Page 39 of Romance and Peppermint Lattes
“No.”
She released a short sigh of frustration. “That’s what I thought. The soup should be done in about thirty minutes.”
He nodded, then, looking a bit chagrined, added, “I suppose I should thank you.”
“I suppose you should, too, but it isn’t necessary.”
“What about the money you spent on groceries? You can’t afford acts of charity, you know. Wait a minute and I’ll—”
“Forget it,” she snapped. “I can spend my money on whatever I damn well please. I’m my own person, remember? You can just owe me. Buy me dinner sometime.” She left before he could say anything else.
Maryanne’s own apartment felt bleak and lonely after Nolan’s. The first thing she did was walk around turning on all the lights. No sooner had she finished when there was a loudknock at her door. She opened it to find Nolan standing there in his disreputable moth-eaten robe, glaring.
“Yes?” she inquired sweetly.
“You read my manuscript, didn’t you?” he boomed in a voice that echoed like thunder off the apartment walls.
“I most certainly did not,” she denied vehemently. She straightened her back as if to suggest she found the very question insulting.
Without waiting for an invitation, Nolan stalked into her living room, then whirled around to face her. “Admit it!”
Making each word as clear and distinct as possible, Maryanne said, “I did not read your precious manuscript. How could I possibly have cleaned up, done the laundry, prepared a big kettle of homemade soup, and still had time to read 212 pages of manuscript?”
“How did you know it was 212 pages?” Sparks of reproach shot from his eyes.
“Ah—” she swallowed uncomfortably “—it was a guess, and from the looks of it, a good one.”
“It wasn’t any guess.”
He marched toward her and for every step he took, she retreated two. “All right,” she admitted guiltily, “I did look at it, but I swear I didn’t read more than a few lines. I was straightening up the living room and... it was there, so I turned over the last page and read a couple of paragraphs.”
“Aha! Finally, the truth!” Nolan pointed directly at her. “You did read it!”
“Just a few lines,” she repeated in a tiny voice, feeling completely wretched.
“And?” His eyes softened.
“And what?”
“What did you think?” He looked at her expectantly, then frowned. “Never mind, I shouldn’t have asked.”
Rubbing her palms together, Maryanne took one step forward. “Nolan, it was wonderful. Witty and terribly suspenseful and... I would have given anything to read more. But I knew I didn’t dare because, well, because I was invading your privacy... which I didn’t want to do, but I did and I really didn’t want... that.”
“It is good, isn’t it?” he asked almost smugly, then his expression sobered as quickly as it had before.
She grinned, nodding enthusiastically. “Tell me about it.”
He seemed undecided, then launched excitedly into his idea. “It’s about a Seattle newspaperman, Leo, who stumbles on a murder case. Actually, I’m developing a series with him as the main character. This one’s not quite finished yet—as I’m sure you know.”
“Is there a woman in Leo’s life?”
“You’re kidding, aren’t you?”
Maryanne wasn’t. The few paragraphs she’d read had mentioned a Maddie who was apparently in danger. Leo had been frantic to save her.
“You had no business going anywhere near that manuscript,” Nolan reminded her.
“I know, but the temptation was so strong. I shouldn’t have peeked, I realize that, but I couldn’t help myself. Nolan, I’m not lying when I say how good the writing was. Do you have a publisher in mind? Because if you don’t, I have several New York editor friends I could recommend and I know—”
