In Search of a Hero

11. Harbingers

It was perhaps not surprising that after a night spent more awake than asleep, Brennan dropped into deep slumber as she waited for the rest of the house to rise. When her eyes popped open again, she was horrified to look at her small wind-up travel clock and see that it was after nine a.m. She rushed through her morning routine, slowing only to brush her hair until it crackled and twist the sides into simple rolls secured in place with small, tortoise-shell combs. Saving the extra pair of stockings she'd packed for the trip home, she folded short, white socks over her ankles and pushed her feet into the same sturdy leather shoes she'd worn the day before. She glanced into the mottled glass of a small mirror hanging above the dresser as she dabbed powder on her nose. No need to pinch color into her cheeks; the speed of the morning - and the residual effects of the night's wayward thoughts? - had left a rosy flush behind, along with a bright glitter in her eyes. Squaring her shoulders, she turned away from her reflection, picked up the heavy stack of paperwork she'd brought with her and headed out.

She followed the scent of coffee and the rumbling of deep male voices to the kitchen, where she found both men sitting in the same chairs they'd occupied the night before. Plates holding the crumbs of breakfast had been pushed to the center of the table to make room for the newspaper parsed out between them. Hank looked up first, and his smile matched the sunlight blazing outside as he took in the picture she made in a soft ivory day dress dotted with yellow rosebuds.

"Well, don't you look as pretty as a spring morning."

As she'd already discovered, the old man's charm was impossible to resist. Brennan smiled back. "I apologize for sleeping in. I - -"

Hank waved her to silence and gathered his paper close to free up room on the table. "Ain't nobody punching a clock here, Temperance. Now how about some coffee? Seeley can put some water on to boil if you'd rather have tea."

She had managed to avoid looking at Booth until then, but when he folded his paper and got to his feet, she had no choice. The suspenders of the previous day were gone, replaced by a thin leather belt around the waist of pleated trousers the color of melted chocolate, and a shirt of pale blue chambray. His thick dark hair gleamed, faintly damp, and the rugged jawline was smooth and clean-shaven. If he'd spent a restless night tormented by thoughts of her, it didn't show. The aura of swaggering self-confidence that surrounded him was almost visible.

It was captivating. And compelling. And she resented it.

"Coffee is fine."

He turned to the dented metal percolator on the stove; when he set a thick stoneware mug on the table, he looked pointedly at the books and papers she held at her chest like a shield.

"I knew that suitcase was full of books. Is all that for me?"

Brennan placed the stack carefully away from the brimming mug and sat down. "Yes. I thought it would be helpful to go over some of the research and background material we've compiled. I think you'll find it useful when you're speaking with reporters."

Booth paused in the act of sitting down, freezing in an odd, half-crouch. "Reporters?"

Her nostrils flared as a hint of sandalwood teased her senses. Concentrating on the coffee instead, Brennan blew a cooling breath over the surface. "Yes, reporters. There are interviews scheduled at every stop, both for radio and print. In some locations, more than one. As the public face of the tour, you'll be expected to meet with them."

Booth's heavy groan was a good indication of what he thought about that plan. Changing his mind about sitting down, he snatched up his empty plate.

"Well, I'm going to need more eggs if I have to deal with that," he grumbled.

Hank cast a quick, disapproving frown at Booth's back. "Add another one," he ordered. His countenance warmed as he turned again to Brennan. "What else would you like? We cooked up some ham slices this morning, too."