Love on the Line - Deeanne Gist [37]
The cuckoo clock struck the third-quarter hour.
“Mrs. Oodson?” Georgie grabbed the arm of her chair to keep from trembling. “Get. Off. Your. Phone.”
The woman gasped. “Well, I never.”
“Now, see here, Miss Gail,” Mr. Ottfried interjected. “Don’t raise your voice to—”
“Off!” Georgie screeched.
The cuckoos cut out.
“Now answer my question, Mr. Ottfried.”
Nothing.
“Mr. Ottfried?” She jiggled the jack. “Mr. Ottfried?”
Jerking the cable out, she fell back in her chair and turned to Luke.
He sat frozen at his desk, pencil poised, eyes riveted on her.
“He hung up on me.” She still couldn’t believe it.
“You were a bit rough on him.”
“Rough?” She jerked her earpiece off and rose slowly to her feet. “Rough?”
Bettina scrambled out the door, running down the steps and through the gate.
Luke scowled. “You shouldn’t lose your temper in front of her. She has a scary enough time at home. She doesn’t need you loaded to muzzle.”
“Don’t you lecture me, Mr. Palmer.”
“I see.” He put his pencil down and indicated her aborted call with a nod of his head. “What’s good for the goose isn’t good for the gander?”
“Get out.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You’re mighty bossy today. In the last fifteen minutes you’ve commanded me to leave my own office, Mrs. Oodson to hang up her own phone, and Mr. Ottfried to explain his own business decisions. Don’t you think you need to settle down a bit?”
That did it. He was asking for a fight.
She flew at him. He spun his chair toward her, knees open, arms up. Big mistake. She grabbed two fistfuls of chambray shirt and jerked up.
He didn’t budge.
“Get up, mister. We’re taking this outside.”
Amusement lit his eyes.
She gave him a shake. “Don’t you laugh, Luke. I mean it. I’m going to take you outside and fold you up like a purse.”
He laughed. Head back, chin up, Adam’s apple bobbing.
Her throat closed. “Don’t. Don’t.”
With an effort, he reined in his mirth.
She tightened her hold on his shirt. “Have you seen that ad? He’s calling for an all-out war against my birds. It’s springtime. Springtime. They’re flying in by the thousands. Building nests. Laying eggs. Fledging their young. And he wants to shoot them down and wire them to hats.”
She tasted salt on her tongue. She hadn’t even realized she was crying. Still, she made no move to wipe her face. Instead, she stayed bent over him, nose to nose, crinkling his shirt.
He cupped her cheek and swiped a tear with his thumb. “Ah, Georgie. Don’t cry.”
Her lips parted. She’d expected him to engage in a struggle of some kind. At the very least, she’d assumed he would remove the hold she had on his shirt. But he hadn’t. He’d returned her attack with kindness.
Her resolve wavering, she willed her eyes to dry and released his shirt, dismayed at the wrinkles she’d created. Smoothing them out with her palm, she tucked the folds back beneath his bib.
He stilled. She spread her hand flat, marveling at how different he felt compared to her.
Threading his hand with hers, he gave a gentle tug, his knees widening as he pulled her closer.
“Where have you been?” she whispered. “Why didn’t you come back?”
“I was afraid you’d get the wrong impression.”
“And what impression would that be?”
“That I was looking for a wife.”
A whiff of shaving soap touched her nose. “I thought all men were looking for a wife.”
“Not all of them.”
“Why not?”
“I’m only here temporarily. Just long enough to put up the lines and sell some phones. I—” He cocked an ear, then spun her about and pushed. “Someone’s coming. Quick, put on your earpiece and sit down.”
“But it’s after five. I—”
“Sit.” He gave her another nudge, then spun back to his desk and figures.
Jamming on the earpiece, she sat down and pinched her cheeks. The loud knock made her jump.
“Come in,” she said, turning around, then froze.
Ernst Ottfried, his face florid, stepped inside, strode to Luke’s desk, and slapped down a piece of paper. “I hereby end my subscription with SWT&T. I’m also lodging a formal complaint against our operator,