Trouble When You Walked In (Contemporary Romance) (13 page)

“What about it?”

She looked right into his eyes. “I’m not at all sorry it happened.”

He laid his bacon fork down. “Is that so?” She sounded the opposite of discomfited. In fact, she was her prim, bossy librarian self again.

“And I’m still running for mayor,” she added, taking a big, calm sip from her coffee with those luscious lips of hers that had been all over him not eight hours before.

The waffles. He’d focus on
those
.

But he was having no luck. You could only stare at steam coming out of a waffle iron for so long before you surrendered to an overwhelming compulsion to look at the woman who was driving you slightly nuts. “It’s best that we just forget it ever happened,” he said. “We both have a lot going on.”

Her cheeks flushed pink. “I’m not going to forget it. I liked it. A lot.”

So this was a librarian’s way of handling sex talk! It turned him on like nobody’s business. Of course she’d liked last night a lot. He had, too. They were hot together. Searing.

But didn’t she know the rules? If you call something off, you don’t keep talking about it, especially if the other person never—

Not that he’d whine. Women had their reasons. And he was a gentleman, always, unless specifically asked by a lady to be otherwise.

He trained his eye on the bacon, turned over a few pieces that didn’t need to be turned over. “I’m not sure we should be talking about it.” He flipped open the waffle iron and jabbed the brown squares with a fork, tossing them onto a plate. “Seeing as we’re political opponents and all. We should keep things completely professional.”

“I have every intention of doing that when I leave here,” she said earnestly. “But I felt I should talk to you now so you don’t feel guilty.
I
seduced
you
. And I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh.” He wished he had this on tape to watch later. He could laugh at this situation he found himself in. Yes, he could.

“Furthermore”—there was that librarian voice again—“if I have to dip my toe in politics, I’m starting in a great place, right? A small town, against someone I sort of know, a man who’s obviously wrong about the library but who also housed me and my grandmother when you didn’t have to and—and you also—”

Finally, she didn’t know what to say.

“Serviced you?” He threw her a serious look. “That’s what I am: a man dedicated to service—usually of a different kind, of course.”

She didn’t laugh. She didn’t even wince. “I guess you could put it that way.”

“Come on, that was funny,” he said.

“Oh, all right.” She chuckled. Finally. “I’m not used to joking with a man about sex.”

Now it was his turn to wince. Awkward silences were so, well,
awkward
.

“Plus,” she went on with renewed enthusiasm, which she might have gotten from all that caffeine (he made strong coffee), “I’m from a local family with lots of ancestors who were politically active in their own way. So this is a fine place for me to start.”

“I guess so.” He opened the cupboard with the plates and threw her a casual glance over his shoulder. “Sure you don’t want to run for town council? That might be an easier way to get acclimated.”

Because there was no way she was going to win the mayor’s race against him. Should he come out and tell her that? All night he wondered if he should. If he did, he’d sound arrogant. If he didn’t, then he’d watch her juggle the race with all the other stuff she had going on, knowing full well she was fighting a losing battle against him. If she had good friends around here, maybe they’d get her to see that. He wondered if Nana knew of her plans.

His third option was to caution her—in a nice, subtle way—in campaign speeches that she didn’t stand a chance. Speaking of which, he was going to have to make some speeches since he now had an opponent.

Part of him was seriously annoyed. He’d gotten spoiled by the lack of competition. Another part of him said,
Bring it on
. A spirited race might be fun.

Yet there was nothing worse than two unequal teams playing and the weaker one getting routed. Especially a nice woman with a grandma who needed her. A woman he was sorely attracted to, against his better judgment. Braddocks and Rogerses didn’t mix. One was all about action, the other was all about thinking.

Warn her she needs to stay in her library, surrounded by all those books, after all.

“The council members don’t have the influence you do,” she said, which was true. “I Googled the way it works here. You’re more than a figurehead mayor. You hold real power. So I couldn’t accomplish what I want to on town council.” She sighed. “No, I’ve got to run for mayor.”

“You’re ready for everything else the mayor’s office entails?”

“I’ll have to be. And I look forward to the challenge.”

“I see,” he said. “Do you think you can convince Kettle Knobbers that you’re ready?”

“The Rogerses have been here since the beginning. I’ll have no problem explaining that I have a vested interest in what goes on here.
And
the intelligence and fortitude to make decisions on behalf of the town.”

“What about the library?” he asked. “Won’t you miss being around all those words? You might have to cut back your hours.”

“I won’t like it, but I’ll do what I have to do.” He heard a stubborn streak in her voice. “Sure you won’t change your mind about moving it?”

“I’m sure.”

“I have a proposition for you.” She got closer, and he could see her thinking hard.

Dear God, she’d best not be offering him what he thought she might. A sexy romp on his bed in exchange for him quitting on his plan for the library? He’d have a hard time resisting.

Heat rose in his groin.

Get a handle on yourself, Mr. Mayor
. He pulled out the whipped cream and thought bad thoughts about where he could put it on her. Somehow she looked incredibly alluring with that lock of pillow-flattened hair stuck out at a funny angle. The sprinkle of freckles across her nose was awfully cute, too.

“What if I told you about more authors you’d like besides Dick Francis? I’d find out about your special interests. I could come up with a customized list”—she widened her eyes—“that would blow you away!”

Her excitement disarmed him. “Maybe you should offer this service on the web.” No woman had had him so off-center since he had first kissed a girl in third grade.

“Maybe I
will
,” she replied. “Although Amazon kind of does that when they show you books you might like based on previous books you’ve read. But my site would be even more specialized.” She put her coffee mug down and leaned forward, as if to share with him Warren Buffett’s greatest investment secrets or the pope’s personal cell phone number: “Reading a great book can change your life.”

He wouldn’t know. Actually, he did know. He did. And it pained him to the core, that knowledge.

He hardened his jaw. “A librarian offering custom booklist bribes … that’s pretty cool. But no thanks.”

The waffles were done. He pulled out a chair for her and fed her good. She had quite an appetite, he was happy to see. She hardly said a word, except for the occasional “delicious” or “mmm, this is good.” She was too busy scarfing down three waffles, six pieces of bacon, two dollops of whipped cream, half a cup of blueberries, and two more cups of coffee.

Funny. He’d always thought she was shy and retiring. She’d seemed that way all through school. And she’d kind of disappeared into the woodwork since moving back home after college, so he had to admit that this new Cissie, the impassioned book lover, ardent sex partner, and consumer of big breakfasts, shocked and intrigued him.

Flat out—the librarian, the hot tub hottie, and the waffle fan were all adorable. And he wanted her.

Bad.

Nana’s singing in the hallway thankfully called him back to reality.

“Where’s the coffee?” She posed at the door looking like a police interrogator, her mouth a hard line.

“We’re known for having some scary bears around Kettle Knob,” Boone said back, “especially in the morning. I’d say most of them are two legged and inside their kitchens about right now.”

His remark was corny, but it got a chuckle out of Nana. She made a beeline for the pot. He’d laid out creamer and crystal sugar rock stirrers he’d picked up at a local flea market, along with some fake sweetener he kept for his mother. “Sorry,” she said while doctoring her mug. “I should’ve said good morning first.”

“Hey, we can’t all be chirpy at daybreak,” he assured her, glad to get off the sex train barreling through his mind. It was heading straight to that brick wall that would turn him into a brat the rest of the day if he wasn’t careful.

“Nana, no worries about today,” Cissie said. “Insurance calls, places to stay, Edwina’s questions—we’ll handle this thing together.”

“I know we will, honey.” Nana patted Cissie’s shoulder.

Boone got Nana’s breakfast ready, and his, while Cissie stayed at the table with her coffee. They kept the conversation nice and simple—no more references to the tree through the roof or finding a place to stay. But he couldn’t help thinking of Hot Tub Cissie every time he looked at her. So he focused on Nana. Asked her about her latest show. What kind of music she liked. If she had a favorite place to travel.

The minutes passed, and much as he enjoyed their company, he needed them to go. Cissie’s presence was too much to handle.

He was just about to pick up the last waffle—because his guests said they were done—when the front door rattled and someone knocked. Loudly.

“Who’s that?” Nana said right away, her fork and knife paused over her plate.

Boone’s heart sank. Whoever was at the door—one or both of his parents, he was sure—would slow down the whole process of getting Cissie gone. He stood to gear up. “I’m almost sure it’s my parents.” He took the time to make eye contact with both of them. “I’m sorry. The fun’s over, ladies.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Old bones might creak and ache, but they also knew things. Nana was no fool. She took her time with her waffles, sipped a second cup of coffee. She’d seen the way Boone had danced with Cissie at the library the night before. How he’d invited them to his home and practically bent over backward to make them comfortable. He respected his elders, but that special treatment hadn’t been for Nana, much as the diva in her might wish it was.

It had been for Cissie.

“Booooone!” Becky Lee Braddock, prissy woman that she was, had a lovely trill to her voice that Nana envied.

“Hey, Mom. Hey, Dad,” Boone said from the front door.

Three sets of feet came down the hall, two pairs clumping in boots and the other click-clacking. And then the Braddock family—minus Boone’s sister Debbie and her brood—came back to the kitchen, Boone leading the way.

Lord save women everywhere. He looked magnificent when he stood in front of the stove and put his fists on his hips, rather like the king in
The King and I
—but in well-worn jeans and with masses of delicious brown hair tickling his neck and stubble that made a girl, no matter her age, want to grab that jaw and kiss him senseless.

And it wasn’t impatience with his mother that had put that steely look in his eye, either, Nana knew. It had been there all morning, long before Boone’s mother had arrived, and it had to do with Cissie. The crackle between these two was almost palpable. Not to mention that Nana had gotten up last night and peeked in Cissie’s room and seen an empty bed.

She’d been a good grandma. She hadn’t asked that morning what had happened. They could have been downstairs watching TV for all she knew.

But as soon as she walked into that kitchen this morning, she’d felt it. Sex. Attraction. Two people who were drawn to each other like magnets, even though from outward appearances it didn’t make sense.

Yes, something had definitely gone on the night before.

Cissie had her hand on her abdomen, as if all those waffles she’d eaten now sat heavy in her stomach. But Nana would guess she wasn’t worried about Boone’s parents—she was worried about leaving Boone’s house. And it would be a cold day in hell before Cissie would admit it to herself. Nana knew her granddaughter. Cissie was as stubborn as she was.

Cissie froze a fake smile on her face. Nana’s was real. This was all going to be very interesting.

Becky Lee Braddock didn’t know the meaning of subtle, that was for sure. Surrounded by cloying perfume and an aureole of blown-out hair, she swept into the kitchen in her trunk show clothes and froze inside the door. A disguised Paul Bunyan—otherwise known as her husband Frank, dressed in predictable plaid pants and a preppy pink polo for a day on the links—was right behind her, his silver hair combed and shellacked to the side like Bob Barker’s used to be on
The Price Is Right
.

“Well, who do we have here?” Becky Lee looked back and forth between Cissie and Nana.

Not very original of her. Nana tried not to feel superior, but she couldn’t help herself.

“We know who, wife,” Frank boomed, “Nana and Cissie Rogers.” The man was so literal, it hurt Nana’s soul. Thank God
he’d
never been mayor. But that style had helped him plow over all the real estate development competition, too. “We heard about the tree falling through your roof, ladies.”

“That’s a sorry thing to happen.” Becky Lee shook her head.

She seemed nicer for it, so Nana settled back in her chair. “Thank you for your concern. We’ll get through it.”

“I reckon you will.” Frank doing empathy in his baritone nearly knocked the kitchen windows out.

“Mom, Dad,” Boone said, “what are you doing here? It’s early. If I’d known you were coming”—he paused significantly there—“I’d have made you breakfast. We’re all out now.”

“Son”—Frank clapped Boone’s shoulder—“it’s all right. Your mother doesn’t eat in the morning. I had Bojangles’ chicken biscuits.”

“They don’t need to know you had Bojangles’.” Becky Lee sucked in her cheeks.

“Why not?” asked Cissie. “I love their biscuits.”

“Because biscuits are so—” Becky Lee shuddered.