by Cara Colter
“You could have,” he agreed.
“But that wouldn’t have been a punishment, then, would it?”
“This isn’t a punishment. I asked to come. I wanted to see you in your own environment.”
She studied his face, and found she could not meet the steadiness of his gaze. She could feel her heart spinning crazily. He was here because he wanted to be. A woman not as determined to find her own way as Jessica was could read way too much into that.
She, accidentally, looked at his lips. She remembered the taste of them and felt dizzy with longing, weak with a need to throw herself at him, feel his arms come around her, cover his face with tiny kisses, tangle her hands in the silky gray of his hair.
Instead, she brushed by him and headed back down the trail, fast.
“Those shoes are ridiculous for a hike in the mountains,” she called to him over her shoulder.
“Believe me, I already figured that out.”
“You want to see how my bookstore works? You want to use it as a model? Fine. How long are you here for?”
“I thought I’d stay the whole day tomorrow, and leave the following morning,” he said, his tone cautious.
“Perfect. You can get some firsthand experience with the model—and not the kind of model I assume you’re used to, either.”
“What kind would that be?”
“Long-legged, photogenic.” She noticed he did not deny it. Of course he was the type that dated models! No surprise there. “Story time is tomorrow at ten. You can lead it.”
“I’m not that good with kids.”
“You have a nephew.”
“At a distance!”
“That’s just sad.”
“Look, Jessica, I’m trying to tell you I’m not a kid person.”
Maybe what he was really trying to tell her was that he was not husband material. Good grief! Was she looking at him like he was husband material?
“You read them a story. You don’t have to be good with them.”
“How old are they?”
“Three to five.”
He looked nonplussed. “Don’t you need a criminal record check, or something? To work with kids?”
“Working with them is overstating it. Don’t worry, their mothers will be there.”
Ogling the super cute guy from the big city who had I date models written all over him.
“Is there a gang of them?”
“We don’t have gangs in Timber Falls,” she told him, straight-faced. “Expect five or six kids.”
Then, knowing in those shoes he could never catch her, she started to jog down the trail.
“Are there bears out here?” he called after her.
“Yes! And cougars.”
“Cougars?” he said, and inserted a theatrical hopeful note into his voice.
“Not that kind, you pervert.”
“That’s right! A pervert. I should not be asked to work with children.”
She wanted to be indifferent to him, but it was impossible. “Also, the odd wolf. Definitely coyotes.”
“You’ll be sorry if I get eaten, Jessica Winton! Who will lead story time then?”
She didn’t turn back to him. She didn’t want to let him see her smiling. She didn’t want him to know just how easily she was charmed by him.
“Are you going to at least offer to take me out for dinner?” he called. “I did that for you.”
“You thought of it as a punishment,” she reminded him.
“You can think of it the same way.”
Somehow, she could not. “I have plans for tonight.” This was not exactly the truth, unless watching TV was considered a plan, but there was no sense him thinking she was just going to set her life aside since the big, important man from New York had arrived.
“Oh,” he said. He sounded disappointed. Which was elating. He also sounded as if he had not even considered the possibility she might have a life here in Timber Falls. Which was insulting.
He made her life complicated without even trying, she thought grumpily.
“Go to Henry’s for supper,” she told him. “They have the best burger in town. And try the B and B on First Street. I bet they’ll let you check in without ID.”
“As they should. I’m a completely trustworthy person.”
“Ha. Tell that to someone who wasn’t offered a fake job by you.”
“We need to talk about that. Obviously it—”
She realized he was engaging her, even though she had decided not to be engaged by him. “Tomorrow at ten,” she interrupted him, and then broke into a jog down the familiar trail, literally leaving him in her dust.
That night, lying in her bed, sleepless, because she knew he was just down the street—probably had charmed the socks off all the local girls at Henry’s tonight—she warned herself against feeling the way she did.
Alive. Tingling with the delight of having seen him again, the anticipation of spending the day with him tomorrow.
I am falling in love with him, she realized, shocked. It was like nothing she had ever felt before, certainly it was not the cozy-as-a-comfortable-shoe feeling she had had with Devon. It felt as if he was air, as if she needed him in order to breathe.
It seemed imperative that he not know this. She had already let it slip once that she was infatuated with him, but now she had to keep this secret to herself. He could never know she regretted not joining him for dinner.
In her head she made a complete schedule for him for the next day: he could lead story time, send emails to people she had tracked down books that she thought might interest them, play chess with the Court Chessters in the afternoon. Serendipitously, the Smitten Word met here tomorrow night, and he could be the guest speaker. She’d surprise him with that one.
Professionally, she’d throw everything she had at him in hopes it would keep the personal stuff at bay!
CHAPTER TEN
“I LOOKED UP books last night,” Jamie told her in the morning. “Truck in the Muck is a current favorite of the under-five set. Have you got that?”
She slid him a look. He was dressed in jeans. That was a first. And a casual shirt, also a first. If he had any lingering trepidation at all about leading story time, it did not show now. He was, obviously, one of those highly adaptable people, who could rise to any challenge. He looked extraordinarily handsome—and at home—in her space.
He was also freshly shaven, and she could smell soap and aftershave, and it made her feel as if she had been drinking champagne. So much for keeping the personal stuff at bay!
She realized her bookstore—her safe place, her hidey-hole in all the world—was never going to feel the same.
But, in fact, it hadn’t felt the same since she had returned from New York, anyway.
He also looked rested, not as though he had tossed and turned, and wondered endlessly what to wear today!
She had chosen casual, because really she did not have much to choose from. She longed for her dress with the poppies on it, but settled for a knit tank top and capris.
“I have it. You can’t read that one, though. I bring in a dozen copies of the book we read at story time and today’s story is How Do You Do, Suzie Q?”
“A dozen?”
“Some of the moms who come today will buy one for their own child, or to put away for a gift for later, or for the book bag.”
“The book bag?”
“Not every family in Timber Falls can afford a brand-new book, and so I created the book bag. You buy one book for yourself, and another to donate that will find its way to a child who is in need.”
“You know all the kids in town?”
“No, of course not. But as the idea caught on, people tell me, in confidence, which kids might be struggling a bit. They’ll slip me a note, or call anonymously. So-and-so h
as a birthday coming up. Or not much under the Smith family tree this year for Christmas. Or John Doe has been invited to a birthday party, and his mom can’t afford for him to bring a present.”
He stared at her for a long time. “It’s brilliant. But it’s more.”
She cocked her head at him.
“It’s beautiful,” he said softly. “It’s like feeding the homeless, only better. Feeding minds and souls instead of bodies.”
“You’re making too much of it.”
He looked at her steadily. “I don’t think I am.”
And she felt herself blushing as though he had said, not that her idea was beautiful, but that she was beautiful.
Because he was looking at her as if she was.
Thankfully, Phillip Morrison chose that moment to burst through the door, having freed himself of his mother. She would never tell Jamie—or anyone else—but his mom was a struggling single parent, and he was one of those kids who benefited from the book bag.
“Could we have Truck in the Muck today?” he asked, his voice loud, his eyes already darting around looking for things to wreck. Thankfully, she had done her best to Phillip-proof the kids section.
“A kindred spirit,” Jamie said in an undertone to Jessica.
“Who are you?” Phillip demanded.
“You can call me Jamie. I’m reading the story today.”
“I want Truck in the Muck,” Phillip said, his voice getting shrill.
Jamie contemplated him for a moment, and then sank onto his heels so he could look the little boy right in the eye. “That’s what I want, too,” he said in a confidential tone. “Tell you what, if you will be my assistant for the first story, we will have two stories today.”
Jamie had been here five minutes, and he was changing the rules. And yet, as she watched, a small light came on in Phillip, so starved for male attention, and the worst possible thing happened to Jessica.
“So this is my first time,” Jamie said, rising to his feet, “what do we do?”
“Set out the pillows in a circle, here,” Phillip said and raced off to the nook to grab pillows.
Jamie’s eyes met hers, so filled with knowing about that little boy’s life. As something hard around Phillip melted as Jamie and he set up the mom chairs, something hard around her heart melted, too. She could picture Jamie as a father. As each of those children came in, and appeared equally awestruck by their new story time leader, the vision intensified.
She should find something else to do.
But instead, entranced, she sat down with the moms in a circle of chairs behind the children.
He was a magnificent storyteller. He used different voices. He paused theatrically in all the right places, he lowered his eyebrows and raised them up. He controlled Phillip with firm ease that made Phillip putty in his hands.
“Oh, my goodness,” Doris Anderson whispered to her. “I’m in love.”
Even though Jessica shot Doris an exasperated look that reminded her she was a very happily married woman, secretly she knew exactly how Doris was feeling.
Exactly.
As promised, Jamie read the two stories, and then was swarmed by small people wanting hugs—Jessica had forgotten to tell him about that traditional ending for story time. He handled the unexpected assignment delightfully: uncomfortable, obviously, but soldiering through.
Normally, the mothers would grab a copy of the book that had been read today from the available stack, leave their children in the children’s section and wander off to peruse a book for themselves.
Today, they surrounded Jamie, wanting information.
“Where are you from?”
“What are you doing here?”
“How long will you be here?”
He handled it all with grace and humor, and soon had those women around him laughing.
He’s bad for sales, Jessica told herself crankily, even as she could not take her eyes off him.
He saw Phillip and his mother slipping out the door, and excused himself from the women he was talking to.
“Hey, buddy,” he called.
Phillip turned around.
“This is for you.” And he squatted down to eye level and presented him with the copy of Truck in the Muck that he was still holding.
Phillip stared at the book, and then threw himself into Jamie’s arms with such strength he nearly bowled him over. Then he let go and ran out the door after his mother. Jamie’s pristine shirt looked faintly grubby, and he didn’t even brush at the stain the child had left on it. He looked down at it, with a funny smile on his face.
Jessica went to the till, where a line was forming. She had been wrong about Jamie being bad for sales. She sold eight children’s books, three romance novels, a cookbook on dinners for two, and a dusty copy of the Kama Sutra that she had not been aware was in inventory. She was unable to meet Doris Anderson’s eyes as she shoved it quickly in a bag.
The last person in line was Jamie, with his wallet out. He had another copy of Truck in the Muck. “Please ring up the one I gave him, and put this one in the book bag.”
She did, as unable to meet his eyes as she had been when Doris Anderson bought the Kama Sutra, afraid of what he would see.
The awful, awful truth.
Falling. Falling. Falling.
* * *
Jamie found himself immersed in Jessica’s world. It was a magical place. He quickly discovered people loved her bookstore. And why wouldn’t they? It was warmly welcoming, a place to drop by for a chat with neighbors, a book browse, a quick look at the calendar of upcoming events that she posted and put a copy of in every single book bag that went out of there.
In the next month she was hosting two readings by authors, one “Summer Fun” theme night for teens and one for eight-to-twelve-year-olds. She had live music here every Thursday where she showcased local talent—and sold their CDs.
As well as hosting story time once a week, the bookstore hosted the chess club, whom he would be meeting this afternoon. She also provided evening meeting space for AA—now those people bought books; toastmasters—also book buyers; as well as a host of other local clubs, interest and support groups. She even brought in a fortune-teller twice a year.
She tracked people’s buying habits and, without any pressure at all, she would show them a book she had discovered in their area of interest.
“Mr. Thompson, I came across this book on common fossils of the Rocky Mountains. Would you like to have a look?”
Or, “Pam, I found this book about elderly parents and Alzheimer’s.”
“Sheila, is Freddy still going through his dinosaur obsession? You might like this for him.”
But none of this interest in her customers was the least bit mercenary—even though she sold a ton of books. She cared about these people. They were her friends, her neighbors, her relatives, people she had gone to school with, people her parents had gone to school with.
It was very evident to him as he shadowed Jessica through her day, that the people of her town loved her, and she loved them. Despite the fact she didn’t sell any beverages or food—bad for the books—the bookstore was their gathering place, the heart and soul of their community.
She had managed, as far as he could see, to do the rarest of things. She mixed compassion, concern and genuine caring for people with her business. The Book and Cranny was not a repository of dusty tomes, but alive with energy and enthusiasm.
And it was Jessica at the heart of all that.
Jamie thought they could probably use her “model” all they wanted. They could package her procedures and document her successes and show her numbers in a glossy-covered report and distribute them to all their clients. But it would be missing the secret ingredient: Jessica Winton. Without her, would it be successful?
When he was with her, he couldn’t help but remem
ber how she had made him feel in New York: happy, engaged. Her company was imminently enjoyable. Could he revisit the possibility of her working for JHA?
But there was that other thing going on between them, too, just below the surface. Awareness of each other. A desire to touch—to brush hands, to graze shoulders. He tried to avoid looking at her lips, because every time he did he was nearly swamped by the memory of that taste of them.
So, how could they revisit her coming to work for JHA? He would be her boss. He didn’t want to be her boss.
He wanted to be...
He was stunned by the word his mind filled in. Lover.
He wanted to be Jessica Winton’s lover. He wanted her eyes to rest on him with hunger, and he wanted his touch to make her long for him. He wanted to taste her all over. He wanted to possess her in every way it was possible for a man to possess a woman.
And he wanted her to possess him the same way.
“What?” Jessica asked him, turning back from the door to look at him. She had just ushered the last customer out, and put out the closed sign.
“Nothing.” Too sharply, too quickly, too defensively.
“You were looking at me oddly.”
“Was I?”
She gave him a quizzical look. “Never mind. We have time for a quick dinner, and then I have a group coming in tonight.”
They left the store, and she locked the door behind her with a code. “Don’t tell my dad,” she told him with a laugh. “I’m supposed to be able to lock it with my phone. I don’t have the heart to tell him it’s not working right.”
Her dad, he reminded himself. She was not the kind of girl a man could give himself over to having lascivious thoughts about!
But even with that stern reminder to himself, dinner was a torture of being aware of her. A hamburger! Not pheasant under glass, not Le Bernardin, not anything special at all. But that little speck of mustard at the corner of her lip made awareness of her snap along his spine as though he was touching a live electrical wire.