularly short, it still displayed her legs below her knees. And what perfect, stunning legs they were, willowy and curved exactly the way he liked.
His heart began to beat heavily in his chest. Heat enveloped him. He looked back up and found her delicately licking pastry sugar from her fingers. He stifled a groan, unable to help watching in blatant fascination as her pink tongue came out and cleaned her fingers of sugar, one…by one…by one. Swallowing, he averted his gaze again, fighting for control, and repositioned his watch on his wrist.
Don’t go there, buddy. Don’t want what you don’t need. Getting hung up on a reporter would be the one, surefire way to expose little Allison to the rabid media, which had burned him before.
When he looked back at Ms. James, she had thankfully finished cleaning her fingers. She flicked on the tape recorder. “First, I’m going to ask you some questions, like your age and what you like to do. Then I’ll let you talk for a while, all right?”
He nodded tersely.
She scooched over on the couch until she sat just a foot from him. Her delicate scent—roses—floated over him, and he fought the urge to sniff the air and drag in more of the wonderful, feminine smell through his nose. The last time he’d smelled anything that good was while standing in the middle of his flower beds when they were in full bloom.
“How old are you?” she asked.
“Thirty-two.” He tried to make his voice sound like her perfume wasn’t wreaking havoc with his senses.
“And have you always lived in Portland?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Soooo…what are your interests?” She licked at the sugary coating on her lips again.
He watched her tongue stroke her lip, and the heat in his body was stoked back to life. “Uh, interests?”
She pursed her sugary lips, then picked up her cappuccino. “You know, hobbies, likes, dislikes. That kind of thing.”
Jared ruthlessly forced his eyes, and thoughts, away from her mouth and how much he wanted to take care of that sugar himself. “Well, I like to ski and work in my garden—”
She stopped midsip and looked at him over the rim of the cup. “You like to garden?”
He lifted a brow and nodded. “Sure. I grow enough vegetables to keep me supplied all summer.”
“Oh, come on.” She put her cup down. “You grow your own vegetables?”
He gave her a stony glare, feeling his strange attraction being replaced by his earlier irritation and wariness. “Yes, I do, Ms. James. I also like to cook. Surprised?”
“Quite frankly, I am,” she said, tucking some stray strands of hair behind her ear. “Most men like you wouldn’t want to get their hands messy enough to garden or cook. I figured you’d be more interested in fast cars, wild parties and loose women in lingerie, stuff like that.”
He clenched his jaw and dropped his foot to the floor. Loose women in lingerie? Damn, how he hated what everyone expected him to be, the wealthy guy without a care in the world, tooling around in his hot car, chasing women day and night. Sure, he had nice things and a nice car, but he’d worked his butt off to make Warfield’s what it was today and to enjoy the perks that came with being a successful business owner. And, yeah, he’d had his share of chasing women in his younger days, but he was over that now that he had Allison in his life.
“I guess I’m not like most men, then, am I?” he said, just managing to be civil.
Her gaze flicked down and held on his wristwatch for a long, significant moment. “Well, most men don’t have trust funds to live on, do they?” Her mouth spread into a tight, judgmental smile.
He clenched his hands. His instincts about this interview had proved dead-on. The press was bad news. They’d ridden his back his whole life, always groveling for some kind of story about his famous family. And then, before he’d threatened one reporter with libel a year ago, they’d tried to do a hatchet job when his half sister, Carolyn, had died.
The media had been too damn eager to exploit the circumstances of the famous Janet Worthington’s daughter’s death. Not only had a slew of reporters hounded him for details of the motorcycle crash that had snuffed out Carolyn’s life, they’d jumped on him like a pack of wolves when he’d adopted Carolyn’s six-month-old baby daughter, Allison. The press had wanted to splash her picture across the front page. Man, how Carolyn would have hated that.
The familiar guilt for failing to save Carolyn jabbed at him, fueling his desire to cut this interview short. He knew he was overreacting, but this snooty reporter had managed to push his buttons, right off the bat. Ms. James might be really nice to look at but she was obviously nothing but a self-serving reporter out to dig up dirt.
He rose, staring her down. “Trust funds? How do you know what the hell I live on?”
She blinked and pushed her glasses up her nose. “Uh, well…” She hesitated, clearly unprepared for his sudden turnabout. Luckily he had been prepared for her ambush.
Jared didn’t wait for her to say more. “Your interview’s over, sweetheart.” He leaned down and deliberately placed his hands on the coffee table and bent in close. Her scent washed over him again, but his anger doused its effect. “For your information, I’ve worked damned hard to get to where I am today and I don’t need you turning your pert little nose up at my lifestyle.” He straightened and sent her a hard glare. “Go find someone else to insult.” He turned to walk away.
“Mr. Warfield?”
Something in her soft tone made him stop, his hands still fisted at his sides. He didn’t turn around.
“I chose you for this article because you have the kind of lifestyle our readers want to read about. Unfortunately, I guess, money is part of your life. It’s my job to write the story my editor wants.”
Unmoved, he swiveled back to face her. She might not have been technically out of line, but she’d implied that he was a lazy idiot who had nothing better to do than piddle away his inheritance. She’d struck right at the heart of one of his biggest pet peeves: people who assumed he’d ridden his father’s coattails to instant wealth. Her rude assumptions were so far from the truth that they would be laughable if they didn’t make him so angry. He hadn’t used one penny of the Warfield millions to build his business, which he was damn proud of.
Yeah, he would follow his instincts on this one. To hell with her story. He was out of here.
“Too bad.” He ignored how her pretty green eyes widened in stunned surprise. “You can go back to your editor and tell him this rich guy changed his mind. The interview’s off.”
He stalked off and left her sitting on the couch with her sugary mouth hanging open and her tape recorder still running.
Heart pounding, Erin watched Jared walk away toward a door at the back of the store, unable to resist taking one last peek at the rear view of his perfect male body. The guy had just told her to take a hike, yet she could still feel the pulse of her attraction sizzling through her body like an electric current. Who would have guessed a man could turn her on while telling her off?
But that didn’t matter. Her desperation was what counted here. What had possessed her to bring up loose women in lingerie? She’d blown it, big-time.
Nibbling a nail, Erin acknowledged she’d been thrown off whack ever since she saw Jared standing behind the counter. Had her neglected libido sent her good judgment flying out the window? That had to be the problem. What else could have caused her to alienate part of her biggest story opportunity in months, jeopardizing her only chance to pay off Brent’s debts and save her house in one fell swoop?
Shaking her head, she flicked her tape recorder off, fighting away panic. What now? She sat and munched on her turnover, but the sweet sugar and tart apples suddenly tasted like sawdust.
She had to admit, Jared wasn’t what she’d expected. She’d been ready for a shallow jerk. Instead she’d met with a gorgeous male with fathomless brown eyes, a body like a Greek god and an interest in growing vegetables, for goodness sakes! If he’d told her he was a leprechaun from Ireland she wouldn’t have been more surprised. He had to be putting on an act for the interview. She’d noticed his Rolex watch and designer label khakis. He might look normal from a distance, but he probably wasn’t. Brent had worn the same designer pants and had sported a similar watch.
Despite glimpses of tantalizing ordinariness, Jared was more than likely a replica of Brent, which would be too bad if she were in the market for a man. She definitely wasn’t, though she could easily lose herself in Jared’s sexy eyes and intensely appreciate his big, male body. She might have sworn off men, but apparently she wasn’t dead.
Reality check. Even though Jared Warfield had brought her stupid body back to life, Brent’s success at ripping her heart out made Jared off-limits. But for an instant, that cute, normal, cashier guy had been her fantasy man come true.
She snorted under her breath. So much for fantasies. After Brent she knew better than to believe in dreams. How could she forget the scorn he’d hurled at her until there was nothing left but the bitter knowledge that she was just as useless to Brent as she had been to her mother?
Brent had hammered that message into her heart with a nail when he’d left her.
Standing, she fingered the chain around her neck, the one tangible thing she had to remind herself how important it was not to love any man again. She fought off her bad memories and the gathering sense of doom, then picked up her stuff, took one long swig of her cappuccino and headed out the door. Warm air surrounded her, and she raised her face to the sun, trying to let the gorgeous September day ease the frustration of ruining her interview.
She made a left on the sidewalk and walked back toward her office. She came to the end of the block and waited for the signal to change, searching her mind for a rich bachelor she might have missed in her search for interview subjects. But she came up empty. Jared was her last hope. She had to get that bonus.
Suddenly a familiar tune caught her ear. She turned toward the sound and realized the music came from a late model, bright-red BMW convertible sedan with its top down in the street in front of her. She glanced at the driver. And blinked. Jared. The expensive sports car wasn’t a surprise. What was a shocker was that he was singing along with the seventies tune on the radio while a huge, shaggy dog buckled in the front passenger seat of the car, his furry head thrown back, howled along with him.
The two of them were singing their hearts out, in perfect unison. Though horribly off-key, as she would expect, the dog could sing. She chuckled under her breath. She’d never seen or heard anything like it before.
The light and the walk signal changed. As Jared pulled away, Erin noticed a child’s car seat in the back next to a dog crate much too small for the dog in the front seat. She also caught a glimpse of the car’s license plate, which simply read Coffee.
Surprise froze her to the curb. Gardening. A howling dog. A kid’s car seat? Jared Warfield was becoming more of a mystery by the minute. Since she’d been pressed for time, she had done only minimal research on Jared, but she was certain she hadn’t read anything about a child. As far as she knew, he’d never even been married. She found herself intrigued. Was he hiding a love child? Or was he secretly married? It would be interesting to peel back the layers to the real man beneath—along with his clothes, of course.
Sirens went off in her brain. What was she thinking? A droolworthy, loaded guy was the last person she should spend any time with. But she had to see him again whether she liked it or not. She needed that bonus desperately, and her reporter’s instincts told her she wouldn’t get it without Jared featured in her article. He was a hot commodity right now, and his family was famous in Portland. If she didn’t interview him, somebody else would and she’d lose out. No, she couldn’t give up on interviewing “Hunk” Warfield.
Then again, “Elvis” Warfield seemed appropriate. When she thought about it, so did “Farmer” Warfield. And “Daddy” Warfield, too. As she started walking again, she wondered if Jared was really what he seemed—an ordinary man who liked dogs and kids and who would undoubtedly love a woman the way she’d always dreamed of, with his heart and soul and everything in him?
A man so different from Brent.
No. That man didn’t exist. Even so, her insides melted at the thought of someone loving her, reminding her of how long it had been since anyone had really cared about her, how many years had passed since her father had died while illegally racing his souped-up ’67 Mustang.
She reached up again and grasped the dime-store chain that had once held the sapphire ring he’d given her a few days before he’d died. Oh, how she wished he’d loved her enough not to risk his life racing cars. Unfortunately, the ring was gone now….
Erin closed her eyes for a moment, reliving the pain of the day her mom had yanked the chain from around Erin’s neck to pawn the ring for cash. Fighting off a wave of grief and yearning, she forced herself to focus on her predicament rather than her innumerable old hurts. She was totally intrigued with a man who would probably stick pins in a voodoo doll with red hair, given the chance.
How was she going to dig herself out of this mess? She didn’t have a clue, but she wasn’t about to roll over and let fate knock her to her knees again. Not after the sheer hell Brent had put her through. One way or another she’d get her interview and the bonus, and she’d satisfy her reporter’s curiosity and discover exactly what kind of man Jared was—without drooling.
She turned the corner, again noticing the beautiful day, complete with clear blue sky, warm, calming breeze and green trees gently rustling in the light wind. It was too lovely a day for her life to fall apart. Yes, she would turn Jared around. She had to.
Failure simply wasn’t an option.
