Sticking to the Script: Cipher Office Book #2

by Romance, Smartypants

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  1. Sneak Peek of Love in Due Time, Book #1 in the Green Valley Library Series, by L.B. Dunbar

  Sneak Peek: Love in Due Time, Book #1 in the Green Valley Library Series

  By L.B. Dunbar

  [Naomi]

  I’m going to be forty.

  Someday.

  Soon-ish.

  And I’m thinking these things as I stand in the baking aisle of the Piggly Wiggly late at night, while the world is out partying, and I’m grocery shopping. Alone. At ten-fifteen.

  Sigh.

  Okay, maybe not the world. Just Green Valley, Tennessee. It’s Friday night and most of Green Valley is attending the weekly jam session, a night of musical talent and good things to eat, at the community center. I don’t attend for several reasons.

  I used to go, though.

  When I was a teen, I was a wild child. Naomi, God put a spirit in you, girl, my mother would say.

  It wasn’t a god, though, at least not one I readily believed in. The spirit wasn’t something placed in me, but something I was born with—something I tried to contain. Daughter of a preacher and a woman who thought she wanted to be a nun, my home was ultraconservative growing up.

  Don’t drink. Don’t smoke. Don’t dance.

  As soon as I was told not to do those things as a teen, it’s exactly what I wanted to do. Then I turned twenty-one. Recollection of that night pulls my heart in opposing directions, like a tug-of-war within my chest.

  I reach for a box of brownie mix to chase away the memories. Chocolaty squares of heaven solve everything. Truthfully, I could make these from scratch. I have a great recipe and guilt gnaws at me as I consider the boxed mix. I volunteered to bring a dessert to a luncheon hosted at the library. I could always order something premade from Donner Bakery or grab something from the pre-packaged goods section here at the grocer, but where’s the fun in that? Adding water, oil, and an egg to the dry mix will make me feel as if I’ve accomplished something.

  Julianne MacIntyre can probably sniff out a box-made dessert, and my holistic approach to life prefers I remain all natural. My beliefs are different from the norm. I’m a Wiccan. I celebrate nature, purity, and most importantly, the spirit of women. Mother Nature is my guide. She’s the Goddess Supreme, or rather the Triple Goddess is my ruler. Local rumor is I’m a witch, but my story is nothing fantastical. I’m a librarian at the Green Valley Public Library.

  I look left and right, make certain no one notices me, and add the brownie mix to my handheld basket. Sometimes, you just need to break the rules. Tonight, I need quick and easy, I console my conscience as I head for the checkout lane. Ten items or less. I always want to take a red pen to the sign. It’s ten items or fewer. At this time of night, I don’t see how many items a person carries would matter. I’m the only one in here except for Sara Stokes.

  “How’s it going, Ms. Winters?” Sara Stokes has the misfortune of once being married to Deveron Stokes, the dry cleaner. He was not a good man and his ex-wife suffered the repercussions of reproducing with him. He was a child support dodger to the nth degree, thus her job working the night shift at the Piggly Wiggly. As a woman roughly my age, it was strange she called me Ms. Winters, but then again, all the mommas were used to formally addressing me in front of their children.

  “Just fine, Sara, and yourself?” I’m only half listening to her response as I place my plastic basket on the conveyor, preparing to set my items on the belt when I feel a presence next to me. Someone tall, solid, burly. The scent alone signals he’s all spicy male, and without thought, my head turns. Then my breathing halts.

  Nathan Ryder.

  Standing six plus, double my size, and with a chest covered by a leather jacket, he peers down at me with silver-colored eyes I’ll never forget. He nods in greeting but I don’t respond. My tongue swells three times larger. My tongue. The same one that tangled with his and licked his—oh my. My gaze drifts down to the very spot I shouldn’t be remembering, a place on him I shouldn’t be imagining.

  My hand comes to the collar of my linen peasant blouse, and I tug.

  Is it warm in here? Why is the heat on in September? Am I experiencing hot flashes already?

  Still drawn to him, my eyes climb up his mountain height and fall again on the unusual spark in his eyes. His hair—more chrome than ink—matches the metallic stitching in the black leather of his jacket. His hair isn’t as long as I remember, being cropped close to his head, almost military in style.

  “Ms. Winters?” Sara says, interrupting my perusal of this hunk of man and calling attention to the fact that my basket sits on the belt, but I haven’t unloaded the items, keeping the handle looped over my arm, and fighting the tug of the conveyor. I look ridiculous.

  Shaky fingers come to my long white and gray streaked hair, and nervously comb back the strands. My appearance adds to the witch rumors—wild curls of premature gray, clothing made of natural fabrics, and black lace-up boots. A finger catches in my hoop earring and I struggle for a second with myself. A sharp tug and the silver circle releases, flinging from my sensitive earlobe and flicking Nathan in the chest.

  Ow. My eyes sting with the release but I notice he catches the jewelry as it ricochets off the hard plains of his pecs under the soft-gray Henley he wears. He holds my earring out in between thick fingers I instantly recall tweaking my nipples once. Maybe twice.

  With noticeably trembling fingers, I reach for the hoop.

  “Sorry about that,” I mutter, as if I did it on purpose. Right? Who would purposefully stick her fingers in her own nest of hair, get said finger hooked on her dime-store earring, and flip it at a burly man dressed like he’s in a motorcycle club?

  I’m a hot mess.

  Did I mention how warm it is in the Piggly Wiggly?

  I lower my eyes, willing myself to look away from him when I notice he holds only one item.

  Is that a box of condoms?

  Sweet Goddess, grant me strength.

  My eyes flick to his zipper region again, and then I turn away. My cheeks flood with heat, undoubtedly matching the maroon swirls in my ankle-length skirt. I’m fifty shades of red and then some.

  “You only have the one item?” I question, no longer able to look in his direction as he taps the box on the metal edge of the counter. I tug my basket upward and step back. “Why don’t you go ahead of me?”

  There isn’t enough space between the checkout counter and the rack of candy behind me for the two of us, yet he shifts his large body to face mine and steps forward, pinning my back to the bars of chocolate and bags of trail mix behind me.

  His eyes catch mine for a moment, widening in surprise before narrowing in question. He doesn’t appear to recognize me and why would he? It’s been a long time. He gives his head a shake, more like a twitch, and straightens. A mischievous curve appears at the corner of his lips and leaning toward me just the slightest bit, he says, “You sure you don’t want to go first?” And just like that I’m propelled back in time to a night I’ve told myself to forget, and yet, never have. The deep timbre of his voice melts over me like drizzled caramel, suggestively hinting at something I know he doesn’t mean. A pulse beats at the cookie crunch in my center while I stare back at him, swollen tongue and all.

  “Thanks, sweetheart,” h
e adds when I don’t respond. His rough tone drips like nougat and fills my mind with candy-coated metaphors. My head shakes to dismiss his gratitude and he slides forward. And I mean slides, allowing his body to glide across mine in a leisurely drag. His firm upper body narrowly misses my face, but his lower area does not escape my belly, which does its own roundoff back handsprings as the awkwardness of something other than a candy bar—yet strong and yummy—swipes over me. The pressure lasts no more than a few seconds, but I’m like a champagne fountain come to life without a single glass to collect the bubbly drink.

  What has come over me?

  A thick hand comes to my upper arm as Nathan twists away from me and warmth seeps through my body. Then my blouse continues moving with him. My mouth pops open to say something, warn him, as my shirt opens wider at the neck, exposing my nude bra as my blouse follows the twist of his body.

  I’m stuck on him.

  “Um …” I hold up a finger, and he turns to glance down at me. I freeze. All thought escapes me as his eyes dip lower and heat rises up my neck. I lick my lips. Another second and I’m certain I’ll be frothing at the mouth despite my embarrassment. I’d like to say I understand my reaction when he looks at me like he is—silver eyes glistening. But I don’t. I’m a thirty-nine-year-old sexually-repressed librarian who practices self-love in hopes of reviving her inner goddess.

  I’m still waiting for divine inspiration to spring forth.

  With that thought, the fabric springs free of his protruding belt buckle and his hand releases my arm.

  Thank you, Mother Earth.

  I risk a quick glance up at him to see if he noticed our attached clothing, but it appears as if he missed everything. Instead, he looks like a god with his broody-edged jaw layered in white with a smattering of lion-brown in the mix, not to mention his hulking body. While Wiccan practices remind me life is about balance, it also teaches me I don’t need a man on the other side of my seesaw. At least, the way I celebrate my religion.

  I blink. I blink again. Then I reach for my shirt, tugging the hem forward to notice a small hole caused by our caught clothing. How appropriate considering the hole he left inside me. And just like the time before, he doesn’t even notice what he’s done to me. He doesn’t look back at me, like he didn’t look back then.

  Rough fingers with short nails like they’d been bitten come to his belt buckle and absentmindedly press at the metal confine. He straightens it against his waist, leaving his callused digit on the tip a bit longer than necessary. Then he smooths his hand down the front of his zipper.

  My mouth falls open. Swollen tongue. Then it snaps shut.

  Nathan chuckles softly to himself and glances up at Sara who is slack-jawed and wide-eyed, watching us with interest. I don’t imagine the night shift offers much entertainment, and right now, the sexual tension vibrating off me is higher than a Passionflix rating of five heats.

  “It’s your turn,” I say, nodding toward the clerk, and he turns his body, giving me his back as he steps forward. Harley Davidson, I read across his broad back and take in the symbol underneath. Is he a member of a motorcycle club? Not versed in the who’s who of area bikers, I know enough of the Iron Wraiths, the local MC presided over by the incarcerated Razor Dennings, to make me shiver.

  Nathan’s box of condoms swipes over the scanner and Sara lowers the package for a bag.

  “Oh, I won’t need a bag. Keep the environment safe and all that.” His eyes drift to the carrier over my shoulder, the one I use to collect my groceries. Environmentally friendly, women in Africa make these bags as a way to raise money for an education which could lift them from oppression. My heart leaps in my chest. He cares about the environment. “Not to mention, I’ll be opening the package soon enough.”

  Or not.

  He turns to Sara and winks. Fingers come to her pinkened cheeks while her other hand reaches for the twenty he offers for his purchase.

  Quickly understanding his meaning, I begin removing items from my basket, setting them on the belt with more force than necessary. Why would I care that he’s going to use a condom soon?

  Brownie mix. Rice cakes. Tampons.

  I look over at the magazine rack to my left and reach for a novel from the ten bestsellers at the top of the display. I don’t even read the title. I simply grab the book with the cover of a bare-chested man ripping the bodice of a woman in a floor-length gown and drop it down on the belt with the remainder of my things.

  “Looks like an interesting night,” Nathan says, eying my stuff as he holds out his hand for his change. Sara seems to be taking her sweet time doling out the bills and pressing coins in his palm.

  Did she just stroke his fingertips?

  My brain mutters a litany of profanity, but my mouth tweaks up in a false smile.

  “Well, we can’t all be as interesting as you.” My brows tip up as my eyes flip to the box in his hand.

  What the … Nice retort. Am I in high school?

  Nathan leans toward me, his head lowered, and his voice deepens. “Plan on it being very interesting. Want to join me?” He smirks—literally—with a rough chuckle. A raised brow matches mine and that damn corner of his lip creeps upward again. Is that a dimple? Sara’s eyes flick between him and me, her mouth clamping in a grimace as her head tips just the littlest of bits, almost encouraging me to follow him.

  “No thanks,” I mumble, sweat trickling down the center of my back, coating my spine. You’re lying, my brain taps my forehead.

  Deny. Deny. Deny.

  His eyes focus on my breasts for a moment. Maybe I’m imagining it? Then he tips his chin upward like he’s a movie star and I’m lingering paparazzi. “Okay then, Naomi.”

  It takes a moment to register he said my name. I’ve seen Nathan a few times in the last year, but he hasn’t acknowledged me. I assumed he forgot me, like he must have forgotten my phone number. I, however, have never forgotten him. My chest clenches—a sensation like my ribs are caving inward—and I want the tile floor to open and swallow me whole.

  Sara watches me as she scans each of my items slowly, her expression stoic but I sense the question churning inside her. Him? You? Her eyes shift once again to Nathan’s retreating back as he exits the store and then to me. I remain focused, following the swipe of each item before they are placed in my environmentally friendly bag. My toes wiggle in my leather boots and my fingers twitch, tapping a crisp twenty on the raised counter waiting to pay as I refuse to watch Nathan’s departure. My entire body flickers with a flame I haven’t felt in a long time.

  I will not live my life in the past.

  Sara reaches for the impulse purchase, scans the back, and then holds the book up to face me, as if waiting for an explanation.

  Tonight is not going to be an evening of stellar, stimulating, quality literature like we host at the library. No, tonight will be a late night of unadulterated smut and self-soothing pleasure.

  “You tell anyone, and I’ll never let you check out the 9 ½ Weeks DVD from the library again.”

  Sara slams the book into my bag and winks.

  Interesting evening indeed.

  ** End Sneak Peek **

  Read Love in Due Time coming October 22, 2019!