Trouble When You Walked In (Contemporary Romance) (28 page)

“Maybe I did. The truth is, she got me thinking about what I’m doing, too, by running for mayor.”

“I’m glad.” Nana took his hand and squeezed it. She loved him like a grandson already.

The clock struck one in the morning.

He walked her up to her room, ever the gentleman.

“Don’t worry about Cissie,” Nana said at her door. “She can take care of herself.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

Nana laughed and kissed his cheek. “Good night. I hope your nose feels better in the morning.”

When she shut her bedroom door, Boone decided that no way was he letting such a great lady move out because he and Cissie had been immature idiots that night.

The next morning, he found the former Girl Scout in the kitchen sneaking a bagel out of his freezer to toast upstairs.

“Does your nose hurt?” she asked timidly.

“No.” It actually did, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. Instead, he told her not to bother trying to move out. It wasn’t fair to Nana.

“But we need to,” Cissie insisted, her hair sticking up all over the place.

“No,” he said, “you don’t. As energetic as Nana is, she’s older now and needs stability. As do you, I might add. I’ll keep my distance. I swear it.”

He stayed far away on the other side of the kitchen, just to remind her that he was as good as his word.

Cissie’s eyes shot all sorts of challenges at him, but when she shut the freezer door, her shoulders slumped. “You’re right about Nana. I’ll do as you say, and—and thank you for your hospitality,” she added to be polite.

But she couldn’t resist casting him one more you’re-not-the-boss-of-me look on her way out of the kitchen with her bagel. And maybe—just maybe—that slightly wistful look around her eyes meant that she wished he didn’t have to stand so far away.

He wished the same thing. Especially when he watched her go up the stairs in her pj’s, obviously braless. He had a hankering to follow her to her room, lift up that shirt, and get down to business.

But then he remembered Nana, hopefully still sleeping hard in her bed. He wasn’t going to break the promise he’d just made. So he had a cup of strong coffee and a cold shower instead.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Cissie did it. She somehow survived living in the same house with Boone without sleeping with him or even flirting with him, and it was likely because he steered clear of her, as she did of him. Not only that, in between working a curtailed schedule at the library, thanks to her friend the substitute librarian, who watched the desk while she was away, she campaigned her heart out for an entire two weeks. Highlights included three separate Q & A events. The first was solo and held by the local Lions Club, which put on a barbecue lunch one Saturday afternoon.

“Bless your heart,” she heard over and over—the kiss of death—followed by, “Boone’s finally got some competition.”

No one really thought she could beat Boone, and no one actually wanted her to, but it made for fine conversation, this mayor’s race, and now the whole nation would see it, too! Yes, everyone had heard about the fight at The Log Cabin, but if a man had been so rude that even shy Cissie jumped on his back, then he had it coming!

The second event was held at Starla’s diner, which offered a Wednesday breakfast special the following week to anyone who had questions for Cissie. So she talked and ate four waffles, three strips of bacon, and a plate of scrambled eggs over a period of two hours.

It was a lot of fun, although Boone had a table of eight vocal supporters from Campbell. No doubt Janelle was involved in getting them together. They couldn’t vote for Kettle Knob’s mayor, Cissie reminded them boldly. Even so, they were vociferous in their defense of Boone’s record, and one man in a Campbell Country Club golf shirt suggested that Cissie pack up her homemade signs and quit before the race began.

“Those signs are eye-catching for all the wrong reasons,” he said at the conclusion of the event, when she was drinking a whole glass of water down to relieve her burning vocal cords.

“How could any reason be wrong?” she answered, panting only slightly when she put the glass down on Starla’s counter.

“You don’t want people talking about the actual sign.” He handed her his card. He was an art director at a gallery in Asheville. “You want them talking about the candidate.” He leaned close. “I’ll buy those signs from you when you’re done with them. Ten dollars each.”

“Whatever for?”

“Whoever painted them is
good
.”

“Um, we’ll talk,” she said.

“Don’t forget, sugar.”

And then Mrs. Hattlebury held a beautiful tea at her house at three o’clock on the Sunday before Election Day. It was a gorgeous afternoon, deep blue skies, a cold crispness to the air, leaves falling on the sidewalk in front of the Hattlebury’s old Victorian house with a wrought-iron fence around it covered in ivy. Twenty-five local women came to see both Cissie and Boone, but it was quickly obvious who the favored candidate was.

He really
was
charming. Cissie had brought Mrs. Hattlebury some artisan soaps. He brought her a mixed bouquet of autumn flowers and some lovely locally made chocolates. But the kicker was that he was in a striped forest-green bow tie, starched ivory button-down, dressy tan corduroys, and a smart brown tweed blazer.

A man’s man who’s taken the time to tie a silk bow tie is a gorgeous sight to behold. The women, including Mrs. Donovan and Laurie, practically swooned.

Everyone partook of tea, delicate chicken salad sandwiches, cucumber sandwiches, and an assortment of sweet things, Cissie’s favorites being the lemon drop sugar cookies and salted caramel strawberries rolled in pecans. Boone’s mother was there, loudly proclaiming how hard she’d slaved over the mini éclairs everyone knew came from the frozen dessert section at Harris Teeter—not that anyone was a food snob. But it was hard not to giggle, especially when Boone sent Cissie a droll look. On this one issue—his mother and her occasional delusions of grandeur—they were in marked agreement.

Both candidates were given five minutes to make their points. Cissie went first.

Laurie winked at her, their signal that meant
imagine everyone here having sex
, which almost made Cissie laugh. Laurie certainly did. She had to cover her mouth with a napkin and pretend to cough. And then Cissie caught a glimpse of Boone, and the game changed entirely when she imagined him having sex—with her, of course. She had to stir her tea several times to distract herself.

But eventually, she gathered her wits, and in the midst of speaking, finally felt she was making headway in her campaign. Several ladies—who weren’t even Friends of the Library—were adamantly against moving it. Another several clapped when she mentioned the need for an indoor pool facility, which could be paid for with a hospitality tax similar to the one already in place in Campbell.

But then Boone spoke. Sure, he hated to see an end to the old library, but Kettle Knob’s history would live on as long as the people of the town celebrated it. And that celebration could occur at that strip mall. In fact, the number of people entering that mall every day outnumbered the number of people entering the old library by two hundred fifty to one.

That was a shocking number.

There were gasps all around. Even Mrs. Hattlebury leaned forward and put her hand to her heart when she heard the statistic Boone put out—with proof, damn him. He had the head counts to prove it. While Cissie innocently slept in his guest room, he’d called up a few avid supporters who’d stood outside the strip mall and counted shoppers for three days. He’d recruited another spy to count the number of people entering the library in that same period.

“Imagine,” he said, “what kind of reading boom we’ll have when you can pick up your book at the same time you get your—”

“Milk and eggs,” she mouthed at him silently.

“Milk and eggs,” he finished slowly.

She knew she was being mean. But she was tired of that milk-and-eggs story, which the other women gushed over as being so practical.

“Isn’t it more practical not to have to drive to pick up a book?” she reminded them. “And practical’s not the most important thing anyway. Holding on to something dear
is
.”

But they didn’t seem to hear her. They kept looking at Boone. He was eating one of Mrs. Hattlebury’s rose, orange, and cardamom mini layer cakes and murmuring, “Mmm, this is delicious.”

Cissie knew exactly what all the women were thinking. She was thinking the same thing.

Only Sally and Hank Davis, God bless their loyal hearts, eschewed the milk-and-eggs story along with her. Sally told everyone who’d listen that Hank Davis had decided that the milk was much better at the Exxon station. “Hank Davis has a good palate,” Sally assured them. “He got it from watching Rachael Ray.”

But then even Sally started watching Boone eat his adorable little cake with a too-small silver fork on a pink-and-white fine bone china plate he could crush with one good squeeze of his hand.

By then, Cissie wanted to crawl under a table. She didn’t have a rat’s chance in hell of defeating that man.

Still, from the week’s campaigning, she learned: 1) how to interrupt excessive talkers without looking as if she were really interrupting them so that she could make her point, 2) how wearing leopard heels and the occasional sequined sweater during the day not only didn’t kill her, it made her more confident, and 3) maybe—just maybe—Boone’s point about the strip mall version of the library had a ring of validity to it.

Maybe.

But if his had a mere ring, her multiple points about the need for the library to remain in that gorgeous old building smack dab in the center of Kettle Knob sounded like a gong!

Of course, she didn’t mention one facet of her argument: the legend. Only the die-hard library goers had heard about it, and if she brought it up, they’d all feel sorry for her because true love hadn’t happened to
her
.

At the conclusion of the tea, after everyone had left except Cissie, Mrs. Hattlebury gave her a box of leftover lemon drop cookies and a kindly hug. “You’ve been a wonderful candidate for mayor,” she said. “And I’m not just saying that. You’ve made everything think in a fresh new way about possibilities for Kettle Knob.”

“I hope so.” Cissie smiled. “Thanks for today—this was so much fun. I don’t think I can beat Boone. But I feel much more … dug in.”

Her friend sighed happily. “That’s what I wanted to hear. Whatever happens in the election”—she was too kind to agree with Cissie about her slim chances—“I hope you’ll stay involved.” She looked down at Cissie’s frilly white blouse that she’d left gaping—Laurie’s orders—and the pretty pale pink sweater with tiny crystal sequins, which she wore over a beige-and-pale-pink-plaid skirt. “And keep dressing like this. Sexy and chic look marvelous on you.”

“Aw, thanks.” Cissie kissed her cheek. “Personal shoppers are the bomb.”

Out on the driveway, she inhaled a deep breath. Funny. She hadn’t felt the need to go to Paris recently. Or the Cornish moors. Or to Scotland to live in a castle.

“Hey.” It was Boone, leaning on his truck, the boring one. But he still looked amazing. He didn’t need a cool set of wheels to stand out in a crowd.

“Hi.” She felt nervous for some reason.

“You’ve done great these past couple weeks,” he said.

She walked slowly to her car at the curb. “Thanks. You, too. You were a big hit in there.”

“I’ve been hearing nothing but wonderful things about you. I’m telling you, you’re a contender. I might not have thought so at first, but I believe so now.”

She shrugged. “Thanks. But you have so much momentum behind you. I’ll never win.”

He paused. “We don’t know that for sure. But I’m not going to lie. It’ll be an uphill climb. And not because I’m particularly great or anything. It’s the Braddock name behind me. My grandfather’s legacy. And yeah, maybe having ten years under my belt of doing this job.”

“Thank you for not condescending to me.”

“I never would. You’re the smart one.”

She shook her head. “That’s just not true anymore. I’ve been in a rut for a lot of years, I’m coming to realize. And yet I never saw it until recently. It snuck up on me.”

He stepped forward. “I think you’re terrific,” he said.

Just like that.

“Boone. You’re not supposed to say things like that. They just make me … crazy.”

He looked up at a tree branch for half a second, then back at her. “In a good way or a bad way?”

She bit her lower lip. And she could swear that box of cookies was trembling in her hand. “In a-a—” She closed her eyes, then opened them. “I don’t know. Just … crazy. Like, I don’t know what to think or even
how
to think anymore. I used to be really good at thinking.”

He laughed. “Can I take that box for you?”

She allowed herself a tiny smile. “Only if you don’t eat them all. They’re my favorite.”

He took it. She opened her car door. He handed it back.

“Hey, I’ve got something for you.” He reached into his blazer pocket and pulled out an envelope that said “Ms. Cissie Rogers” on the front in loopy cursive. Tiny hearts dotting the i’s.

“What’s this?” she murmured as she pulled out a homemade card. And then she smiled. “An invitation from your senior girls to come to powder-puff football practice tonight?”

“Yep. They think it’s cool that a woman’s running for mayor. They want you to come check them out, maybe run a few plays with the offense.”

“Wow. I’m flabbergasted and touched by this.” She looked up at him. “I never did powder-puff in high school. I was too scared. There’s tackling, throwing, catching.”

All that physical stuff.

“You’ll learn fast. Meanwhile”—he grinned—“I can teach you the basics back at the house first.”

She laughed nervously.

He pointed to his temple. “We’ll talk strategy. On a chalkboard.”

“Oh, okay.” She was a little disappointed. She wouldn’t have minded being tackled by him. “I’m not that great at throwing. Maybe we can play catch, too. And all the rest. Like running.”