Kyle flipped the charming switch. “We are, but I bet you two could teach us the basics.”
And with that, Owen was spinning dizzily around the room and doing his best not to bump into any of the old-timers. When the song was over, Tiffany, the shorter girl, stuck to him like bubble gum. He’d remove one of her hands from his chest only to find she’d stuck her hip against his leg. When he stepped away, she grabbed on to him like plastic wrap just off the roll.
“I’m going to talk to my friend Bree.” He used her name and everything, hoping to imply a level of familiarity that wasn’t there and scare off his shadow.
Tiffany made a sour face. “I’ll be right here when you come back.”
“Okay.” I am never coming back, and I will kick Kyle out of my house if he invites these girls home tonight.
He made his way through the couples, weaving in and out like running through the defensive line—find the gap and go, don’t hesitate. He loomed over the table, casting a shadow over Bree’s book. His palms grew moist and he lost the words he’d planned to say. “‘Sup?”
She lifted her head, her eyes traveling up his body. Not in the disturbing way Tiffany’s had, but like she was trying to find his face and couldn’t believe how far she had to travel. “Uh.”
He wiped his hands on his pant legs, realized what he was doing, and immediately adopted a cool and composed air. “Do you want to dance?”
“Oh no, no, no. No thank you.” She delicately lifted her glasses higher on her nose. “I don’t dance.”
“What do you do?”
“I sell brownies.” She indicated the piles of individually wrapped brownies.
“Did you make them?”
“I did.”
“And what does the money do?”
“It buys prizes for the summer reading program at the library.” She took a deep breath. “Most children drop one or even three reading levels over the summer because they are no longer immersed in the written word. If we can keep them reading, then they have a higher success rate in school the following year.”
“Sounds like a worthy cause.” He found his wallet. “How much?”
“It’s a dollar per brownie.”
“No, how much for the lot of them?”
She got to her feet. “Well, there’s 54 brownies left.”
He handed her three twenties. “Keep the change.”
She clutched the money to her chest. “Really?”
The way she said the word, like she was half-dreaming, touched a tender chord. He remembered when sixty dollars was a lot of money, when his mom had to track their spending at the grocery store to the penny, when they ate casseroles because two chicken breasts would stretch to feed the four of them if they added noodles.
She stared at the cash and then at the brownies and then looked frantically around. “I don’t have a bag.”
He folded his arms. “That’s a problem.” He liked seeing her off-kilter, because she’d had him off-kilter for over a week now.
“I—I can loan you the pan I brought them in with, but it’s in my car.” She pressed her palm to her forehead. Even flustered, she was cute.
“That sounds great.” He smiled, but kept his body tight. It was easier to hide his nerves when he stayed strong. “And now that you’re not selling brownies, you can dance.”
Her face paled. “I don’t dance.”
“I’ve heard that before.” Panic, stark and vivid, glittered in her eyes. He didn’t want to pull this card, but there was little choice. “I’m your best customer and you should be nice to me.”
Her hand dropped to her side and she chewed her lip. “You’re manipulating me.”
He chuckled and held out his hand. “I prefer to call it charming you.” Though why he expended so much effort was beyond him. He could easily find a willing dance partner among the crowd. Heck, Tiffany would probably sell her left kidney for another dance with him.
But he didn’t want a Tiffany. Bree was far from easy to talk to, and yet there was a level of interest in her that he rarely felt around other women. It was almost like he knew they would be friends, though he didn’t know how he knew that. If the darn woman would just put her book down and dance with him …
She continued to chew her lip. “Okay. But only one dance, and when I step on your feet, you can’t make a big deal out of it.”
“Deal.”
She set a bookmark in the tome and came around the table. She was wearing a loose-fitting shirt with a wide neck, a pair of skinny jeans, and runners. “Is something wrong?” She paused next to him, waiting for the song to finish and another to start.
“No. I’m just wondering why I bought these boots when I could have worn Nikes. I’m ready to toss them to the curb.”
She stepped back and studied his footwear. “I like them.”
A thrill ran over his skin to hear her say that. “Then I’m keeping them.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. They’re the first thing you’ve liked about me.”
“That’s not true.” Her face turned scarlet. Touchdown. He’d wondered what it would take to bring that blush to her cheeks, and now he knew.
The song ended and they made their way onto the grooved floor. He placed a hand on her side. She was smaller than him, enough so that he couldn’t reach her waist without bending down. She hesitated, staring at his arm.
“Are we going to do this?” he prompted.
“Yeah, I’m just thinking that I missed some line in heaven where they handed out stature and muscle and you stood in it, like, three times.”
He chuckled, picked up her hand, and placed it on his arm. “They don’t bite.”
She kneaded his arm. “They aren’t as hard as I thought they’d be.”
This made him laugh right out loud. He flexed. “How’s that?”
She grinned and relaxed into him. “Okay. Okay. Stop showing off.”
The music started up and he counted out a one-and-two, pause, three-and-four, before lifting his foot and leading her around the room. Despite Tiffany’s stickiness, she had been a decent dance instructor.
He had to shorten his stride considerably for Bree’s little legs. After they made a pass safely, he decided to try talking. “What is it you do at the library?”
“I’m a librarian and head of the children’s department.”
“A librarian.” He liked the way she was proud of her title, like he was about football.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like it’s just so cute that I’m a librarian.”
“Don’t you like being cute?”
She rolled her eyes.
“Ooooh, you don’t like being a librarian,” he teased.
“I love being a librarian.”
“Why?” Librarians were inside all day with dry and dusty books, computers, and unnatural lighting. Being on the field was better by a thousand. He looked up in time to see a potential collision and flattened his hand against her back, pulling her close.
She gasped. His steps faltered at the sound, and he stumbled into the brownie table, taking her with him. Brownies scattered to the floor. The music stopped and everyone stared. Thankfully, the table stayed up, and so did the two of them.
Owen stared at Bree, wrapped tightly in his arms. “I’m usually more coordinated than that.” He’d grabbed her like a quarterback he was about to sack, only he wasn’t going to fall on her; he’d twisted so she would have landed on him if he didn’t keep his footing. The table helped keep him from going over.
Up close, Bree smelled like chocolate. “You okay?”
She nodded, avoiding his gaze.
The band leader counted out the beat and the song resumed. People picked up where they’d left off in the dance. And Owen continued to stare at Bree. She had a worry line between her eyes. He’d not noticed that before.
Bree jerked. “Dickens! The brownies.” She scrambled out of his hold to pick them up. However
, some had been flattened as couples boot-scooted out of the way of the two of them. Actually, they were probably afraid he would run over them and weren’t so worried about the tiny librarian.
“I’m so sorry.” She held out her hand, a brown lump of goo in plastic wrap resting on her palm.
“It’s okay. I couldn’t eat them all anyway.”
Her forehead puckered with concern as she headed for the garbage can, already overflowing with paper cups. “It feels like a waste.”
“It wasn’t. You got your money.”
“I should give you a refund for the damaged goods.”
“Bree. It’s fine.” People didn’t usually argue with him.
“You don’t have to get all snappy.”
“You’re being unreasonable.”
Behind her glasses, her eyes narrowed a fraction.
Owen braced. When a lineman’s eyes narrowed, it meant they were preparing for a charge. “Go out with me,” he blurted to subvert an argument.
Her expression morphed from attack mode to exasperation.
“As a friend,” he amended. “I mean, let’s hang out.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She stomped back to the table and began rearranging the brownies that hadn’t been flattened by polka enthusiasts.
“It would make up for the brownies.”
“I thought it was fine.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Whatever.”
“Great.” He thrust his phone at her, purposefully misinterpreting her “whatever” to mean yes. “Put your number in there.”
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she muttered. Her thumbs flew over the keyboard and she handed it back to him. “There. I’m leaving. Enjoy the brownies.”
“I’ll text you,” he called to her retreating figure. With a sigh, he glanced at the screen to make sure she’d added her contact information, and barked a laugh.
“What’s so funny?” asked Kyle as he moseyed on over without Tiffany’s friend on his arm. The corners of his eyes were tight and he had that look that said he’d been away from the computer for too long.
Owen flipped his phone around so Kyle could read it. “Read the name.”
“Mathilda Frankenspiel?”
“Yeah.” He hit save and slipped his phone in his shirt pocket. Bree was funny. And smart. And she’d remembered their conversation from the Dairy Queen. Maybe she’d even replayed it in her head like he did over and over at night. “Let’s go.”
“Really?” Kyle was too hopeful. For all his talk about getting Owen out for social interaction, the man was as much of a hermit as Owen. Having said that, what made Kyle a great friend was that he cared enough to clean up and be a wingman. Or was Owen supposed to be the wingman?
Owen surveyed the room. The only woman he’d care to spend any time with had just walked out the door. “Yep. I’m done here.”
Chapter Eight
The day after polka night, Bree hummed an upbeat accordion tune as she shelved books. Her flowered skirt swished around her calves and her hips swayed.
Last night was a conundrum. She’d been to polka night every other Wednesday for over two months. Some nights she made enough money to buy the next round of prizes, and some nights she collected enough to pay for ingredients. However, she’d never sold out. With sixty dollars, she could afford mini puzzle books or reading lights. Kids loved reading lights. It allowed them to read after bedtime. Reading after bedtime was a sweet luxury wrapped up in rebellion.
In all the nights she’d spent behind the fundraising table, she’d never once been asked to dance. Not that she would have said yes. She wasn’t kidding when she said she couldn’t dance. The only reason she was remotely competent with Owen was because she’d actively observed the participants on a regular basis. And even then, she’d tripped Owen into the table. She wasn’t sure he knew it was her fault. He’d pulled her closer and her hormones exploded like flares. Pow—whooooo-pop-crackle. Her foot landed between his and they both went backwards.
And then he’d held her to his chest. Close to his chest. They’d shared body heat.
Which was so wrong for her to enjoy as much as she did. It was wrong. Wasn’t it?
The football player and the librarian? Come on. Only a fool woman with too many romance titles on her bedside table would believe that was even possible. Her personal stack of Debbie Macombre, ReAnne Thayne, and Tracie Peterson didn’t count. That was research for her job … as a librarian … of the children’s section. She stopped humming. The problem with being smart was that she couldn’t lie to herself. She was a hopeless romantic who wanted to believe that a football player could fall for the maladroit librarian.
It didn’t happen in high school. It didn’t happen in college. And it certainly didn’t happen after the realities of adulthood bled into life. Owen was new in town and she was a friendly face. That was all.
“Miss Phelts?”
Bree straightened her glasses and peered down at Brax Hopedale. He wore a Titans jersey and his black hair had grown out from a fauxhawk to a frohawk. Kids all over town were due for haircuts. The poor barber was probably pacing in front of his red, white, and blue rotating barber’s pole, wondering if he’d be able to make his mortgage this month. “Hey, Brax.”
“My mom says I gotta get a book.”
“Sounds like a smart mom.”
Brax’s head lolled to the side. “I don’t want to get a boring book.”
“So you came to the expert, did ya?”
He tilted his head even more, reluctant to hand over praise to anyone who was an accomplice to his summer sentence.
Her eyes dropped down to the football shirt, and she knew exactly what would capture his attention. “Follow me.” She headed to the young adult section. On the L–P aisle, she ran her finger along the spines as she searched for a treasure. “Here!” She commandeered three titles from the shelf. “Brax, I’d like you to meet Mike Lupica. He is your salvation from boring books.”
He shifted onto his toes, bringing him infinitesimally closer to the novels. His eyes danced across the baseball, basketball, and football covers. He lifted his hand towards the football cover, a flash of interest on his face. Suddenly, he leaned back and stuck his hands in his pockets.
“I’ll tell you what.” She held out the football book and set the others on the shelf. “Read the first three pages. If you’re not convinced on this title, I’ll find you something else.”
“Whatever.” He flopped into a chair and threw his leg up over the armrest.
She’d save the victory dance for when he checked the book out.
Someone cleared their throat behind her, and she turned around to find Mayor Blunk in his short-sleeved, button-up shirt and sweater vest a la Ferris Bueller. Her eyes stung just looking at it. Wow. It took guts to go in public in that thing.
“Hello, Mz. Phelts.”
“Mayor Blunk.”
“Please, call me Mayor.”
Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. Okay, then.
“My daughter loved the book. Do you have the second in the series?”
That she could respond to with some semblance of intelligence. “Of course.” She went around to the A–D aisle and clipped Ivy and Bean and the Ghost that had to Go off the shelf. “There are ten books in the series, so she should be happy for a while.”
He followed her to the checkout counter and fished his library card out of the pocket of his white shirt, pulling the sweater vest away to gain access. “Bethany is eagerly crossing off her daily reading chart. Any hints as to the grand prize?”
“Sorry, Mayor Blunk.” She could not bring herself to call him Mayor with a capital M. Perhaps she could picture the word lowercase and take a stab at it. But probably not. “I can’t give anything away—not even to you.” Or to my neighbor, my mom, or my boss—because there isn’t a grand prize! Although Owen’s sixty-dollar donation was a big step in the right direction.
The mayor took his
book and card. “This’d better be good. I’m highly invested in the outcome of this program. The education of the next generation is my biggest priority.”
Bree exaggerated her nod. “I’m aware.” The whole town was aware—his slogan had been “A vote for Blunk is a vote for a child.” And he won the election. Yeah.
He continued, “You are a huge part of the future thinkers in our community.”
Because children didn’t think until the future. Made total sense.
“Don’t let us down.”
All Bree’s sarcasm evaporated like a drop of water in a frying pan. “You don’t have anything to worry about, Mayor Blunk.”
He pointed at her as he backed away. “That’s what I like to hear.”
Bree smiled woodenly. She was digging holes for herself to trip into.
“Miss Phelts?”
“Yes, Brax?” she asked, her eyes still on the door and her stomach in a worry vice.
“I guess I’ll take this one.” He set Million-Dollar Throw on the checkout counter. “It doesn’t suck.”
She gurgled. “I’m certain Mr. Lupica would be thrilled with your assessment.”
Brax lifted one shoulder. She checked him out and slipped a reading calendar inside the front cover. Maybe Brax would actually keep track of his minutes and fall in love with reading. And maybe she’d forgotten a stupendous prize box in the back room.
Oh good, her sarcasm was back.
But Brax? Brax was that one perfect book away from catching fire and devouring the library. Stranger things had happened. After all, Owen—the football player—had asked her on a friend date.
Despite her best intentions and her belief that this was a monumental mistake, she was going. Heaven help her.
Chapter Nine
Owen adjusted his grip on the handlebars of his electric-blue Road King. His hands kept slipping because his palms were damp. He swiped one hand down his pant leg and then switched his grip so he could do the other.
With a roar of the engine, he turned onto Bree’s street. The houses were small—maybe one- or two-bedroom homes—with German influence in the design, with steep-pitched roofs, shutters, and flower boxes and windows with lots of small panes.
The Guardian Groom: Texas Titans Romance Page 4
