Trouble When You Walked In (Contemporary Romance) Page 22

  “You were a fool to jump on that man’s back,” Nana chided her granddaughter.

  “I know.” Cissie’s voice was small. “I-I wasn’t really thinking straight.”

  “That much is clear.” Nana’s tone was intentionally dry. “What’s that outfit you got on? And what happened to your hair? You look ready to rumble.”

  “Um, thanks?”

  Nana refused to say you’re welcome, even though she secretly approved of the new sexy look. “Boone, it seems to me you were defending yourself. But that man got his back up for a reason. Am I right?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I could have gone about things differently.”

  “I’ll bet you could have.” Nana wasn’t letting him off the hook, either. “Any chance you two grown-ass people with responsible positions in our community were liquored up?”

  “I know I was,” said Cissie.

  “Me, too,” Boone added.

  “Shit,” was all Nana said.

  But it was enough.

  At the house, Cissie was so obviously embarrassed she refused to go to the kitchen and have some of the cocoa Nana offered. “I’m heading up,” she said in the foyer. “Good night.” She tried to slink up the stairs.

  But Nana got one last dig in. “You’d better drink some water and take some headache pills, young lady, before you go to sleep.”

  “I will,” Cissie said softly.

  “You’re not gonna run away, are you?” Nana asked Boone.

  “No, ma’am.” He followed her into the kitchen.

  He was a good man at heart. Nana knew that very well. She got out some cocoa powder, sugar, and vanilla. “You’ve got a well-stocked kitchen.”

  “I live alone, and I like cake.”

  That simple statement won Nana over like nothing else. “You make cake?”

  “Yellow’s my favorite. With chocolate frosting. That and a glass of milk.”

  “Did your mama bake you a lot of cakes growing up?”

  “No. Mainly pie.”

  “Were you a happy boy?”

  “Wow. What a question.”

  “You don’t have to answer it.”

  “I don’t mind.” He paused. “Overall, I was.”

  She let that one go. “I like a man who can cook.” She poured some milk into a pot on the stove and stirred.

  Boone leaned on the counter and watched.

  When the milk steamed, she added the other ingredients, stirred some more, then poured the fragrant liquid into two mugs.

  “That smells great,” he said.

  “Got any marshmallows?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. I like cocoa, too. I’ve just never made the homemade stuff. Now I will.”

  “It’s worth it,” she said.

  “You want to sit in my study? I’ll turn on the fire. It’s gas in there. It’s always nice to have one room with a quick light up.”

  “Especially when we lose power during a storm,” she said.

  They sank into a plush dark-green velvet couch.

  “I like your books, dear.” Boone’s library was so inviting. The whole house was.

  “Thanks.” He took a sip of cocoa. “This is delicious.”

  “I’m glad you like it.” She refused to make it easy for him by being a chatterbox.

  There was a little lull.

  “Thank you for getting us tonight,” he eventually said, then picked up her hand and kissed the back of it.

  What a shock. But a delightful one. She smiled tenderly. “It took a tree going through a roof for us to become friends. But I’m so glad it did. I always thought you were a guy worth getting to know.”

  When he grinned, the most wonderful crinkles appeared around his eyes. “This supposed disconnect through the generations between the Braddocks and Rogerses is unwarranted.”

  Said just like a mayor.

  “You think so?” Nana said archly. She knew what he was really saying: he wanted Cissie.

  “I know so,” he replied, his desire for her granddaughter written all over his face despite his best efforts to be the cool-headed bachelor. No cool-headed bachelor mayor gets into a fistfight with a redneck over a woman he doesn’t desperately want.

  “Does that apply to all the Rogerses you know?” she asked.

  He stopped short.

  Nana laughed. “You’re an adorable shade of red right now,” she said, and patted his hand. “Just remember this: we can’t go back. But we do have the present. Let the Braddocks and Rogerses connect now.”

  He said nothing to that. Why bother? He knew what she meant: he belonged with Cissie.

  The fire crackled, and the wind—that steady mountain wind—grew a little wild as it was wont to do as the night grew chill.

  “How I love it here.” Nana took another sip of her cocoa. “Kettle Knob. Whoever would have guessed that a crazy girl like me would stay tied to a tiny little mountain town? But it’s a part of me. I feel my ancestors in that wind. They heard the same whisper. The same howl.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  She could tell he really did. They sat quietly again, the gas fire glowing bright.

  “Why didn’t you go anywhere else?” Nana asked him. “You were a good football player. You had a scholarship, I believe, to NC State.”

  “I did.”

  “I seem to remember everyone was stirred up about it when you said no on signing day.”

  His expression changed subtly. He seemed tense. “I wanted to stay here. Get into the family business.”

  “Really?” Nana pulled back slightly. “That doesn’t seem you at all, real estate development, making the big bucks.”

  “It doesn’t?”

  “No.” She chuckled. “You’re a born leader, obviously, but in another direction, one of service. You mentor. You teach. You protect and inspire.”

  “I like how you put that.”

  She could tell he did. He sat up a little higher, which touched her heart. Had his parents not praised him? Apparently not. “It turns out you never did follow in your father’s footsteps, did you?”

  “I had every intention to,” he said, “but I fell into coaching, and not too long after that, politics.”

  “And a splendid job you’ve done with both. Kettle Knob’s thriving. And the high school’s had all winning seasons since you’ve been coach.”

  “I work with good people.” He was a humble man, which was quite attractive.

  Nana smiled. “I like your life, Boone, looking at it from the outside in. There’s a lot of love and respect for you in this town.”

  “I could say the same for you.”

  She waved a hand. “Oh, people around here think I’m a little eccentric. But you’re right, I do believe they’re proud of their little theater.” She sat for a moment. “I think Cissie’s running for mayor because she realizes she’s not been reaching anywhere near her full potential. Yes, she participates in church bazaars, helps out at the theater, and runs a lovely little library. But her light has been hidden for too long. And she sees that time’s passing. It’s time for her to come out of her shell. You spurred her on with this decision to move the library.”

  “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 ups
tairs.

  “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.