Trouble When You Walked In (Contemporary Romance) Page 25

  “We’ve got to go,” she told Nana. “He—he texted me. He’s at home. He told us to get back as fast as we can. He’s lit the fire, made cocktails, and you and I are both invited to our own house preelection party.”

  “So that’s how it is.” Nana chuckled. “Honey, he’s not getting my vote for mayor, but he wins my vote for Most Adorable Man. I’ll have one little drink, but then I’m hitting the hay. Take advantage of that fact.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  This time, after a fun night hanging at home with his two houseguests, Boone took Cissie by the hand and led her to his bedroom. It felt like the most natural thing in the world to do after Nana said goodnight and went upstairs. Cissie belonged with him as she was now, sprawled on his bed, naked, her hair spread on his pillow, her eyes following his as he took off his clothes, slung them over the divan, lit a low lamp, and returned to the bed to join her.

  But then his cell phone chirped from his nightstand.

  She sat up on her elbow. “It’s late.”

  He checked the screen and immediately tensed. “I can’t believe it. It’s my parents.”

  “Great timing.” She smiled and kissed his shoulder.

  Her enthusiasm for all things sensual—so fresh and honest—turned him on like nothing else. But he also loved that she made an excellent friend in the bargain.

  He wrapped his arm around her waist and took the call. “Hey, Dad. Is everything okay?”

  Cissie ran her hand down his naked back, her touch soothing yet also a turn-on.

  “Your mother and I are fine,” his father said. “But we need to come talk to you.”

  That was weird. “This late?” Boone made a face at Cissie.

  Hers registered a budding concern, which was so damned sweet of her. He moved his hand to her thigh to let her know.

  “It’s imperative,” Frank said. “We’re leaving now.”

  He clicked off before Boone could ask more.

  “I can’t believe it,” he said.

  “Well, at least they called ahead.” Cissie reminded him.

  “Yeah. I’m sorry.” Boone kissed her, but he was definitely distracted. “This must be punishment for my leaving the party early.” He couldn’t imagine what else it would be. “They’ll be here in ten. You want to stay?”

  She sat up. “I think I’ll go,” she said. “I’d feel funny waiting here.…”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  She shrugged, leaned forward, and kissed him back. “I’ll see you in the morning. It’s probably best we both get some sleep. And I can’t promise I’ll let you sleep if I stay.” She slipped out of bed and pulled on her clothes scattered across the floor.

  He got up, too, ignored his desire to run his hands over her soft, warm body before she got dressed, and went to his bureau instead. He pulled on a pair of pajama bottoms, donned a T-shirt, and came back to her. She was dressed again and at his reading table and chair.

  She looked up at him. “I’m so glad you’re reading To Kill a Mockingbird. It’s one of my favorites. I’ve read it at least ten times over the years. How far have you gotten, or are you a re-reader, like me?”

  Inwardly, he groaned. Maybe that glow on her face came from the book. But he dared to hope it came from him, too. “I’m just starting.”

  “Oh!” She looked delighted. “You’re going to love it.”

  “Great.” He kissed her long and deep. “You’d better go.”

  When she looked up at him, her eyes were soft. “I wish…”

  “What?”

  “I wish we weren’t opposed to each other tomorrow.”

  “Yeah.” He brushed some hair off her face. “Me, too. But politics isn’t everything.”

  “But what I feel politically—that’s who I am,” she said. “I can’t separate. My values, my principles, are all tied up in how I vote.”

  “Mine, too. But look at James Carville and Mary Matalin. They’re together, despite incredibly dissimilar political views. You and I both love Kettle Knob. We just have different ideas about how to nurture what we have here. Sometimes we’ll run into snags. But everything’s negotiable.”

  She smiled. “You’re right.”

  Why was he making arguments in support of their being together when he knew—ultimately—that she was going to split when she found out she was shagging the football coach who could barely read?

  He watched her go up the stairs. She turned around and blew him a kiss.

  When his parents showed up at the door five minutes later, his mother’s lips were compressed and his father’s bushy eyebrows appeared lower than usual, both ominous signs.

  “Good evening, son,” his father said in a clipped tone. “I hope those other things you had to do instead of attending your mother’s party got done.”

  “They did.” He held the door open. “You know how crazy it gets right before an election. Mom, how’d the rest of the night go?”

  His mother launched into a long monologue about all the gossip she’d heard. “It was a huge success, darling. It’s probably good you left—you looked like a man on a mission.”

  “Oh, I was.” Boone felt better than ever about leaving. “Let’s head to the study.”

  “We’ve seen the Morning Coffee tape,” Frank said once they were situated with the study door shut. “And they’re moving it up to tomorrow morning, instead of Sunday. Eight a.m. sharp—it’s going to be a segment on the network’s national weekday morning show.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Boone was … Well, he was flabbergasted, to say the least. “Why the full-court press? And how do you know all this?”

  His parents exchanged glances.

  “Your father has a great deal of influence, as you know,” his mother said. “In light of what happened at The Log Cabin, he took it upon himself to contact some of the staff at the show, so we can be ready for whatever comes before the story hits the air.”

  “I can’t believe you did that. Or that they let you see it.”

  His father shrugged. “Money talks. Your mother and I made sure we took business cards from the TV crew when the show was here.”

  “The production assistants could always use extra cash,” his mother said. “We’re only protecting our interests.”

  “I get it that that’s how you work.” Boone sat in his grandfather’s desk chair, crossed his arms, and stared into the unlit fireplace across the room. “But I don’t have to like it. And it was unnecessary. At The Log Cabin, I defended myself, and then I defended Cissie. The show might try to make the situation look worse, but believe me, I’ll get my side of the story out there.”

  “The Log Cabin wasn’t the problem,” said his dad.

  That was a shock. Boone wracked his brain to think what else this so-called problem could be. “What was, then?”

  Becky Lee sank gently into a leather armchair. “It’s your relationship with Ella Kerrison that has us concerned. And the TV people all aflutter.”

  Ella.

  Boone sat forward over his knees. “How would the TV show know about Ella?”

  “They have videotape of you going to her house a lot,” his father said. “In the mornings. Parking your car in the back.”

  “It looks like you’re having an affair.” His mother sounded shocked. And worried.

  Boone raked a hand through his hair. “This is ridiculous. How dare they spy on me? And so what if I’m having an affair with Ella?” His parents both drew back a little. “I’m not,” he assured them. “But she’s single, and so am I. Why would a TV program care if we had a romantic relationship?”

  “I think it’s because they also have footage of you coming out of your shed with Cissie,” his mother said. “It’s clear you’re kissing her. Not to mention she’s living with you.”

  Boone couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “They want to make you look like a two-timer,” his dad said. “An untrustworthy guy.”

  Becky Lee got tears in her eyes. “Do you see now why
we didn’t want you to live with Cissie? Your reputation is going to be sullied.”

  A cold hardness formed in Boone’s chest. “Who took that film of me and Cissie in the shed?”

  Frank shook his head. “Someone in Kettle Knob, I suppose. Someone who wanted to catch you being up to no good.”

  “Kissing someone—when you’re both single—is a sign of poor character?” Boone raised his voice. “That’s stupid.”

  “Maybe you have a stalker,” Becky Lee suggested.

  “I guess I must,” he said. “Why else would someone hide in my woods and take film footage of me in my shed?”

  “Is Cissie your girlfriend?” asked his mother.

  Boone hated how fearfully she asked the question. “I wish she were, Mom. But I can’t say that she is. She’s a very nice, smart, good woman, and I don’t want you and Dad judging her.”

  “Just what is going on between you two?” asked Frank. “And how about Ella?”

  Boone stood. “Frankly, it’s no one’s business.”

  “But, son—” his mother began.

  Boone held up a hand. “Mom, you and Dad need to back off. I have a right to a private life.”

  “Well, it’s not private anymore!” his dad snapped.

  “Then that’s even more reason for me to guard whatever’s left of it.”

  There was another long silence. His parents looked absolutely miserable. But that was their fault. “Why are you two asking for answers anyway? When you already know why I must be seeing Ella?”

  His mother lifted her shoulders and let them drop. “We don’t know why you are, honey.”

  He shook his head, not really believing her. “You do.”

  “We don’t,” his father reiterated.

  Boone prayed for patience. “She’s Mrs. Kerrison’s daughter.”

  Why were they still looking at him so blankly? Were they really living that much in their fantasyland? God forbid. Because if so, it made a sham of their relationship, the one he’d been so carefully preserving all these years.

  He forced himself to share further. “Ella saw her mother teach me. Ella would sit with us. You saw her, Mom. You did, too, Dad. When you’d pick me up, we’d be reading a book together. Remember?”

  His parents exchanged a pained, shocked look.

  “I-I forgot,” his mother said.

  On purpose, Boone wanted to add.

  “Are you saying that Ella is teaching you?” his father asked. “She’s not a teacher.”

  “I know that,” said Boone. “She’s a reader. She’s helped me through the piles of papers and emails I get every day from the school and town hall. I’ve reached a tipping point. The mayor’s race has brought that home.”

  His parents were silent.

  “I know you don’t like to think about it,” Boone said, “but I still have trouble reading.”

  His mother took out a tissue from her purse and wiped at one of her eyes.

  His father’s shoulders slumped. He looked anywhere but at Boone.

  “It’s not the end of the world,” he told them, but deep inside, the darkness sat heavy in him. “I don’t need or want your pity. I’m coping just fine.”

  “We don’t pity you,” said his mother.

  “Bullshit. You do.”

  “Don’t swear at your mother,” his father said automatically.

  “I’m sorry, Mom.” And I’m sorry you got stuck with me instead of Richard.

  Only one thing held him back from saying it. He wanted to spare them the pain of having to look inside themselves and hold that ugly truth up to the light. He was already doing it. And it sucked.

  Silence hung heavy in the room.

  “I think you need to go,” he said quietly. “Tomorrow’s a big day.”

  His mother stood. “All right,” she whispered. “Are you going to tell everyone the real reason you’re seeing Ella?”

  “No. It’s no one else’s business.”

  He could see that his mother was faintly relieved, although not entirely. He still looked bad. But one kind of looking bad was better than the other. He knew very well his parents thought it was preferable to look like a horny bachelor with a roving eye than let the public—your constituents, your students, your principal—know you can’t read well.

  “Good plan,” his dad said. “Elections always come up again.”

  “I still think he’ll win by a landslide,” said his mother.

  “I agree with your mother,” said Frank. “You’ve been an excellent mayor.”

  “Thanks.” Boone just wanted them gone.

  He let them see themselves out, swiveled carefully in his grandfather’s desk chair, and poured himself some bourbon from Faber Braddock’s favorite crystal decanter that he kept inside a cupboard below the bookshelf.

  Desperation drink in one hand, he traced the spine of a book on his shelf with the index finger of his other. It was An Index of Appalachian Poets. There might even be a Rogers in there somewhere. He searched the contents, turned to page thirty-eight, looked carefully down the row of R names, and yes—there it was: “Hiram Rogers, bn. 1889, resident of Kettle Knob, North Carolina, author of poetry anthologies ‘Petals Falling,’ ‘Heroes Tomorrow,’ and ‘War Song.’”

  After the Morning Coffee show came out, Cissie would think he was a scumbag. Kissing her, sleeping with her—all the while he was having a so-called affair with Ella.

  No doubt the rest of the town, including his football players, would think the same thing.

  He topped off his drink. There was no way out of this mess. He wanted to keep his job at the school, even if it meant he had to do some backpedaling with the players and his other students to win their trust again. He wanted to be able to walk into Starla’s diner and order lunch without people assuming he couldn’t even read the menu.

  He didn’t want to wear the scarlet letter D for dyslexia. It was his business.

  And if Cissie ever found out …

  He remembered how excited she was perusing his grandfather’s library. Books, words, were her life.

  He put the drink down, attached a sticky note to the poetry book: “Enjoy, and please keep. Boone.” Then he laid it on the stairs.

  She’d have to believe that everything between them had meant nothing more than a good time. That way, they’d have a clean break.

  In his room when he looked out the window at the blanket of stars before him, he understood that he was wrong about something. He’d always thought winning was what he did best. There was a drive in him to succeed, to pull it out at the last minute, to change failure to victory.

  But now he understood that what he truly excelled at was getting around the thing that had always shut him out. It had started with Mom and Dad pretending he was someone he wasn’t. They were still doing it, and it hurt.

  It hurt badly enough that he didn’t want to give the rest of the world the chance to do the same thing, no matter the consequences to his heart.

  He pressed a button on a remote. The window blinds hummed and began to draw together, blocking the panoramic view. Boone’s resolve hardened as, one by one, the stars disappeared.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  On Election Day at 6:30 a.m., Cissie found the poetry book on the stairs. Later on, she realized it was a farewell of sorts. A consolation prize, maybe. But at first, she was excited. A gift from Boone! She could hear him up, moving around his study.

  She poked her head in and smiled. “Thanks for the cool book. And good morning.”

  “You’re welcome.” He nodded in a perfunctory way and stuffed a bunch of papers into a briefcase. Maybe he just had Election Day nerves.

  Cissie ignored the fact that he seemed withdrawn. “Good luck today.”

  He glanced up. “To you, too.”

  Their gazes held—which was what she wanted. She’d worn another new outfit, and she was really hoping he’d notice it. It was professional yet feminine and kind of sexy, and she felt very together in it, like the Librarian
Who Would Save the Library by Becoming the Mayor—that librarian who was going to be called “best” on her tombstone, not once but twice, for her librarian skills.

  Her mayor skills were untested as yet, but they were there, she believed, glimmering beneath all her glam.

  But his eyes looked bleak, not appreciative or admiring. Or even friendly. She would have taken friendly.

  Without looking at her again, he said, “I’ll be gone all day, pretty much. We both will.”

  “Yep.” She raised her arm and leaned her elbow against the doorjamb near her ear so that her hand curled over her head in an Audrey Hepburn–ish pose. Could she look any sexier?

  She didn’t think so.

  “Hey,” she said super casually, “I’m available for a midnight date. Winner takes all.” She didn’t know what she meant by that, exactly, but it sounded good.

  He didn’t say anything, didn’t look—but he stopped sifting documents.

  “In your room,” she added. “Or the hot tub. I’ll bring champagne.”

  Could she give any more qualifications to that offer?

  God help him, he looked downright austere as he stared at his papers.

  She could tell he wasn’t really reading them. He was using them as a prop—so he wouldn’t have to talk to her.

  “You don’t have to worry about me,” she said. “If I lose—which might happen—I’ll be okay. I even believe the library will survive. It won’t be the way I think it would work best,” she added in a rush, “but it will survive in a different form, and there’s always tomorrow to rethink things.”

  He finally looked up at her. She was still leaning—like a dork, she now realized—on the doorjamb. “Do you ever quit hoping?” he asked.

  Just like that. Dropped into the middle of a perfectly normal one-way conversation.

  “No.” She pulled her hand down, folded it with her other one. Stayed leaning because she would not admit that her posing was a trifle unnatural. She told herself it came naturally to this new Cissie, that she had to keep putting herself out there and look stupid sometimes. “I can’t quit hoping. Ever. About anything.”