Read Strangers When We Meet for Free Online

Braxton, Cartwright and Wheeler, from the mail room boy to the partners themselves, has been enlightened to the signs and symptoms of lingering patriarchal attitudes, as well as the dangers of potential lawsuits for sexual harassment,” he added dryly.
    “It happens,” Emma replied. She’d had enough women call her show to complain, as well as some men. She told them all the same thing. Start a paper trail. Take it to the proper authorities. Follow through. She even had one or two callbacks to tell her the advice had worked.
    “I know it does,” Blake replied. “I offended you again. It was a pretty lame joke. I’m really batting zero this morning.”
    “That said,” Emma continued briskly, “I’m not one of those women who hollers rape or sexual harassment every time a man touches her. And I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt about being off your game until after you’ve recovered from your hangover.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Truce, then?”
    “Truce. I’ll confine myself to comments about the weather and the scenery until your grandfather’s potion can turn me into a prince among men.” He held out his hand. Emma braced herself for some kind of shock of awareness. The electric zing she’d felt the first time she’d touched Daryl. The current she thought she’d detected a few moments before with this man. But Blake’s hand was hard and warm, his grip firm, and withdrawn in a moment—nothing more. She’d obviously overreacted to his touch back there at the bridge. She really did have to confront Daryl and put this all behind her. The stress was getting to her.
    “Don’t you mean turn you back into a prince among men?” she teased, hoping she hit the right note. Her voice sounded slightly off pitch even to her own ears.
    He angled his head a little further toward her. “You caught that, huh?”
    “I did. I told you it could cure hangovers, not work miracles.” She had herself in hand as they walked along the edge of the village green with its big old oaks and maples and the stern-visaged statue of the ever vigilant Minuteman. “Oh, look. They’re advertising cider doughnuts at the diner,” she said, pointing to a small sign on a telephone. “I love cider doughnuts almost as much as Clint Cooper’s walnut griddle cakes.”
    “Then let me buy you one or two.” He looked at her with a grin that was as wickedly sexy as—she was back to pirate or highwayman, although she guessed Wall Street shark was more accurate. Even she, who cared little about the stock market and whose small trust fund was invested in rock solid blue chips, had heard of Braxton, Cartwright and Wheeler. Blake Weston might not be a partner in the world famous international investment firm, but he definitely didn’t work in the mail room, either. She’d bet a week’s salary on it.
    She opened her mouth, ready to take him up on the offer when a horrifying thought hit her. She couldn’t go into the diner with this man—with any man—and face Lori and Burt until she had come to terms with Daryl. “No, thanks,” she said hastily. “I couldn’t eat another bite.” She changed the direction of the conversation. “There’s my grandparents’ house. Just at the end of the block.”
    “Good. I don’t think my stomach’s up to cider doughnuts at the moment.” They’d reached the outskirts of the picturesque village, and her grandparents’ yellow Cape Cod was just ahead, its small front yard nestled behind a picket fence freshly painted to match the equally dazzling white shutters at every window.
    Her grandmother, still trim at eighty-three, was in the small front yard mulching her prize rose bushes. A stack of foam cones sat by the sidewalk, waiting to be placed over the plants to protect them from the heavy snow and icy winds of a long Berkshire winter.
    “Hello, Nana,” Emma called, quickening her step. She stopped just outside the gate of the picket fence and waved as her grandmother turned toward her.
    “Emma,