"What's up?" I said when he answered. I could hear the sound of a lecturer in the background. "You're in class? How about I call back--"
"Hold on."
A whispered "Excuse me," then his footsteps tapping quickly down stairs, the lecturer's voice growing louder. The whoosh of a door. The lecturer's voice faded. Ricky's footfalls continued, taking him past a loud group of students in the hall.
"Have you seen the Post this morning?" he asked when it was quiet again.
"These days, I don't see the Post any morning I can avoid it." The Trib and the Sun-Times had begun losing interest in my story weeks ago. The Post had not.
"Yeah, I don't blame you. But you might want to grab a copy."
I swore. The elevator dinged.
"Where are you?" Ricky asked.
"James's office. Taking him coffee before--"
"Don't get on the elevator," he cut in.
"Um, too late," I said as the doors closed. "What's up?"
He said he was going to e-mail me something. It came through almost immediately, as the packed elevator made the slow climb to James's floor at the top. I opened the e-mail, checked the attachment, and . . .
My chest seized. "Shit."
"Yeah. I'm sorry. If I'd caught anyone taking that . . ." Ricky trailed off, threat unfinished. "I'm sorry."
I lowered my voice. "You're not the idiot who chose a favorite coffee haunt."
"I don't think that would have mattered. Eventually someone was going to . . . I'd say 'catch us,' but that implies we were sneaking around. Actually, it's better that it was your usual spot. Clearly we weren't hiding. That should help."
He sounded about as convinced as I felt. "I'll talk to my dad and explain it," he said.
"I'll handle James."
"Okay. Call me later?" he said.
"I will."
A pause. Then, "Will you?"
"Of course."
When I hung up, we were nearly at James's floor. Two other riders were staring at me. One looked away and whispered to her companion when I glanced over. I knew w
hat she was talking about. A picture in the Post. With a caption, explaining that Pamela and Todd Larsen's daughter--former debutante and fiancee of James Morgan--had been spotted having coffee with the son of biker club Satan's Saints president Don Gallagher.
There was nothing incriminating in the photo. I was leaning back, casual and at ease, laughing. Ricky leaned forward, talking, his forearms on the table. It did not look like a romantic assignation. But it did look . . . intimate.
I quickly texted James to tell him I was coming and there was something we needed to talk about. The answer came back as I stepped off the elevator. All right. With those two words, I knew he'd seen the picture. I slowed, in case he was about to text back not to come to his office.
He didn't.
So I began the long walk. Down the corridor. Through the lounge--an open area where executives could hang out, chat, hold informal meetings. The minute I stepped into that open area, with executives and support staff milling about, I felt like I'd embarked on the walk of shame, that morning-after scurry from a one-night stand, ripped panty hose in your purse, makeup smeared, hair an unholy mess, cocktail dress and heels at 8 A.M. It didn't matter if I was perfectly dressed and groomed. It didn't matter if I'd only been "caught" having coffee with an attractive guy. It didn't matter if I wasn't engaged to James again, wasn't even in a committed relationship again. I still felt shame.
Because I wanted more than coffee with Ricky.
I made it to the desk of James's admin assistant, Karen. We'd always gotten along great. Today, I had only to look at her expression to know not to ask about her kids.