“I don’t need your sarcasm.”
“How about some facts, then? The election’s in less than a month! And you decide in the middle of sex in a hot tub that you’re running for mayor?”
“Yes.”
He slapped a hand to his forehead. “I’m definitely losing my touch.”
“Stop taking this so personally.”
“It’s hard not to, considering you’re running against me, the guy who was being rather friendly with you in that hot tub.”
“I know it sounds odd—”
“What about your job at the library?”
“I’ll call in my sub, a retired librarian in Weston. I use her for a week every summer and whenever I get sick or have to take Nana to an appointment. She’ll be glad of the work.”
“But what about your house? It’s going to need some attention.”
“Insurance will cover the repairs, I’m sure. That’s what it’s for. I’m not going to panic and run scared about a lot of paperwork and some phone calls.”
“Rebuilding is pretty involved.”
“Well, I can’t bother my parents. I’ll insist they leave it to me.”
“Oh, yeah? How about finding a temporary place to live, too? You can really afford to take on a mayor’s race in the midst of all that?”
“Nana and I will stay with friends, even if we have to move every couple of days.”
“That’s rough. If not for you, then for her.”
Her shoulders slumped a little. “I didn’t think about that. You’re right. Maybe I can find her a permanent place, and Dexter and I can move around. Whatever,” she said blithely. “We can do it.”
She tried to get out without getting naked, but it was too much hassle. She leapt out, grabbed another towel, and wrapped it around herself, but not before he’d enjoyed the view.
“Get used to seeing me dressed again,” she said. “I’m your political opponent. As soon as I read up on it more. Maybe I’ll call that nonprofit group that’s all about electing women.…”
“I’m about to get out naked, too, Miss Political Opponent. Better look away.”
She looked away.
“I’m decent now,” he said.
When she looked back, he had a towel slung low across his hips. Her teeth started to chatter.
“Go on inside,” he said. “Rinse off in the shower. I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”
Gone was the lover. He knew he sounded like a mayor again. A stranger.
“Okay.” At the door, she turned around. “Edwina mentioned that running against you was the only way I could stop the library from moving, but I wasn’t at all interested earlier tonight. It seemed an impossible thing. But then there was the tree. And the—the—”
“Masterful way your opponent goaded you into running.”
She sure liked recalling that moment, didn’t she?
“I’m sorry you’re mad.” She opened the door. “Thank you, by the way—”
“Please don’t thank me.”
“And I’m really sorry about”—she actually looked at the towel over his crotch—“about you.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll survive.”
“That’s a relief,” she said, her voice thin.
And then she rushed inside.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The next morning, Boone woke up at 6:00 a.m. feeling two things: hungry and sex starved. He decided that the best way to approach the situation was to run on the treadmill—his daily morning ritual—then go all out and make waffles. They were his specialty. He didn’t like Belgian ones, only the skinny, square ones he could cook in his mother’s old waffle iron. With the skill of a master chef—which he called himself on a regular basis because who else was there to brag on his cooking?—he whipped up some cream, rinsed off fresh wild blueberries, warmed a leaf-shaped bottle of genuine Vermont maple syrup, and mixed the batter.
He had the coffee going and the bacon sizzling on the griddle when Cissie made an appearance in the kitchen at seven. Last night popped into his head like a movie into a DVD player, and that was fine by him. He saw himself kissing her pert, naked breasts, the graceful way she arched her back at his touch, and that little moan she gave deep in her throat before she curled back into him like a jungle cat.
If he ignored the part about her running for mayor, the memory put him in a great mood, although he knew sooner rather than later he’d run into a wall of sexual frustration that would make him a difficult man to be around. To avoid that—he had several meetings that day, one of them with a bunch of older ladies who made quilts for vets—he had to keep busy. Stay hospitable. Cissie would be leaving soon. That was his aim, to charm her right out of his house.
She looked warily at the walls, the floor—classic morning-after slinking-around behavior. He knew that tune, although he had no reason to slink. He’d only done what he was asked. And she’d loved every second of it.
He made it easy for her by lifting a mug off the hook below the cupboards and filling it with fresh, hot coffee.
“Thank you so much.” She wrapped slender fingers around the mug. “It smells delicious in here. You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”
Polite chitchat worked for him, too. “I wanted to send you off with a good breakfast. You’ve got a big day ahead of you.” He kept himself busy at the griddle. “Is Nana up yet?”
“Yes,” she said, “and she’s going to phone some people about possible places to stay after breakfast.”
“That’s great.” He mentally crossed his fingers. “Paper’s on the table.”
“Thanks.” She wandered over and glanced at the headlines.
He preferred TV news himself. But he took a look at the front page every day. “How’s Dexter?”
“He’s doing well. Still curled up on the chair.” Her voice sounded a little thin.
Still embarrassed about her abrupt departure last night, maybe? He wouldn’t be surprised.
No doubt she also had a lot to do to get her house back in shape. And on top of that, if she wanted to run for mayor—he still couldn’t believe it—she really had a full plate. He almost felt sorry for her.
“Boone,” she began, her fingers rubbing her right temple.
Here it came. The big apology or the backpedaling. She’d probably woken up feeling stupid that she’d told him she was running for mayor as a result of getting off in a hot tub.
“Yes?” He’d be totally gracious about it. That was his thing. Mayors rose above pesky distractions and problems to see the big picture, and in this case, it was that this woman craved more excitement in her life. Plain and simple. It was practically stamped on her forehead: I need more sex, more fun. She should put aside the books now and then and stop dressing like a nun.
“I’m tiptoeing around,” Cissie said in a confessional tone, “because I have a little headache from the champagne. And maybe my sinuses are acting up.” Sure, they were. Good cover. “Do you have any pain relievers?”
“Right here,” he said gallantly, and handed her a bottle from the cupboard.
“Thanks.” She downed two brown pills with her coffee. “And about last night?”
“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 forge
t 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. “Insur
ance 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.
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