Jude studied him. “Who exactly are you trying to convince?”
Mack dropped his head back and groaned. “Enough. I don’t want to get into it on your birthday.”
“Don’t give me that hogwash. If you need to talk, talk.”
“Fine, but a change of topic. What do you know about these suffragists?”
Jude opened his mouth to reply, but another patron plunked a frothy beer in front of him and offered his well wishes. Mack took advantage of the interruption to order a bottle of his friend’s favorite whiskey.
Jude noticed its delivery at once, his expression lighting up. He reached for the bottle, but the sound of cracking wood rent the air, and he stumbled against the bar instead. The barstool footrest had splintered beneath his weight.
Mack barked out a much-needed laugh. “God, I love it when the universe tells you to quit the gymnasium for a while.”
His burly friend righted himself with a grimace and tossed a bill to an exasperated Bertie. “Never. Strong Jude is happy Jude.”
Mack shook his head, grinning. Jude’s physique was the stuff of legends. In college, he spent hours in the gym or stomping through the nearby forests. One night after a few too many beers, he’d let it spill that he’d worked a few years in the lumber camps after his family couldn’t support him anymore. His massive shoulders and forearms were a testament to his formative years hauling wood and laying an axe. It didn’t matter that he was now a forestry professor. He kept up his body with an intense regimen and diet that Mack had zero interest in duplicating. He’d tried once, failed miserably, and was a sore wreck for days. Turned out running laps around Volunteer Park was the only thing that kept him in shape and soothed his circuitous thoughts.
“All right, suffragists.” Jude finally righted himself, and Mack poured the next glass. “Just fighting for their rights, like most people are.”
“You would know.”
Jude was active in the local labor groups, lending his voice to issues ranging from working conditions to the dangers of child labor, undoubtedly influenced by his history in the logging camps.
“Is thePostgoing to cover the movement? Everyone else is. I see at least one mention a week, if not more. Those suffragists sure are feisty.”
Mrs. Winnifred West’s determined visage sprang to mind, and he scowled at the bar. The number of times he’d thought about a married woman over the weekend was ridiculous. Obviously it was because he was so annoyed at the disruption in his life, nothing more. Itcouldn’tbe anything more. God forbid he let a woman get in the way of his plans. So why did he feel so… morose?
“We’re covering suffrage, yes.”
His resentment must have shone through, for Jude’s eyes squinted in concern. “You’ll figure it out.”
“I hope so. Until then, I’m on drinking duty.”
“That’s the spirit.”
The pianist launched into a lively ragtime number. Mack’s knee bounced to the beat, his mood already lifting, especially when Jude started to sing along off-key. He refreshed their drinks, convinced that was all he needed to fortify his defenses against the curvy siren he somehow already knew would be waiting to pounce on him in the morning. Anticipation curled through him, and he ruthlessly stamped it down.
“Enough idle talk,” he shouted over the music. “We’ve got a birthday to celebrate.”
* * *
Mack clutchedhis coffee mug in both hands and prayed to the whiskey gods for absolution. When was the last time he’d had a hangover of such epic proportions? He and Jude had drunk, sang, and argued over who was responsible for getting them kicked out of the dormitory their junior year until the bar closed and Bertie the barkeep shoved them onto the street.
Rather than head home, he’d slept on the floor of his office. Even in his inebriated state, he’d known hehadto be at the office when Mrs. West arrived with her proposal. If she found Emil first, he’d never forgive himself. A rap at the office door sent a shard of pain through his temples.
“Come in.” He winced as the door swung open with a diabolical squeak of the hinges.
“Good morning, Mr. Donnelly,” said an overly cheerful feminine voice.
Of coursethe object of his dreams last night would arrive earlier than expected, before he’d had time to transform into a normal functioning human. He shoved his chair back and leapt to his feet, completely forgetting he held a full mug of coffee in his hands. Hot liquid splashed his hand and he yelped, flinging the mug away from him. He watched in horror as it sailed across the desk—coffee spraying in a wide arc—and landed on the floor at Mrs. West’s feet.
“Oh my God, not again.” The words slipped out before he could stop them.
Mrs. West cautiously sidestepped the puddle at her feet and inspected her clothing. “I’m unscathed,” she confirmed, adding in a dry tone, “this time.”
He skirted the desk and threw his handkerchief on the spillage, to minimal effect. He heaved a sigh of frustration, glancing up just in time to see Mrs. West’s nose wrinkle subtly. Heat crept up his neck, and he damned The Unruly Otter’spernicious odors. Clearly, a change of clothes hadn’t been enough. He edged around her and sat once more, gesturing magnanimously to the one chair that had escaped the coffee attack. He settled into his seat and cleared his throat. If he didn’t regain some power in the next thirty seconds, he’d lose her tenuous respect forever.
She watched him expectantly, a small notebook resting in her lap. He opened his mouth, but his mind was blank. How could he focus when she practically radiated sensuality? Her practical stenographer’s uniform, a pale yellow shirtwaist and gray skirt, taunted him, made him want to undo that prim top button and press his tongue into the cleft of her neck. He found himself staring at her delicate fingers, imagining what they would feel like against his flushed skin. His cock twitched.
