late,” he said easily. “I texted you.”
“I…sent you a text message, as well.” She couldn’t quite bring herself to use texted as a verb. “And after I hit Send,” she added, “I saw your message.”
In the bakery, several people greeted him by name, welcoming him back to town. Several more—mostly women, she noted—checked him out. A group of tourists looked up from studying their area maps and brochures to lean over and whisper about him, likely speculating about whether or not he was who they thought he was. With the publicity surrounding his movie, he was definitely back in vogue.
“Our table’s over here,” she said, leading the way, on fire with self-consciousness. There was no reason to feel self-conscious, but she did. She couldn’t help herself.
“Why do I get the impression you’ve already decided not to like me?” he asked, shrugging out of his jacket.
Was it that obvious? “I have no idea whether I’m going to like you or not,” she felt compelled to say. “Not a fan of the language, though. Seriously.”
“What, English? It’s standard English, swear to God.”
“Right.” She hung up her coat over the back of her chair and took a seat. She didn’t want to play games with this guy.
“You mean the swearing,” he said.
“Brilliant deduction.”
“Fine. I won’t do it anymore. No more taking the Lord’s name in vain or even in earnest.”
“I’m pleased to hear it,” she conceded.
“They’re just words.”
“Words are powerful.”
“Right. You want to know what’s obscene?” he asked.
“Do I have a choice?”
“Violence is obscene. Injustice—that’s obscene, too. Poverty and intolerance. Those are obscenities. Words are just that—words.”
“A lot of hot air,” she suggested.
“That’s right.”
“Now that we’ve established you’re full of hot air, we should get to work.”
He chuckled. “Touché. Hang on a sec. I need to get a coffee.” He dug in his back pocket and took out a well-worn billfold. It flopped onto the floor, and he stooped to pick it up. “Sh—” he paused. “How about shit? Can I say shit?”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Jesus—er, gee whiz. What the hell do you say when you drop something?”
“There are many ways to express dismay,” she pointed out. “I imagine you know plenty.”
“I’m asking you. What do you say when you get pissed off?”
“I don’t get pissed off.” She forced herself to use words she’d rather not.
He stood stock-still, as if he’d been planted in the middle of the bakery. She thought for a moment that he might be having a fit or something.
Instead, he threw back his head and guffawed, causing heads to swivel toward him. “You’re killing me,” he gasped. “You really are.”
She tried to ignore the inquisitive stares. “Why is that?”
“Because lady, I can already tell—you were born pissed off.”
“You can tell this,” she said, scowling a challenge at him. “Because you’re…what? Such an amazing judge of character?”
“Because you’re not hiding a thing,” he said.
“You have no idea whether I’m hiding anything at all,” she said. “You don’t know the first thing about me.”
His gaze flicked over her, assessing practical boots, the plain cloth coat, the handknit accessories, the glasses, her stack of books and clipboard.
“I know everything I need to know,” he said.
“And what’s that?”
“Ray Tolley says you’re the town librarian.”
Ray, who played keyboard, was in charge of music for the pageant. Maureen tried to decide whether or not she was pleased Ray had discussed her with Eddie Haven. “That’s not exactly classified.”
“You’re a big reader, and freakishly organized,” Eddie said, eyeing her books and papers.
She sniffed. “You’re stereotyping me. Not to mention being completely wrong.” He was wrong. She cleared her throat and glared up at him. It was then that she noticed he wore an earring. A single, sexy golden loop in one earlobe. He also had a tattoo that rippled when he bent his arm. She could imagine how it looked as he stroked the strings of his guitar. Obvious signs of a person craving attention.
“Okay, then you live a secret life, moonlighting as a dominatrix.”
“That’s no secret,” she said.
He chuckled again, his eyes shining. “Right.” He headed for the counter. Halfway there, he turned. “Do you want anything?”
She tried not to stare at the earring. “No. No, thank you.”
With his weight shifted to one hip and a charming grin on his face, he chatted up the counter girl, whose eyes sparkled as she made small talk with him.
Clearing her throat, Maureen organized the papers on her clipboard and adjusted her glasses. She wished she didn’t wear glasses. It was just so…librarian-like. She owned a pair of contacts, but they irritated her eyes.
Her sisters and stepmom had insisted that she opt for trendy Danish-import frames and a good haircut in order to avoid being regarded as a total cliché. But she usually ended up pulling her hair back and not bothering with makeup. The end result was the impression of a librarian trying not to look like a librarian, which was ridiculous.
She eventually surrendered to who she was, and for the most part she was comfortable in her own skin, with a cozy apartment, two cats and plenty of books. She hadn’t always been that way; her contentment was hard-won. And when someone—like Eddie Haven—came along and threatened that, she went into defensive mode.
He returned with a mug of hot coffee for himself, and a cup of hot chocolate. “For you,” he said. “I know you said you didn’t want anything, but I figured I’d give it a shot.”
“Thank you. How did you know I’m a hot chocolate drinker?”
“Who doesn’t like hot chocolate?” He gave her a smile that made her feel as if she were the only woman in the place. “Whipped cream?”
“No,” she said quickly. “That would be a bit much.” She went back to feeling self-conscious. People
