Bravo Unwrapped by Christine Rimmer

embarrassed.
    â€œSorry about yesterday,” he muttered, when Buck formally introduced him to B.J.
    â€œNo problem,” B.J. told him. What else was there to say?
    Bowie took the empty seat next to Glory—for about half a second. His rear end hit the chair and Glory leapt to her feet.
    â€œI’ll get you a plate,” she said, looking everywhere but at Bowie. Then she took off.
    When she returned, she shoved a full plate under his nose, picked up her own plate—and relocated to the other side of the table. Bowie glared at her across the needlepoint tablecloth and depression-glass condiment bowls.
    She grabbed her fork and ate, head down, never once looking up to meet Bowie’s angry eyes.
    â€œWell,” said Chastity, far too brightly, in a transparent attempt to take the focus off Bowie and his pregnant girlfriend. “What’s up for today?”
    Buck sipped his coffee. “For starters, I thought we’d have another look around town.”
    B.J. saw her chance and went for it. “Oh. Well, since you’re writing the article yourself now, you won’t need me for that. I think I’ll just—”
    â€œB.J.” Buck set down his cup. “We’ll need you.”
    They didn’t. No way they needed her. Buck could take Lupe and wander up and down Main Street, soaking up the atmosphere of the old hometown without B.J. along. And B.J. could do…other things. “But really, I—”
    â€œYou’re going.” He gave her a piercing look. It had Remember the deal we made written all over it.
    She considered saying something snide.
    But they had made a deal. She picked up her apple juice and toasted him with it.
    Â 
    B.J. called Buck’s agent before they left. The agent, who said she’d already heard from Buck, named afigure. A very reasonable one. B.J. agreed to it. The agent said goodbye.
    B.J. stood there with the phone in her hand. Whatever happened to the fine art of negotiation? Hours of it would have been nice. She could have told Buck, Sorry. No can do. Business, you understand….
    But no. The deal was a wrap. Time to head on downstairs for a morning of looking at clapboard tin-roofed buildings and waving at people Buck had known as a child.
    Wait. What about L.T.? True, she remained thoroughly annoyed with him. If she never spoke to him again it would be much too soon.
    And yet…L.T. should know about the contract. He could call the business office and get things rolling—okay, it was a weak excuse to stall a little longer. But at that moment, she’d take what she could get. She dialed the Castle.
    Roderick answered. He asked her to please wait. A moment later, L.T. came on the line.
    â€œWhat’s up?” her father growled into her ear.
    â€œGood morning to you, too. Buck’s decided to write the piece for us.”
    â€œExcellent.”
    She couldn’t resist. “We now have a memoir. No more objective eye. Aren’t you upset?”
    â€œScrew that. His name on the byline’s better.”
    â€œExactly.” She told him what they were paying and asked him to put the contract through.
    â€œNo problem. How’d you do it?”
    She hadn’t, of course. Buck had. But no way she’d tell L.T. that. “You don’t want to know—and I’ll be here for two weeks.”
    â€œWhat the hell? You don’t need to be there at all, now you’re not doing the writing. I’ll send the jet for you. Get back here and get back to work.”
    â€œAh. So you need me.” She would have felt warm and fuzzy all over—if such a thing were possible in connection with L.T.
    He didn’t admit he needed her—he never did. “You’re damn well not needed there, now, are you?”
    â€œNo. But to get Buck to do the writing, I had to promise him I would stay here for two weeks while he steeps himself in all things ‘hometown.’”
    There was