Wednesday Words: Hard Work

So…the HARD-working servers at the IRS blew a sprocket or something so the government gave all those who file late an extension until today. And since we are all about work hard, play hard around here, today’s #1lineWed theme is a fitting one: **WORK**. This snippet is from the current RDR#9 WIP, which is Cooper’s story. As a setup, there’s a gala fund raiser for the OU Meteorology Department, where our intrepid heroine, Britt Owens, is a storm chaser. She met our hero, Cooper Tate, down in south Texas after a hurricane and they…connected. 😉 So, now its a couple of months later and they’re about to bump into each other. *bwahahaha*
****
Mrs. Tate’s lips twitched but her rather stern expression didn’t change. “So you chase tornadoes for a living. Must be thrilling.”

“It can be. Thrilling. Yes. Mostly just boring though.” Britt reeled off the statistical probabilities of a tornado forming in any given thunderstorm. Mrs. Tate nodded and looked moderately interested until Britt stopped babbling. “I mostly do it for research. I’m working on my Ph.D, you see.”

“Fascinating,” Mrs. Tate said as she looked Britt over from the top of her head to the freshly pedicured and red-painted toes peeking out from beneath her royal blue gown.

Britt swallowed hard, again, unsure just what it was the woman found fascinating—Britt’s work or her as a person. Most people thought storm chasing was glamorous and exciting so surely that’s what Mrs. Tate was referring to. Why did this woman terrify her far more than all the massive tornadoes she’d encountered?
Pushing to her feet, Britt locked her wobbly knees. “So nice to see you again, Mrs. Tate. I should be getting back to my party.”

“Of course, dear. I hope to see you again soon.”

What did Mrs. Tate mean by that? There was something funny in her tone when she said that. Britt pulled open the door and glanced back over her shoulder, trying to figure out what Mrs. Tate was implying. She continued walking, all the while leaning to watch through the slowly closing door. Britt turned around just in time to plow into a hard body. Her forehead bounced off the muscled chest as her nose was buried in a tux shirt. Her instinctive inhale filled her lungs with the aromas of cardamon, bergomot and… She sniffed again. Was that lavender? What an intriguing mix of scents.

Strong hands gripped her biceps to keep her upright and she remembered she’d just plowed into someone. Someone of the male persuasion. She raised her head, tilting it to look up. Straight into the amused face of the last man on earth she ever wanted to see.

“Cooper Tate!”

Coop turned his head to face the man who’d yelled his name and didn’t have time to duck the fist swinging at his face.

“You got my baby sister pregnant.”
****
Writers, what’s working in your WIP? Readers, where do you think this story is going? 😉

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About Silver James

I like walks on the wild side and coffee. Lots of coffee. Warning: My Muse runs with scissors. Author of two award-winning series--Moonstruck and The Penumbra Papers, Red Dirt Royalty (Harlequin Desire) & other books! Purveyor of magic, mystery, mayhem and romance. Lots and lots of romance.
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2 Responses to Wednesday Words: Hard Work

  1. GAHHH! What a place to stop! You’re killing me here.

    Here’s a bit from Early Grave (you might recognize the set-up, since this starts with stuff from Fertile Ground)

    Outside his cubicle, he caught Rick ushering the new girl into an office. Any other agent would be pissed as hell. Ned didn’t care because he didn’t actually give a shit about office politics. He didn’t need an actual room with a door to do his job. He had a computer and a flat space to put it on. He had a chair that suited his ass for the long periods of time it spent there pouring over data. In the parking lot sat a government-owned sedan where he did the majority of his real work. Today, the car would carry him south into Ohio. He wouldn’t see his cubicle again for however long it took to wrap up this case.
    Ned thought about his houseplants and sent a quick email to the one neighbor he trusted with a key, asking the guy to water things while he was out of town. If he came back to a jungle of dead, brown things, he’d make a run to the home improvement place and buy more. Thank goodness he’d never succumbed to the need to adopt a pet.
    Going through a mental checklist, he prepped his workspace for an extended absence. The laptop went into its bag. He glanced toward the reception desk. The lady who sat there was nice enough but not the most competent or efficient person. He opted to do an end-around on her. His voicemail message would instruct everyone not to leave a message, but to instead call his cell phone. If she screwed that up, he’d deal with it then. Most of his contacts already had his cell on speed dial anyway.
    A glance toward the back told him Rick was ensconced in the new girl’s office. What was her name? Buckman… Buchanan… She seemed on the ball, and he sent her mental good wishes. Whether she figured out what their boss’s major maladjustment was in time to save her own ass was out of his hands.
    Nodding to the few others in the office, Ned made his way outside without another word. They had their jobs to do. He had his. It wasn’t like they were going to miss him at the nightly after-hours dinner thing. Even when he was in town, he didn’t bother. Socializing with the other agents wasn’t his thing. Hell, socializing with anyone wasn’t really his thing. Work was his thing, and he couldn’t wait to get back to it. Sitting around holding Rick’s hand through this potential serial rapist thing had worn pretty thin.
    Truth be told, the whole idea made him nauseous. Give me a cold-hearted killer any day and twice on Sundays.

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