A Thousand Miles

Part 6

JoLynn tapped her pencil on the desk and glanced at the wall in front of her. Shane was doing something on the other side of that wall, while she sat with a slice of pepperoni pizza and a can of diet soda, trying to figure out what it was about the copy she'd prepared for the Alamo that wasn't working.

Shane declined Mel's invitation to join them for dinner and remained, as far as she knew, alone next door to make some personal phone calls, one of which was probably to Truman. News of this disastrous day would serve as another nail in her coffin.

JoLynn blew out a breath and tossed the pencil onto the desk. She must be certifiably insane to be thinking of going over there and knocking on his door. But there was no point in not asking such a highly acclaimed travel journalist for his advice regarding the piece she'd written for their segment on the Alamo. She tapped a key on the laptop and looked at his image on the American Highways website again. They were good articles—well written, interesting, engaging, and pleasant to read. And on top of all that, he had a descriptive way with words that made her read whole paragraphs more than once just to take them in again. His talent was more than merely evident. It sparkled. Like pyrite.

Then he'd declined Mel's invitation. So she couldn't just casually ask him to have a look at her work over pizza. It was now painfully clear that he could be a true asset to the show, and she'd be foolish not to tap into his talent. If she was going to get any advice from him she was going to have to knock on his door and ask. But how could she? After the way she'd acted toward him.

JoLynn rose from her chair. She felt paranoid. Surely that's all this feeling was; groundless paranoia, pointless insecurity based on nothing real.

"You'd make a better door than window." Curtis' voice gave her a slight start.

She shook her head. "Huh?"

"I can't see through you."

JoLynn looked around, noticing for the first time that she'd wandered between the T.V. and Curtis, who'd bunched up a few pillows and reclined comfortably on her bed, an empty pizza box by his side. He'd kicked his boots off and made himself at home.

"It's a commercial."

"For my next truck." Curtis grinned. "I have to check it out."

JoLynn moved aside and grabbed her notes from the desk, tucked her card key into her back pocket, and headed for the door. If she was going to do this, now was the time, before she totally chickened out, and before anyone in this room started asking questions.

The door closed heavily behind her leaving her standing alone in the unseasonably cool air of an early summer evening. Chill bumps broke out on her bare arms. Maybe she should have worn her sweater. Shane probably wouldn't invite her in. Why should he? She hadn't been very gracious.

A pang of something—guilt...no, shame—lodged itself in her chest at the thought of her lack of hospitality.

She suppressed a self-deprecating snort. Not very gracious. Ha! She'd been downright hostile once or twice. Who could blame him if he took her feeble attempt at a peace offering, flung it right back at her and told her to sink or swim. And, much as she hated to admit it, she was feeling more and more like she'd sink fast.

No. A competition was definitely not what she wanted. There was no way she could win.

She took a quick, deep breath and pushed it out evenly. Better get this over with.

She knocked lightly, half hoping he wouldn't answer. She looked down at the papers in her hand. Starting now, she'd trust that Truman was dealing honestly with her in all of this, and that her job wasn't in jeopardy. That being the case, she could find absolutely no reason not to consult the very talented, critically acclaimed writer who was now her co-host. JoLynn swallowed hard. Still, something didn't feel right.