by Liz Talley
Clem brought back the smile. “Come on now, Frannie. Nothing wrong with mixing a little business with pleasure.”
“Uh, yeah, there is,” Frances said, her arms crossing again. “This is research. Nothing else. I’ve heard about your reputation. Bridesmaids like to talk.”
He laughed. “Hell yeah, they do. And it’s all true.”
She pursed her lips and leveled a flat look at him.
“Okay, it’s not. First rule of thumb in a small town—believe only half of what you hear and some of what you see. People like to gossip, and when you’re an eligible man in a town the size of Morning Glory, you’re often the topic of conversation. So be prepared for people to talk about us.”
“Why would they talk about us?” Frances asked sounding concerned.
“Because you’re about to shop at Penny Pinchers, and then we’re going out to Crazy Ted’s pond to do a little fishing. Crazy Ted’s wife, Martha, will see my truck and a pretty gal sittin’ beside me, and she’ll call Wanda Treat down at Hair Teasers and tell her all about it. Wanda will tell half of Morning Glory, and by the time we get back with a mess of fish to fry, the whole town will be talking about how Sal’s sister is getting down and dirty with his contractor.”
Frances’s eyes grew the size of three-inch couplings. “How does fishing get translated into sex?”
“The same way those rumors made me sound like the Marquis de Sade just because I’ve dated a few women since I got here. Not to mention that my picture with two women on the beach in the Bahamas got translated into a ménage à trois. Seriously, gossip is a sport in Morning Glory.”
“Why would you live here?” Frances sounded shocked.
Clem shrugged because it wasn’t like he could tell her the truth. How could he explain that living in this small, slightly narrow-minded town was preferable to being a South Carolina Aiken? Here he was a good ol’ boy who drove a too-big truck, listened to loud country music, and did what he damned well pleased. He wore blue jeans and Wolverine steel-toed boots, hunted deer, and consumed chili dogs and domestic beer with his fantasy football league buddies. Even suffering through the idle gossip was better than sitting across from his father’s gleaming Roentgen desk, hearing what a disappointment he was to the family.
“I like it,” he said, readjusting his ball cap before wiping away the sweat rolling down his face. “Now, let’s get you outfitted as a country girl, and then we’ll swing by the Kuntry Kitchen and pick up some worms.”
“Worms?”
“For fishing. You ever baited a hook before?”
Frances swallowed again. This time it probably had nothing to do with a sexy smile. She looked horrified. “I have to put a worm on a hook?”
“That’s what country girls do.”
Frances didn’t say anything. She merely stared blankly at him with those dark eyes.
Clem grinned. “You sure you’re up to this challenge?”
She straightened her spine, squared her shoulders, and lifted her chin a few inches. “If a country girl can do it, I can too.”
“That’s the spirit,” Clem said as he moved toward the door. “Come on. My truck is out here. You like country music?”
“No. I care about my ears.”
He laughed. “This might actually be fun.”
Frances looked down at the shower shoes and tried for the fifth time in ten minutes to shimmy the denim short shorts down on her hips so she wouldn’t feel the breeze on her butt cheeks. She had a sneaking suspicion the country-girl look Clem had suggested while they browsed Penny Pinchers had more to do with a sexist fantasy than practicality. But at least she wouldn’t ruin her Eileen Fisher blouse and slacks by sitting on the pond bank. The less-than-ten-dollar shorts could be trashed if needed.
“Okay, so you have to dig under the dirt ’cause these little suckers like to hide deep,” Clem said, rucking his finger through the disgusting-looking loam in the foam container. He brought up a squiggling worm. “Now take your hook and thread this little booger on there. Like this.”
Frances wasn’t squeamish. After all, she’d grown up around restaurant prep, but as she watched Clem slide the poor worm on the hook, she felt decidedly nauseated. “I don’t think I can. That’s just … Does it hurt the worm?”
Clem held up the hook with the still-squiggling worm. “It probably ain’t comfortable.”
Frances looked away. The pond sat in the center of a pasture with a cluster of wispy-looking trees nearby, under which sat Clem’s huge F-250. The truck was ridiculous with its lift kit, gargantuan tires, and brush guard. The back window was covered with hunting and fishing decals like a country boy’s wet dream. A hot breeze tangled her hair as a rivulet of sweat ran down her back.
“Aw, sure you can. You’re learning to be a country girl. Country girls can field dress a deer, clean fish, and they damn sure can stick a little ol’ worm on a hook.” His words were a challenge. And damn him, she didn’t want to back down. And if she remembered correctly from her high school biology class, the creatures in the Annelida phyla didn’t feel pain, just a response to stimuli.
“Give me the tub,” she grumbled, brushing dried grass from the back of her sticky thighs. The soft T-shirt clung to her breasts and was so long she’d tied it into a knot at her waist, something Clem had eyed with approval. He’d even splurged at the discount store by buying her a ball cap that said “Kiss My Grits.” She picked up the cap and jammed it on her head. Then she dug a disgusting, doomed worm from the tub. Without overthinking death, she pierced the worm with the hook. “There.”
Clem squinted, regarding the wriggling victim. “You’re gonna have to thread it a little better than that. A fish’ll have that off in less than a second. You’re trying to hook the fish. Not feed it.”
“Fine.” She sighed, looping the worm and pretending the hook was a knitting needle and the worm was yarn. “Done.”
“Much better. Now move your cork up a bit and swing the line out. Try to find some cover—that’s something a fish might hide under like a fallen branch or some low-hanging brush.” Clem tossed his line out toward a bush that hung in the water. Right as the bobber settled into the water, it sank. Clem jerked the pole and up flew a fish.
“You caught one already?” Frances asked, watching as the fish came out and flopped onto the grassy banks. Clem quickly picked the fish up, slipped the hook from its mouth, and held it out to her.
“You want to throw it back?” he asked.
She looked at the slimy fish with its mouth opening and closing. “I’m good.”
He gently tossed the fish into the water. “Your turn.”
Frances made her line swing back toward her and then swung it back. Her line flew through the air and her hook landed in the bush instead of the water. “Oh, damn.”
Clem gave an amused chuff. “That happens. Give it a hard jerk straight to you.”
Frances did. The hook with the worm released from the branches of the bush and flew back at her, hitting her square on the cheek before dropping. “Agh!”
“Hang on,” Clem said, peeling the worm from where it had fallen on her T-shirt. The barb of the hook embedded in her shirt. “It’s hung.”
Frances wiped her cheek and then tried to help him dislodge the hook, but the thing had embedded in the cheap cotton. “Get it off.”
Clem grinned. “I am, sugar.”
“Don’t call me sugar. That’s sexist.”
“Is it? I always thought it was sweet. Most girls I know like it.”
Frances tugged the translucent line. “You don’t know many girls.”
She couldn’t see his eyes behind the sunglasses he wore, but his mouth flatlined. “You sure are judgey.”
“I’m not. I’m merely not accustomed to being called endearments by people I don’t know,” she said, pulling harder. The fabric rent and the hook with its worm came loose. “There. Got it myself.”
At those words, Clem smiled. “I can see you like doing things for yourself. Stil
l, there’s nothing wrong with letting someone help you.”
Frances shot him a look and threw her line back out. This time it found water and the hook sank below the surface. She waited for the little bobber thing to get jerked down, but nothing happened. “Where’s the fish?”
Clem shook his head. “You don’t catch a fish every cast. Fishing’s about being patient. Here.” He turned over the orange bucket from a home-improvement store that he’d carried the fishing gear in and gestured. “Sit down.”
Frances sank onto the warm plastic and watched her cork.
A long time.
During which time Clem caught two more fish.
“How come they don’t like my worm? That poor thing sacrificed its life. The least the fish could do is eat him.” She frowned at the cork bobber.
“Let’s move it,” he said, taking her pole from her. His big hands brushed against hers, but since they were wormy, she didn’t think about sex or how they would feel on her body. Nope. Nothing sexy about his masculine hands. Or his big body. Nothing at all.
Much.
He moved her line and handed the pole back to her.
“Is this truly what country girls do? I mean, you don’t take a woman out here for a date, do you?” she asked, steadfastly watching her bobber for any sign of movement.
“Sometimes,” he said, jerking at his line. “Damn, missed it.”
“Why?”
“Because when the sun’s about to set and the evening’s cool, the fish bite. I can bring a gal down here, park my truck, crack open a few beers, and enjoy what nature has to give me. When the moon comes out, we can put up the fishing poles, turn on the radio, and dance under the stars. Nothing more romantic than making love in the back of a pickup, serenaded by the crickets and hoot owls.”
“Aren’t you all fishy? And what about the mosquitos?” Frances asked, her eyes widening as her bobber got bumped.
“Not much of a romantic, are you?” Clem pointed to the cork moving. “He’s got it. Pull.”
Frances did, and her bobber went all the way under the water. She jerked the pole, watching as the fish splashed around, swimming for its life. “I got it. I got it.”
Clem tried to grab the pole, but she tugged it away from him. She didn’t need help. She could catch the damn fish. Finally she managed to get the flopping fish to the bank.
“Nice one,” Clem said, looking down at the fish flipping back and forth like an acrobat.
Frances grinned. “Mine’s bigger than any of yours.”
“So it is.” That amused him. She could tell.
“Now what?”
Clem grinned like a damn jack-o’-lantern. “You gotta take it off the hook.”
“I have to?” she asked, peering down at the fish, which had finally stilled. Its gills were working, making the poor thing look helpless. “I have to touch it?”
“Unless he’ll spit it out. Ask him nicely and see if he will.” Clem winked.
Frances didn’t want to touch the fish. She’d already done everything she could to understand being a country girl. She wore shorty shorts, flip-flops, and threaded a worm on a hook. But she wasn’t touching that damn fish. “No. You do it. Hurry. I don’t want it to die. I’ve already killed a worm today.”
Clem twisted his lips. “If I take the fish off, it’s going to cost you.”
“Cost me?”
“Yeah. I’ll take the fish off and save its little life. And then you have to give me a kiss.”
A kiss?
She shook her head. “No. I’m not kissing you.”
“Okay, then,” Clem said, kneeling and looking at the gasping fish. “Sorry, buddy. It was nice knowing you.”
“I can’t believe you’re using a fish to get a kiss. That’s low.”
He peered up at her, sliding his sunglasses down his nose. At that moment, Frances Anne Genovese had never seen a man look so attractive. The sun glinted auburn off his shaggy hair, and the broad, tanned cheeks were ruddy with the heat. His mouth was sin itself, and the grin curving those delicious lips issued its own challenge.
“Thing is, Frannie, I’ve been thinking about kissing you since the first time I saw you.”
“Then why did you dump water on me?”
“You were on fire. Now, does this fish live or die?”
Frances sucked in a deep breath and regarded the innocent life in the balance. “Throw him back, Clem.”
His grin was as sexy as he was. “Perfect. But so you know, I wasn’t going to let the fish die. I’m not a monster.” He slipped the fish off the hook and slid it into the water, wiping his hands on his jeans as he stood.
“That’s debatable.” Frances crossed her arms. “I don’t like the way you blackmail people, Clemson. If you wanted a kiss, you could have manned up and—”
“Taken it,” he finished her words for her, wrapping his arms around her and hauling her against him.
She gasped and pushed against his chest. “Clem, you’re all fishy.”
“So? You are too.”
“It’s sort of … disgusting. We’re sweaty and we’ve been touching worms,” she said, feeling the heat build in her stomach. His hard body against hers was doing things that she longed to blame on the hot sun … but couldn’t. Because despite Clem being everything she despised in a man—brash, arrogant, backwoods—she wanted to do nothing more than to kiss the hell out of him.
Clem dropped his suddenly sensual gaze to her lips. “Thing is, Frannie, I like it dirty.”
Clem hadn’t planned on kissing Frances. In fact, he’d convinced himself this was, despite his teasing, business only. He’d decided to humor Sal and show Frances what he loved about living in Morning Glory, but that was only for the good of Sal’s New York Pizzeria. But then she’d come out of that dressing room wearing a soft, peachy shirt that made her boobs look amazing. The miniscule shorts he’d handed her as a joke looked so dang good on her all he could think about was giving her a tumble in the hay. She looked hotter than shit on a shingle. All his intentions to keep his distance flew out the door.
He studied her lips as he held her in his arms. Her soft girl parts lined up with his hardening boy parts. Perfect fit.
“You don’t mind it a little dirty, do you?” He watched the pulse in her throat quicken. Her breath came fast. She was as turned on as he was.
Her dark brown eyes were fastened on his mouth as her tongue darted out to lick nervously at her lips. She whispered, “Maybe not.”
“That’s good, honey. That’s very, very good,” he said, lowering his head. He wanted to devour her, and he thanked his lucky stars he’d popped a piece of spearmint gum before exiting the truck. Because he wanted to be perfect for her in every way.
Frances was all hard angles and tart sass, but her lips were like honey from the hive. He brushed them once, a teasing he couldn’t resist. He wanted her to want him, crave him, the way he did her at that moment.
“Clem,” she whispered. “This isn’t a good idea.”
“Oh, it damn sure is a good idea. Baby, you were made for kissing me.”
“What an arrogant thi—”
He put a stop to her words with his mouth, catching any protest she had. At first she clamped her lips together, but then she became wax close to a flame, melting into his arms, moving her lips against his.
And it was good.
So good.
Clem loosened his hold so he could slide his hands up her back. She was trim, but soft in the places that mattered. He repositioned her, wrapping her tighter, forcing her to tilt her head and deepen the kiss. When he felt her open her mouth to him, his blood sang.
It had been a long time since he’d been rocked by a woman’s kiss.
This was such a time.
So he reveled in her taste, the warm wet, the heated blood, the hardening of his body. He caught her sigh of acceptance, then her groan of desire as one of her hands wound round his neck, the other digging into the flesh of his back.
A honki
ng horn registered in the recesses of his brain, but he didn’t want to acknowledge anything that would tear him from that moment. He could have gone on kissing Miss Fancy Pants all day long if she’d let him … and died happily in her arms at the end of a long, long life full of kissing and other things that gave nothing but sweet pleasure.
But Crazy Ted and Martha had pulled up in a bright yellow Jeep. Clem released Frances, who blinked a few times like she’d forgotten where she was.
“Woo, boy, I see what kind of fishin’ you’re doing,” Ted called out from the open Jeep. “That’s my favorite kind.”
“Hush,” Martha said, giving her husband a pinch. “You’ll have better luck in that pond, buddy.”
“Don’t I know it.” Ted hopped out with a spryness that belied his age. “Y’all been catchin’ anything or just foolin’ around? I brought a few Ultra-lites and some crickets ’cause Martha’s been bugging me to bring her out here. Figured she’d like to visit with your lady.”
“I’m not his lady,” Frances said, swiping her forearm across her mouth and glaring at Clem like he’d done something wrong. Okay, maybe the whole save-the-fish-for-a-kiss thing was a little underhanded, but it sure had been fun. Something told him Frances needed a little fun. She needed to not think so hard. She needed a little Clem Aiken in her life.
“Oh, it’s okay, sugar. Clem goes around kissing anything that will hold still long enough.” Martha cackled, easing her girth from the Jeep. Just like Jack Sprat who could eat no fat, Martha wasn’t so fond of lean. But her blue eyes twinkled, and she made the best fried apple pies Clem had ever tasted.
“That’s not comforting,” Frances said.
“Oh, don’t worry. Ol’ Clem’s harmless. And ain’t nobody judging you. I’d kiss him too if I was twenty years younger and not so smitten with this crazy old man.” Martha huffed, jabbing a finger at Ted who’d pulled a lawn chair out of the Jeep.
Clem hadn’t wanted any company, but wasn’t like he could complain since Ted (self-dubbed after his time in ’Nam) let him come fish his best pond anytime he wanted. All it took was repairing the roof of their henhouse one time. That was what he loved about the people in Morning Glory, and as a bonus, Crazy Ted and Martha were great examples of potential customers for Sal’s New York Pizzeria.
