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  He bit into his burger. It suddenly tasted like an over-processed veggie patty.

  Inviting Cisney home probably ranked up with Option A as one of his worst ideas, especially if it started Mom dreaming about gaining a daughter-in-law.

  Cisney’s face streaming with tears had touched a sympathetic chord inside him. And that was all.

  ****

  Cisney entered the cafeteria.

  Nick was sitting at a table by the window with two of his staff.

  She turned in the direction of the tray-return station. Her scheme to bump into Nick at the utensil bin as a reminder he needed to tell her travel information was finally underway. Fair was fair. She gave up skiing with her friends. He needed to show her the courtesy of bringing up the trip. It was a matter of principle.

  She moved into the alcove housing the swinging doors to the kitchen. With Nick’s mind probably on actuarial matters, and not on his guest for the holiday, chances were good he wouldn’t wonder what she was doing there, since she hadn’t been through the food line yet.

  When she peeked out of the recess, his table was in view. The trick was to time her exit to look as if she’d come from the elevators. That required angling to the far wall, and then making a quick U-turn. Making sure no one approached from the elevators, she executed a dry run. It would work.

  Cisney craned her neck to monitor Nick’s movements.

  He stood and carried his tray toward the bins.

  She ducked farther into the alcove. A count of five should do it. One, two, three, four—

  The kitchen doors whooshed open. A cart rattled behind her and nipped her calves.

  “Oh!” She scooted forward and into Nick’s tray.

  His tray tipped. The plate slid off, skated down her skirt, and broke in half on the floor.

  “Cisney!” He gawked at her skirt. “I’m sorry.”

  Frozen, her hands spread, she took in the damages. One spaghetti noodle clung to a smear of red sauce on her cream-colored wool skirt.

  With him staring at her as if he couldn’t figure out why she’d exited the kitchen, she had to say something. “Was the spaghetti good?” She laughed. Did it have to come out so loud and high-pitched? She grabbed the napkin from his tray and wiped at the tomato pulp.

  “I’d have eaten more if it had tasted better. Sorry.”

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” the cafeteria employee behind the cart said. “I’ve got to get these lunch plates to a VP meeting.” He rolled his cart toward the elevators.

  Nick took care of his flatware, trash, and tray. “I’ll find a wet rag and someone to clean this up.”

  People filing to the bins gave her sympathetic looks. Some offered solutions for removing stains from wool.

  Why did she have to be the one to lose face when she merely wanted Nick to own up to his responsibilities as host for what would most certainly be a miserable holiday.

  Nick returned with a wet cloth. “Here, this will work better than the napkin.”

  She attacked the marinara with the dishrag. “I think it’s going to take more than a wet cloth.”

  “Why were you coming out of the kitchen? I hope you’re not marketing the spaghetti.”

  No comeback formed in her mind, and the truth was best left unsaid. She rubbed harder on the smear.

  “Can I do anything else to help?”

  “No. I’m fine.” About as happy as a thief whose stolen cash exploded and covered him in red dye.

  Nick headed toward the elevators, and then turned and faced her, walking backwards. “What soft drinks do you like?”

  Mid-scrub, she paused, blew hair from her face, and gaped at him. Had he lost his mind? What did her soda preference have to do with a one-hundred-dollar-cleaning-bill stain?

  ****

  Cisney stared at the two open suitcases on her bed. Mounds of wool, silk, and leather extended above their sides. She’d have to sit on the cases to close them. That’s what happened when one packed a set of casual clothes and a set of go-to-church clothes needed for four days.

  How would she make it through the day on three hours’ sleep? Last night weeping over Jason’s choices, worrying over Daddy’s reaction to her losing her “real man,” and fuming over Nick’s failure to call had hit her like a triple dose of caffeine.

  She checked her watch. If she didn’t leave in the next five minutes, she’d be late to work.

  Her cellphone played the marimba. Who would call so early in the morning? Jason? She fumbled in her handbag. Had he changed his mind? She looked at the display and her heart sagged. Nick?

  She swallowed back the pain in her throat. “Hello?”

  “It’s Nick.”

  “Hi.” Now he called—after she’d packed. Thanks a bunch, Nick.

  “Would you mind bringing your suitcase to work and leaving your car in my apartment parking spot over the holiday? My apartment is three minutes from work, and we can get an earlier start if we leave from there.”

  He wasn’t going to pick her up and haul her luggage to his car? Peachy. Now it would take her ten minutes—ten minutes she didn’t have—to wrangle her suitcases to her SUV.

  She curbed a heavy sigh and rolled her eyes. “Sure.”

  “Good. Let’s park in the south lot. I’ll meet you inside the south door at five-thirty.”

  “About how long is the drive to your parents’ home?”

  “Four to five hours.”

  She mumbled an OK and ended the call.

  Five hours! The only way she’d survive the drive and four days with the LeCrones was to earn a notch on her challenge belt, playing best buddy Angela’s creation, The Challenge Game. With uncommunicative Nick at the center of her challenge.

  Cisney sat on her suitcases and latched them, then pushed and bumped the first down the apartment stairs. At her SUV, she grabbed the case’s handle and performed a heft-and-swing, propelling the bottom of the case upward. One set of rollers caught the rim of the bumper. From this position, she put her weight into the bag and shoved it into the cargo area.

  She slapped her hands together in a dusting-off gesture. “Ha! Take that Nick LeCrone. I am woman.” If traffic was normal, she could make it to work on time.

  After using her push-and-bump method to transport her second suitcase to ground level, she rolled it to her SUV and opened the back.

  A curly-haired teen with a backpack slung over one shoulder bounded from the stairwell. He pivoted toward her and offered to help just as she performed the heft-and-swing motion. The bottom of the suitcase missed the bumper. She lost control and the suitcase hit the pavement. One latch flew off. The second released. The suitcase flapped open, and her lacy white, her flower-patterned, and her hot pink undergarments sprang out like popcorn and landed at the teen’s feet.

  “Awesome.”

  2

  Positioned near the south exit, Nick scanned the herd of Virginia National employees funneling through the double doors. Where was Cisney? Caught in a meeting? Anyone holding a meeting on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving should be shot. Now, leaving would be like inching out of the parking lot after a Super Bowl.

  An elevator dinged. He craned his neck toward the sound.

  Cisney’s dark hair bobbed as she hurried off the elevator to join the crowd. She caught sight of him and waved her hand like a determined New Yorker flagging a cab. She reached him, out of breath. No wonder. She’d been hot-footing it on high-heeled boots. Wasn’t she tall enough without wearing boots set on railroad spikes?

  “Sorry I’m late. Had to fax a ten-page document, and the fax machine ran out of paper.”

  “Doesn’t the department secretary take care of that?”

  “She needed to get on the road.”

  And we don’t?

  He grabbed her hand and merged into the crowd.

  She held on tight as if she feared being trampled.

  When they cleared the doors, he released his grip. “Where are you parked?”

  She pointed into the dar
kness. “I park in the back next to the fence to avoid dents.”

  Give me a break. He nodded at a beige sedan on the front row. “This is my car. Hop in. I’ll take you to yours.”

  At his building, he lowered his window and pointed to his parking spot. She pulled in her SUV. He parked behind her, got out, and then raised the hatch on her vehicle. Two huge suitcases greeted him, both red, one banded together with a stretchy pink belt linked to one covered in purple rhinestones. What in the world…? Did she think they were staying until next Thanksgiving?

  She came around to the back. “What’s the matter?”

  He opened his trunk and gauged the space.

  She stood beside him. “Kind of tight, huh?”

  He’d have to stow his carry-on bag and one of her suitcases on the backseat.

  “Do you want to take my car?”

  “No.” He tossed his bag inside the car.

  “You’re angry.”

  He walked around her and hefted one suitcase into his trunk. “No. Just amazed.”

  “No one called to tell me whether Thanksgiving at your home was casual or dressy, so I had to pack for both.” Ice capped her words.

  “I didn’t know your cell took only incoming calls.” He deposited her other suitcase on the back seat and opened her door.

  She climbed in. “Thank you. But gentlemen—”

  He closed the door on her comment. It was going to be a long four hours, and an eternal four days. When he plugged in his seatbelt, she touched his coat sleeve.

  “Sorry, Nick. I’m a little cranky after only three hours’ sleep last night. Can we start over?”

  In the glow of the complex’s streetlights, her hazel eyes looked huge, beautiful, and sincere. The faint scent of her exotic perfume made her apology all the sweeter.

  He started the engine. “Sure.”

  She nestled into her seat. “Good. I hate conflict.” Strange, coming from a woman who seemed natural at creating disorder.

  “Want to grab a quick burger before we get on the highway?”

  “You mean, a fast-food place?”

  “Yes, the key word being fast.”

  She wasn’t going to insist on an order-from-the-menu meal, was she? The family would be up past midnight waiting for them.

  She shifted in her seat. “That would be fine. Do they serve salads?”

  “Yes. I think most do.” He angled his head toward her. “You’ve never been in a fast-food franchise?”

  “Not in a while. I avoid grease.” She emphasized the word grease. “And Jason always wanted steak.”

  Near the interstate interchange, he pulled into a fast-food restaurant. “You can order a salad, and tell them to hold the grease.”

  ****

  Once they were back on the road, Cisney studied Nick from the corner of her eye. He’d spoken less than seven words over his flip-it-and-serve-it meal, and four of them had been, “Let’s hit the road.” Well, four and a half words counting the contraction. She’d had to carry the whole conversation. And if he was so hot to get on the road, why hadn’t he ordered their meals to go? He could have draped napkins on his lap and stuck one in his collar to catch the glops of grease and catsup dripping from his messy hamburger. As soon as he’d entered the car, he switched on the radio and listened to doo-wop tunes from the seventies, or some such decade.

  She could use some calming classical strains about now. Funny, last night, she’d gotten the heebie-jeebies over spending Thanksgiving with Nick. What started as a niggling feeling inflated to fear that he invited her to take advantage of her vulnerability over her breakup. It wouldn’t be the first time a guy used unusual circumstances to lure a woman into his clutches. When he’d grabbed her hand as they left work, her inner alarm had vibrated like a rattlesnake until the crush of the crowd made hanging on necessary. But now, her alarm had shut down. The luggage incident proved he was no infatuated male on the make.

  He tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel in time to the music. So, actuaries could keep a beat. Did he dance with actuarially sound feet?

  What would she and Jason talk about on a trip like this? Their jobs, of course. Or he’d give her a blow-by-blow description of one of his games. Jason always monopolized conversations. A hard thing for her, as much as she liked to express her thoughts; but unlike now, at least someone talked.

  Why had Jason ditched her? What made her so undesirable? After Daddy learned of her failure to hold on to Jason, he’d gladly list her shortcomings. She wanted to know them, but not from Daddy. Talk about a knife in the heart.

  Her back ached. No wonder. Since they’d left the restaurant, she’d worked her way down to a slouch. She pressed her hands against the seat cushion and straightened her posture. Thinking about Jason and Daddy had to stop. It depressed her.

  If Nick would talk to her, she could rise above this glum moment. Should she ask him about work? That hadn’t gone well over their meal. She could start a debate. What controversy would get Nick talking? Sports, most likely. So, Nick, what’s your position on salary caps for professional athletes? After a few minutes of that discussion, thoughts of Jason and Daddy might be a welcome change.

  She leaned against the headrest. Here beside her sat a man ranking in the lowest quadrant on the social ability scale. A perfect specimen for Angela’s The Challenge Game.

  The game, of course. Working on her challenge would lighten her mood. She’d always liked tests of her skills and creativity. Hadn’t Daddy instilled in her a competitive spirit?

  Nick could benefit from her skill in bringing out even the most unsocial people. Daddy had taught her a trick or two, but it was mostly a gift. God made Nick a man of few words, but wouldn’t he be happier if over the long weekend she helped him feel freer to communicate?

  While Nick had ordered their meal, and she’d wiped grease and condiments from a table, the Nick-challenge had taken root in her mind. But to make it an official challenge, she needed to share her idea with accountability partner Angela, who right now was in the air with all their friends flying to Colorado.

  Cisney peered down at her tapestry handbag at her feet. The yellow sticky reminder to call Angela that she’d jotted in the restaurant was still plastered to the leather strap.

  Hopefully, Nick would someday appreciate her efforts. He was the authority with numbers, but she was the expert with relationships—well, OK, her own romantic attachments were outliers.

  Her task would be to hold a conversation with Nick that lasted fifteen minutes. Any pause in the dialog that stretched longer than a minute ended an interchange. And to up the stakes, she had to accomplish her goal before midnight Friday.

  To hide her smile, she turned her face to the window. For the next couple of days, she’d create her own entertainment while the LeCrone actuaries got out their mortality tables and debated who was scheduled to die next.

  She stifled a yawn. If she counted the green mile markers on the shoulder of the highway, maybe she could drift off for a while. It wasn’t like she was by herself and could sing show tunes to pass the time.

  ****

  Shock of all shocks. Cisney was quiet and seemed content to listen to the music. While she’d picked at her salad and told him about hiring another assistant, she hadn’t been boring, but he didn’t talk work on his time off.

  Did she ever eat a full meal? Probably not, as slim as she was. She looked nice in the sweater with the big whatever-it-was-called rolled collar against her long neck. Her skirt, covering the top half of her ridiculous boots, showed off her great figure.

  She lifted her hands like goal posts.

  He startled. What did that gesture mean?

  “OK,” she said. “I’ve planned torture methods to get you to talk. I’ve counted eighteen mile markers, and I’ve tried to sleep, but now certain thoughts about a certain person are making me sad. I refuse to be gloomy.”

  He smiled. No, the woman wasn’t boring. “You want to talk about it?” Had he really opened that door?
Great. Let the Jason lamentations begin.

  “OK. Sometimes the mile markers seem as if they’re more than a mile apart, and sometimes they seem spaced less than a mile. Do you think Virginia saves money by not hiring civil engineers? Do road workers just take a stab at when the next mile has been reached?”

  He laughed, and she giggled.

  She pointed at him. “Made you laugh.”

  “So, you weren’t having morose thoughts about a certain someone?”

  “Yes, I was. Thanks for bringing him back to mind.”

  He’d just reopened the door for a sob story. What gave with him, anyway? He rarely spoke rashly, but twice in a row? He looked over at her. “Sorry. That was dumb.”

  “I didn’t think actuaries were ever dumb.”

  “We aren’t. I was trying to be tactful in my apology.”

  She crossed her arms. “You want to hear the truth?”

  “About what?”

  “About actuaries.”

  “I’ve heard it all, but go ahead.”

  “People in Marketing, Accounting, IT, Provider Reimbursement, Claims, Underwriting, Human Resources—”

  “I get it. The whole company.”

  She held up her finger. “No, not in Maintenance. But anyway, I’ve heard many people say actuaries are arrogant, negative know-it-alls, and weird.”

  He arched his eyebrow toward her. “And what do you think?”

  “I think I’d better be tactful too, since your family populates half the actuarial profession. But I will admit you aren’t as weird as some I’ve worked with.”

  So, he was weird. Just less than most of his fellow actuaries. “How about a pit stop?”

  “Did I go too far?”

  “No, we have, and I need a pit stop.”

  “Good.” The dash lights revealed her smile. “We can pick up where we left off after our break.”

  Great. He’d choose actuary bashing over Elton John every time.