Who Needs Decaf?. Tanya Michaels

      Inside the kitchen adjacent to the living room, Tameka Williams glanced up from the island countertop where she was chopping carrots. Her thin, elegant eyebrows arched over teasing hazel eyes. “Bad day at the office, dear?”

      Despite her mood, Sheryl laughed. Her best friend often had that effect. Sheryl couldn’t think of anyone in the state of Washington who’d make a better roommate than Meka, but after growing up in a big family and having roommates since her freshman year of college, Sheryl was ready to be alone. Especially now that Meka and Tyler McAfee were practically engaged, often unintentionally making Sheryl a third wheel in her own apartment.

      Abandoning her demiboots, Sheryl padded in stocking feet to the kitchen. “I don’t know which of them is driving me crazier—the Columnist who Stole Christmas, or the Boyfriend of Christmas Past who’s haunting me.”

      “Okay, the boyfriend is a certain blond software genius who gets weepy after Leonardo DiCaprio films, right? And the reporter would be…what’s his name? Nate?”

      “Nathan. Hall. My nemesis. I get paid to make the company look good, and this jerk seems determined to paint us as evil.”

      “Evil sells papers,” Meka said with a shrug of her graceful shoulders. Everything about Meka was graceful, and she looked absurdly elegant in a red-velour two-piece lounging set.

      Opening the refrigerator, Sheryl hunted for a bottle of wine. After the day she’d had, she could use a glass. Unfortunately the closest thing they had was the cooking sherry Meka had pulled out to use for dinner. Still, Sheryl stared hard at the fridge’s interior for a moment, as though she could summon a nice Chardonnay through sheer willpower.

      “I saw that piece he wrote today,” Meka continued. “He made some good points, about why does society reward wrongdoing? You guys have been accused of basically stealing Xandria Quest, yet sales are actually up for the game right now, making—”

      Abandoning the attempted Chardonnay telepathy, Sheryl whirled around. “Reward wrongdoing? We didn’t do anything wrong!”

      And sales might be up in the short run, but Sheryl was worried about the long-term results. If this case actually went to court and they lost…People in the industry had predicted Hammond Gaming Software would be the Next Big Thing, but the company wasn’t big yet and couldn’t afford any substantial financial setbacks. Or a damaged reputation.

      Dropping her knife, Meka held up both hands in an I-surrender pose. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I am on your side. He’s just very persuasive.”

      “I know.” Sheryl narrowed her eyes. “That’s what bothers me about him—his talent. He doesn’t sensationalize, he’s careful to use the right words like alleged, but it’s not those words that stick with you, it’s the overall impression. The impression that he’s a man of integrity on the side of justice.”

      “You sound almost admiring.”

      “Hardly!” Sheryl poured herself some apple juice, deciding to pretend it was hard cider. “It’s just that it would be easier to get the public to hear our side if Hall didn’t seem so damned credible. We’re the victims here!”

      “Not to change the subject from the nemesis you’re all fired-up about while we’re in a room full of sharp utensils or anything, but what’s Brad doing that’s making you crazy?”

      “Two things. One, he asked me to go on a date.”

      “Oh, no!” An expression of amused horror settled across Meka’s pretty mocha-colored features. “Don’t tell me that incompetent shrink of his convinced Brad he can win you back.”

      Laughing, Sheryl clarified, “You don’t understand, he wants me to go along on his date with another woman.”

      “Didn’t think our man Brad had it in him to be kinky.”

      Another laugh, this time with the unpleasant side effect of choking on apple juice. “He wants me to try to spot possible trouble areas in the relationship. He says it’s the least I can do since I won’t commit a few hours of rehashing our relationship. I told him this prospective new relationship wouldn’t go anywhere if he brought along an ex to chaperone.”

      “For a boy who’s such a genius in some areas…”

      “Tell me about it.”

      “So what’s the second thing?”

      Sheryl’s fingers tightened, and she was glad the glass in her hand was actually made from shatterproof plastic. “He wants us to extend an olive branch to Nathan Hall.”

      Reaching for a bag of russet potatoes, Meka froze, blinking. “You’re the relations expert, but isn’t that just begging for mercy and making yourselves look weak?”

      “Trust me, I’m not happy about it.”

      Gritting her teeth, Sheryl recalled her meeting that morning with Brad. He’d asked her to personally deliver the latest press release in case the Sojourner wanted to use it—though history had proven that unlikely—and, as HGS’s official publicity representative, let Hall know that Brad was readily available for comment and welcomed Nathan’s questions. She’d tried to get Brad to reconsider or at least get their attorney’s opinion, but Brad had insisted the attorney worked for him, not the other way around.

      She’d suggested Brad actually send their attorney on this errand, but her boss had felt a six-five man who spoke in stern legalese didn’t promote the friendly, accessible image he wanted to convey. Also, Brad had seemed to think that sending a lawyer to see the man who’d been writing carefully derogatory articles about him was an implied threat of some sort.

      Sheryl could usually cajole Brad into seeing her point, but he was being strangely stubborn about this. Was it just because he hated the thought of being disliked by someone? Especially someone with a loyal readership.

      With a sigh, she told Meka, “I’m afraid Brad half believes it’s as simple as convincing Mr. Hall what swell folks we are, then he’ll stop writing those mean articles and the whole mess will go away.”

      “First, swell folks make boring headlines.” Meka enumerated her observations on her fingers. “Second, even if the columns stop, Brad still has the lawsuit to deal with. Third, Nathan may view your ‘olive branch’ as sucking up to get him to stop and become even more self-righteous.”

      Sheryl settled herself on one of the two soft-covered stools that sat at the raspberry-colored breakfast counter. Decorated in raspberry and cream with soft lighting and an almost-view of the Space Needle, the kitchen was so inviting that she and Meka had most of their conversations here even though the living room furniture was expensive and comfy, while the kitchen bar stools eventually put one’s butt to sleep.

      “All good points,” Sheryl agreed with her roommate. “Points I tried to make earlier today. Three hundred and sixty-four days a year, he’s Mister Mellow, letting his savvy staff advise him on what to do—which is what he pays us for—but then there’s that one other day, out there lurking…”

      “And today was that day?” When Sheryl didn’t answer, Meka added, “Too bad Nathan Hall isn’t one of those columnists with a picture next to his byline. Then we’d have something to blow up and throw darts at.”

      Sheryl had never thought about what the journalist looked like, but it wasn’t hard to imagine him as green and hairy, à la a certain, bitter Seuss character bent on sucking the joy out of the holiday season for others. Draining her glass, she decided that pretend hard cider wasn’t cutting it. What she really needed was a vacation, but since that was out of the question…

      “Meka, what are your plans for the weekend? It’s been a while since we had a really good girls’ night out.”

      Her roommate stared down, seeming oddly intent on making eye contact with the potatoes. “You’re right, it has been too long, but this isn’t a good weekend. I’m sorry, but Tyler and I—”

      “You