Free Baby, Don't Go by Stephanie Bond Page B

she asked.
    “A woman named Molly McIntyre.”
    “Why did you fire her?”
    “I didn’t—she quit.”
    She remembered the stocky woman who had brushed by her the day she’d walked in, the same woman who’d been in the diner earlier today when Marcus had taken a fall.
    “You can reset the password to something private,” he suggested.
    Since he was looking over her W-4 form and not focused on her fingers, she typed in the word “undercover” as her password. He set her form on the desk next to the computer, presumably for her to finish filling out.
    When a menu came up, he walked her through how to add herself to the payroll system. As she typed in the alias last name of “Waters,” she told herself she was only adopting a persona that would allow her to get the story. No harm, no foul. When she filled in her social security number, she transposed the last two digits.
    “Is everything accurate?” he asked, scanning the info on the screen.
    She nodded, partially because she didn’t want to verbalize a lie, and partially because his nearness was seriously starting to unnerve her. She hit the submit button, then he showed her how to enter employee hours. The food ordering system was next, including how to track inventory of food harvested from the garden. Throughout, her heart beat at an accelerated rate. At one point, he reached around her to type something on the keyboard and his large hands brushed hers. She didn’t mind, but he seemed to.
    “Sorry,” he said, pulling back. “I didn’t mean to crowd you.”
    “It’s okay,” she said, reminding herself that she was supposed to be cozying up to him. “I have to admit I’m surprised you’re so adept on a computer.”
    “Why?”
    “Because you don’t seem like the kind of man who spends a lot of time behind a desk.”
    “I’m behind a desk more than I’d like,” he said, his voice suddenly weary.
    “I guess starting your own town takes a lot of organization.”
    His nod told her that was an understatement of gigantic proportions.
    “What happens if the Department of Energy inspector doesn’t like what he sees here at the diner?”
    He looked thoughtful. “It’s more of an inspection of the entire town, although last time around the diner was the weak link. And this is just an interim inspection leading up to the final inspection six months from now. In order to receive our final funding and to maintain ownership of the property that makes up the city limits, the D.O.E. has to be satisfied we’re covering the basic needs of the townspeople in a way that’s good for the environment.”
    “Your carbon footprint and all of that stuff?” she asked, playing dumb.
    He seemed to check himself. “Right.” Then he looked back to the screen.
    She felt a pang of disappointment because for a few seconds there, Marcus Armstrong seemed like a different man. But obviously he didn’t want to share too much…because something strange was going on in Sweetness?
    “You must’ve had trouble getting people to come here,” she said. “A couple of the women told me they answered a newspaper ad?”
    He frowned. “Not my idea.”
    “You didn’t want to run the ad?”
    His mouth tightened. “That’s right.”
    Alicia gave him a little smile. “Someone told me you don’t like women.”
    He jerked upright, then pain flashed across his rugged face…and didn’t subside. A guttural groan escaped him, and Alicia could tell from the way he was frozen that it was bad. She stood and reached for him, but he lifted his hand.
    “Don’t touch me.”
    She frowned. “I’m just trying to help.”
    “Give me a minute,” he said, gasping.
    “Here, sit down,” she said, rolling the desk chair until it was positioned behind him.
    Gingerly he lowered himself, then cursed when his back caught again. He fell into the chair heavily.
    “You need to see a doctor,” she said. “Otherwise, your back is only going to get worse.”
    He gritted his teeth, his face a