Page 26 of In This Moment

Was that an insult? She couldn’t tell. “Rarely.”

“Figured as much.” He finally looked away, and she was oddly disappointed. “Another great idea. I’ll bring them down tomorrow.” He rubbed his jaw, creating a scratching sound of skin against whiskers, and she realized how quiet the office had become. “I should get these posted on the sidewalk boxes.” He jerked a chin at the signs on his desk.

Once again, she wished she knew him better because she couldn’t translate if that was a cue for her to leave or him attempting to work up the energy.

“Trying to get rid of me?” She smiled, hoping humor might draw out more from him.

His gaze stealthy narrowed on her. “Why in the hell would I do that?”

Well, okay then. “Got a burr in your saddle, boss?”

Up went his brows. “You should write a book on southernisms. It’s like a whole different language at times.”

Stretching her neck, she laughed. “Same could be said for anywhere in the States. Soda versus pop. Bubbler versus water fountain. You Minnesota and Wisconsinites have a specific dialect all your own. Errr, noo?” she teased in her best Fargo accent.

He did the damnedest thing. He threw his head back and laughed. Unbidden, coarse, and spanning ten seconds. Her belly heated, lighting a zing through her whole midsection. He really should do that more often.

“Touché.” He sighed, amusement subsiding. “How did you not pick up the craggy Boston accent after living there ten years? How often did you drive your cah in the city?”

Slapping a hand over her mouth, she bent over with a fit of hysterics. It was true. Bostoners replaced all “r” sounds with “ah” or “aw.” It wasn’t a half-bad impression. It had taken her forever to get used to it.

Fanning her face, she blew out a breath. “Just lucky, I guess.”

He made a grunt of agreement. “In all seriousness, you do have an odd accent. Southern drawl when you’re mad, northern when you’re focused, and a mix of both the rest of the time. When amused, it’s a light Georgia lilt.”

Interesting observation. Most wouldn’t have noticed. Must be the reporter in him to be that detailed.

“Keen ear.” Crossing her arms, she resettled in the chair. “I tried hard to drop the southern accent, especially after college. My immediate supervisor and co-workers looked at me funny every time I opened my mouth to speak. I found they were focusing more on my dialect than my words. There’s a common stigma throughout the country that a southern accent equaled ignorant or uneducated. It pisses me off. Like all we do down here is roast pigs behind our trailers, play the banjo, make moonshine, and pick our tooth.” She raised a finger for emphasis. “Tooth, not teeth.” She shook her head. “One time, this snobby bitch from the fashion column patted me on the head and told me to go back to the plantation to fluff my hair.”

“Whoa.” Leaning forward, he set his elbows on the desk. “Is she still breathing?”

Bless him. “Yes. She was a lead columnist and I was a no one. Going to HR wouldn’t have done any good. Anyway, that’s why I have a blended accent, I suppose.”

Nodding slowly, he studied her. “Not all of us Yankees are condescending.” He grinned slowly, reminding her of the Cheshire Cat. “I’m rather fond of your angry drawl.”

Was he flirting? Kinda seemed like flirting. “Are you sayin’ you like it when I’m madder than a wet hen at you?”

Nostril flared, he inhaled. Hard. “Gonna plead the fifth.” Quickly, as if to dispel the mood, he rose. “For the record, you’re not a no one. How do you feel about Mexican?”

She was getting whiplash. “The country or in a general sense?”

“Smartass.” He collected the laminated signs. “Let me buy you dinner. What’s a southern term for you worked your ass off and have been busier than hell?”

Standing, she lifted fingers to punctuate points. “Running all over hell’s half acre. Busy as a one-legged cat in a sandbox. Busier than a moth in a mitten.”

He raised his palm, chuckling. “Yeah, that. I’d like to thank you. Dinner?”

“Yes to dinner. I appreciate the thank-you, but a reward is not necessary. It’s my job and we all worked hard.” The giddy little girl still buried inside her relished the praise, as it had been difficult to come by in her career, but the professional side scoffed at the attention. She was just grateful he’d noticed.

He strode toward the doorway, waiting for her to exit before cutting the light. “I just have to put these up first.”

“I’ll help.” Outside, while he locked the office door, she faced him. “What about the dog? Don’t you have to head home?”

“Forest took care of it for me after I realized how late we’d be working.”

She nodded, walking beside him on the cobblestone sidewalk. “You should bring Twain with you to work.”

“You think?” He paused outside the first box by the curb. “It seems unprofessional.”

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