Love in Due Time

by Smartypants Romance

  Hey, Naomi, remember when we …

  I exhale.

  People change, Nathan, my brain reminds me.

  * * *

  She isn’t the same person from eighteen years ago and neither am I. This woman is old … er. Her hair. Her eyes. In miles of denim draped around indistinguishable legs, she is not the Naomi of my memory. But even in her altered state, she’s pretty and I blink, a little startled by the realization.

  Strangely, I wonder what she’s wearing under her matronly outfit.

  I have a vagina. The statement almost brought me to my knees, and I swallowed my gum. I’m a little doubtful the girl I knew is inside this woman.

  Still.

  I remember her. Under me, she was once curves and skin and life. Vibrant. Electric. Blooming.

  I’m stuck on you.

  Her sweet, quiet voice rings in my ears like the seduction of a siren at sea. Ironic even more so as I’ve never stuck to anything in my life. I thought I was on my way one night. The club. The girl. Then everything fell apart.

  One thing is for sure about this new Naomi, she looks like she wants to lick me, and I feel strangely compelled to let her. Her eyes linger as if she’s fighting the impulse to take a walk on the wild side of my body. It’s a nice sensation—her so obviously checking me out. The stirrings inside my chest haven’t been like this for a long time.

  But just as I thought our conversation was heading somewhere, she seems ready to dismiss me.

  My eyes wander to Naomi’s backside as I follow her to the lobby. What’s under all that denim, I think once again until we stop at the check-out counter, which she uses as a barrier between us. Suddenly, my phone peals. A loud fire alarm ringtone echoes through the quiet of the library lobby.

  “End of lunch,” I say, fumbling for the damn thing in my pocket and struggling to shut it off. She points to a sign printed in black ink on white copy paper slipped into a display stand.

  Let freedom ring, but not your cell phone. Turn it off and your brain on.

  Naomi taps a pencil on the edge of the plastic, as if sternly emphasizing my lack of rule following.

  “It’s a reminder I only have ten minutes before my lunch break ends,” I explain. I work construction for Monroe & Sons. Bill Monroe is my boss, and while he isn’t a stickler, I don’t want to piss him off by being late. The trip to the library was a last-minute decision after fighting with my older daughter Dahlia last night.

  “I need you to explain some things to your little sister,” I asked my seventeen-year-old.

  “Just buy her a book like Gramm did for me.”

  I didn’t have time for a bookstore run in Knoxville, so the library was the next best thing.

  Naomi nods, acknowledging my explanation but obviously no longer wishing to engage in conversation. She twists the corner of her lips with her teeth, and I notice the deep maroon color. It’s bloodred, and tempting, a hint of who she might be underneath the yards of denim and black cotton. There’s one final way to find out if she’s the girl of my memory.

  “So, Nae—” I use the name she asked me to call her that evening. Call me Nae, a sweet voice whispers breathlessly through my head.

  “I don’t go by that name anymore.” The sudden flare in her ashen-charcoal eyes stops me short. Her brows furrow forming a deep dimple between them. The sharpness in her tone solidifies my query.

  It’s her.

  “These are due back in three weeks,” she adds louder, avoiding further eye contact. Sliding the books to me across the counter, I reach for her wrist, pressing her hand flat over the short stack.

  “Hey.” Without realizing it, my thumb strokes the tender skin on the underside of her wrist. “Was it the penis thing?” My brows wiggle, teasing her, flirting with her. “You know, I’m not offended to admit I have one.”

  “Just stop,” she warns. Her eyes are buckets of coal looking to set me on fire.

  “If I recall, you didn’t say that before.” My voice drops deeper. I don’t know why I’m taunting her, but my heart races with the thought she might have forgotten me.

  Walk away, Nathan. This chick is not your speed—slow and dowdy. She’s not your Naomi. Not anymore.

  “As you don’t recall who I am, I don’t suppose it matters what you think I did or did not do before.”

  Shocked by the snap of her tongue, my grip on her wrist tightens and my thumb strokes harder, rubbing deeper at the pulse of her vein.

  You’re the girl I can’t forget, and I don’t want you to have forgotten me.

  “Of course, I remember you. I saw you at the Piggly Wiggly last week.” It’s not what I intend to say, but I’m struggling to come to terms with all I want to tell her. Her mouth pops open and she blinks. The sudden expression brings another flash of memory. A girl shocked by the things I said I wanted to do to her and then a slow smile giving me permission. A grin written for sin. A mouth that made a man linger as I did that night.

  “I don’t even know who I am most days, how can I expect you to remember me.” Her lids lower and she turns her face away from me. Her quiet self-reflection, muttered under her breath, is eerily familiar.

  Who am I? I wonder most days.

  “Three weeks,” she reminds me, tapping a finger on the books. Then she tugs her arm to release herself from my grip. I don’t know why, but I don’t want to let her go.

  I’m stuck on you.

  Once outside, I try to shake the weird vibe radiating over my skin. I’m going to be late from lunch and I don’t miss the irony of Naomi as my cause.

  One more kiss. It’s the reason I was late, once upon a time.

  I’m still puzzled by the woman inside the library as I sling a leg over my bike—a 2012 CVO Softail Convertible Harley—and set the books inside my side satchel. On days like today, I love my motorcycle just a little bit more. A brisk ride through fresh air and over quiet roads will reset me. Clear of Naomi’s presence and those leering lick-me eyes, I relinquish thoughts of her.

  I don’t need the local librarian.

  I have Charlese.

  With conviction, I decide to pay her a visit on Friday night and rid my mind of one mysterious library worker. The idea rumbles through me as the sound of my metallic baby roars to life. After my two daughters, Dahlia and Dandelion, this machine is my life. The vibrating hum is music to my ears, although she’s running loud today, as I peel onto the road leading to my current build. Maybe I need the engine checked. Maybe I enjoy the noise, drowning out the sounds in my head. Ones I wish to forget from a particular night eighteen years ago. I will myself not to think of then, telling myself I’m just wound up from seeing Naomi again.

  Then I glance over at my side view mirror and notice two bikes flanking my rear.

  Shit.

  More reminders I wish to forget.

  The Iron Wraiths. Specifically, Catfish and his sidekick, Drill, are behind me. It’s rare to see the two separated, however, the first time I saw Catfish after returning to Green Valley he was with Dirty Dave. I’m surprised the old buzzard Dave was still alive. Actually, I was surprised to find Catfish still living. All the shit the Iron Wraiths have done makes my skin crawl, even though I know that most likely not every member has participated in the various rumors I’ve heard.

  You owe me. His voice rings through my head—deep, determined, and dangerous. It’s the new tone of my old acquaintance, Curtis Hickson, aka Catfish. I can no longer give him a friendly label. I deserted him, and he will spare nothing to remind me of it. When I returned to Green Valley, I did my best to avoid him. I flew under the radar for months until I went to the damn racetrack with my older brother Todd, and his best friend, Big Poppy. Catfish was as surprised to see me as I was to see him. Sixteen years banished from my home. Had that night been a mistake? Undoubtedly, the Iron Wraiths would have been the biggest mistake of my life.

  “You were never to come back here again,” Catfish growled.

  “I have family here. Kids. A home. A job.”
r />   “So, you’re living the straight and narrow life, and you think all can be forgiven?”

  “Have I done you wrong in the years I’ve been gone?”

  My response had stumped Catfish. He knew I was right. I hadn’t shared a club secret in all the time that had passed. I didn’t know anything new about them other than what the general public heard. Incarcerations. Disappearances. Suspicious activities. I wasn’t anymore a threat to the Wraiths than anyone else.

  Still.

  I did know a few incriminating details, and I’m sure Catfish remembers one particular night involving me. Our secrets keep us locked together, circling each other, but I want to stay on the periphery, not at the center.

  I turn into the drive leading to the construction site and release a breath. I don’t look over my shoulder as I cut my engine and hear their bikes continue down the mountain road.

  If Catfish wanted to run me off the road, he could have done it.

  You owe me.

  If he wanted to shoot me in the back, he would have done it.

  You owe me.

  But Catfish hasn’t done any of those things. Yet. He has other plans. He wants me to patch in again. Been there. Done that. And not a chance of Jon Snow resurrecting Eddard Stark will I return to the Wraiths. They could run me off the road or shoot me in the back, and even then, I wouldn’t consider being one of them. I paid my time. I did my banishment. I just want to live in peace.

  I enter the job site, grateful Bill Monroe isn’t present, and head for the third floor of the monstrosity we are building. Among the stud-framed walls, peacefulness triggers a certain someone with lick-me eyes and deep maroon lips. I shiver at the possibility of her anywhere near my history, even when she’s a slivered part of said past. She’s too good for me. I knew it back then. I know it now.

  I don’t have to fully recall what she wore, or what we did, or what we said. I remember the feeling of her as if it was yesterday. I’m stuck on you. There’s something about her—something different—unique even. But Naomi looks complicated, and I don’t do complicated, I think as I find my toolbox on the third level, strip off my jacket, and strap on my toolbelt.

  I’ve had enough complication in my life. Been burned twice by complicated women already. What I need is Charlese—simple, sensual, specified. The routine of her keeps me away from random barflies and one-night stands—both of which have been trouble for me in the past—so I stick to a regular girl now. My girl Friday.

  I’m stuck on you. I shake my head and double-check the plan for the bathroom I’ll be framing out, but my mind wanders.

  Charlese isn’t someone I’d bring home to Ma and the girls, but I like her just fine. When I want the physical interaction of another body, Charlese is willing. We don’t need to talk. We don’t share feelings.

  Get in. Get it on. Get out.

  It works.

  It works well enough, my heart thumps.

  It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement as Charlese has no interest in a serious relationship. We keep things between us carefree and low-key. Easy. However, my heart hammers within my chest, my memories swirling like a buzz saw. A wild beauty acting recklessly in the wrong bar. Teasing me. Wanting me. Giving in to me.

  The woman in the library merges with the girl in my mind’s eye. Long curly hair of gray and silver blur over the raven color in my memory. Eyes the hue of smoldering charcoal brighten a little to sterling silver. A twist of red lips whisper of sweet kisses turned eager and electric.

  I’m stuck on you.

  The remaining condoms in my satchel come to mind, and I’m suddenly thinking of using a few with someone other than Charlese. Eccentric clothes, silver waves, and bloodred lips are not a combination I thought would attract me—but I find myself bewitched nonetheless.

  Chapter Four

  Dewey Decimal Classification: 306.85 Single Parenthood

  [Nathan]

  “I got you some books today, Dandelion,” I tell Clementine when I arrive home after a long day on the site. I’ve placed the books in a paper bag, so she doesn’t immediately read the title. “Ask Dahlia if you have any questions.”

  Clementine looks up at me with her big blue eyes behind thick dark-rimmed glasses. She has buttery yellow, out-of-control curls which frame her face just like when she was a baby, reminding me of a dandelion—hence, the nickname. Lately, I’ve teased her the name fits because she’s growing like a weed.

  “You went to the library?” she inquires, a squeal of excitement in her voice as she pulls the books from the bag. Clem loves books. Me, I struggled with reading.

  Please don’t read the title aloud, I think. Please. Pretty please.

  Thankfully, Clementine reads the titles to herself and sets the books on the kitchen table where she has been doing her homework. I never have to ask her to do her work. Dahlia, on the other hand …

  “Thanks, Dad,” Clementine says amused and disinterested at the same time.

  I reach under my chin and scratch. “If you have questions, ask Dahlia,” I repeat. Clementine blinks up at me and gives me a placating smile. She’s so easygoing. God, I love this child.

  I’m also grateful she isn’t a twenty-four seven reminder of her mother, like Dahlia is of hers. Yeah, that’s right, two girls, two different mothers. Karma is laughing at me.

  “Sure, Dad.” She returns her attention to her homework. A pot boils on the stove to signal someone has started dinner. Ma typically takes care of anything related to the kitchen. Dahlia’s on laundry. I have the yard and repairs. We’re a team, but sometimes I feel like we should be more, like we’re missing a piece to our unit.

  “So, Dandelion …” I begin not even certain why I’m asking or hesitating. “Do you know a Miss Naomi at the library?”

  “Isn’t she the witch?” Dahlia asks walking into the kitchen. Her dull blonde hair is streaked with lighter tones. She’s thin compared to the solidness of Clem, and her clothes accentuate the subtle curves of her body. She’s every bit her mother, and I shiver with the thought. Then I think, when did my baby girl grow into a young woman?

  “Why would you say such a thing?” I question Dahlia, bracing myself for seventeen-year-old sarcasm and a million uses of the word ‘like’ in the explanation.

  “It’s what all the kids call her, like, with that wild hair and her, like, dowdy clothes. Some kids say she cast, like, a spell on them when they go to the library and, like, talk too loudly. Others say she walks into the woods, probably to, like, conjure up some spell or something. Kill a kitten and, like, use the blood for a potion.” Dahlia wiggles her brows at me.

  “Dahlia,” I warn, my eyes shifting to Clem who is sensitive to all living creatures, not to mention, the obvious exaggeration of such a description.

  “Anyway, the boys talk about her.” She shrugs.

  My brows pinch. “What do you mean? Who talks about her?”

  Dahlia shrugs again as she turns her back to me and reaches for the overhead cabinet. “Something about capture the witch, but, like, how would I know. I’m not from here.” Her jab stings. She wasn’t happy about the decision to move to Green Valley but being here was the right thing to do—for all of us.

  “She’s not a witch,” Clementine defends, her head popping up from her books. “Miss Naomi is the best. She loves Harry Potter and all things fantasy, and when she does read-alouds, she uses all the voices.”

  I’m wondering why I’ve never questioned Clem before about the librarian when Dahlia interrupts.

  “Because she’s a witch. She can, like, speak in tongues. Wha-ha-ha.” She throws her own voice in a spooky cackle, lifting her hands and wiggling her fingers to emphasize her point.

  “She does not,” Clem whines, and then her voice shifts to dreamy. “She’s amazing.”

  I’d chuckle at the interchange between my girls, but I’m intrigued by their differing perspectives.

  “Why’s she amazing, Dandelion?”

  It occurs to me that in the nearly two
years since moving back to the Valley, I haven’t encountered Naomi. Then again, with her changed appearance, I don’t think I’d recognize her without inspection.

  And I want to inspect her further.

  “She’s nice to me,” Clem mumbles under her breath, shrugging her shoulder and returning me to the conversation at hand. Her head lowers. Clem has had trouble making friends at school, and I worry most days that she’s lonely. Moving here was an adjustment for her—leaving behind good friends and her mother whom she only sees twice a year now. For Dahlia, the change was a necessity. She was getting in with the wrong crowd, hinting at repeating my history. Dahlia hasn’t seen her mother since she was one and Becca decided she no longer wanted to be a parent.

  “She’s a witch,” Dahlia repeats, drawing out the words in a haunting tone.

  “Just stop,” Clem says, and I’m drawn back to the library earlier in the day.

  Just stop.

  “Do you see Miss Naomi often when you go to get books?” My mother is the one who takes Clem to the library. I try to be an involved father but there are some areas I’m lacking—the library is one of them. Books haven’t ever been my thing. However, I want my girls to be intelligent and independent, not like the women I seem to hook up with. Dahlia’s mother had no ambition other than to be a club rat, and Margie—Clem’s mom—she wanted more as long as it involved crisp paper in a certain shade of green with Benjamin Franklin’s image in the center.

  “Gramm and I see her every time,” Dandelion answers me. “She’s my favorite. Mrs. MacIntyre is too strict, and Miss Logan doesn’t really speak. Naomi is the best. She gets me.”

  The comment softens me, but I still correct her. “Miss Naomi.” My girls will have manners, too.

  “She’s a witch,” Dahlia mumbles as she pours dry pasta into the pot.