Talk Wordy To Me (His Curvy Librarian Book 1)

by Frankie Love

  Talk Wordy To Me

  His Curvy Librarian

  Frankie Love

  Kaylin Evans

  Contents

  Talk Wordy To Me

  1. Cassidy

  2. Chuck

  3. Cassidy

  4. Chuck

  5. Cassidy

  6. Chuck

  7. Cassidy

  8. Chuck

  9. Cassidy

  10. Chuck

  11. Cassidy

  12. Chuck

  13. Cassidy

  Epilogue One

  Epilogue Two

  About Frankie

  About Kaylin

  Copyright © 2021 by Frankie Love

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Talk Wordy To Me

  Book One in HIS CURVY LIBRARIAN series

  By Frankie Love and Kaylin Evans

  They say librarians are old-fashioned. I’m anything but.

  As a 23-year-old woman I have my whole life ahead of me, and I’m in no rush to settle down.

  But my favorite patron of the Golden Creek Library has a different opinion … and at 72, Charles McArthur is hard to argue with.

  He wants to set me up with his grandson and I don’t have the heart to say no.

  When my date comes to my door, I am oh-so-glad I said yes.

  Chuck McArthur is a tall, dark, and handsome man who happens to love books as much as I do. He calls me Cookie, just like his gramps, and I’m more than eager for him to have a taste. Luckily for me, he likes a woman with some curves, and lucky for him, his dirty talk is quickly becoming my favorite sound.

  Best part? Chuck and I want the exact same thing: a no strings attached relationship

  But when tragedy strikes, everything changes.

  I may like it when he talks wordy to me … but maybe I need more than talk. Maybe I need forever.

  His Curvy Librarian is a new filthy-sweet series brought to you by Frankie Love and Kaylin Evans. It’s full of heat, heart, and literary innuendo.

  What’s sexier than a man who loves to read? How about a naked man who loves to read?

  1

  Cassidy

  “Look who’s coming, Cassidy,” my sister, Nora, teases over my shoulder. “It’s your boyfriend.”

  I don’t even have to glance up from the snack table I’m arranging to know who she’s referring to. I’ve been the community outreach librarian at Golden Creek Library for three months now and it didn’t take long to gain an admirer or two at my monthly senior book clubs.

  “Charles is not interested in me,” I laugh. “He keeps trying to hook me up with his grandson.”

  I look toward the door to the community room, where the silver-haired widower is making his way in. He’s in a sharp suit as always—ever the best-dressed senior in the group—and he smiles and waves at me, but stops to chat with a few other book clubbers near the door.

  Still out of earshot, thankfully, because Nora and our friend, Brooklyn, aren’t done teasing me yet.

  “You should go for it, Cass,” Nora says. “I hear he’s hot.”

  “He totally is,” Brooklyn chimes in. “I saw him once, dropping off Charles for the book club. Smokin’ hot.”

  “Yeah, has Charles tried to hook you up too?” I ask. Charles’ persistence is sweet and all—and definitely an ego boost—but I can’t help picturing him working his way through every pretty young librarian in the building.

  Nora is the children’s librarian and anyone can see from a mile away how passionate she is about the kids that come here. Brooklyn runs the teen department and she’s the life of every party. And then there’s me… a middle child fresh out of grad school, trying to figure out what I want for myself.

  Well, other than good books, great friends, and a little sugar.

  I finish arranging the little Victorian seed cakes that I baked last night to pair with our book club selection, Jane Eyre, while Brooklyn adamantly denies that Charles has been making the rounds.

  “Face it, sis, he only has eyes for you… for his grandson,” Nora smirks.

  I check the time—five til—then shoo the two of them away with a grin. “Get back to your departments and keep your nose out of mine. Thanks for helping me set up.”

  They head out of the community room, and I call the book club to order. There are ten people today—most of them regulars—and this has fast become one of my favorite parts of the job. Not only do I get paid to nerd out over wonderful books, but my book club members tend to spoil me a bit.

  “Hello, Cookie,” Charles says as he approaches the snack table. He’s called me Cookie ever since our first book club meeting, when we read Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and I baked tea biscuits. “You’re looking lovely as usual. What delicious treats do you have for us today?”

  I describe the rich ingredients that went into the seed cakes—creamy butter, aromatic caraway seeds, and just a dash of brandy—and while I’m talking, everyone helps themselves.

  “Oh, these are marvelous,” one of my other regulars, Evelyn, says. She’s got pure white hair that she always pulls back in a neat bun, and I’ve noticed that she tends to take whatever seat is closest to Charles.

  “Should we get started?” I ask once everybody’s loaded up with sweets and the coffee that Nora brewed for the group.

  “’I have for the first time found what I can truly love—I have found you,’” Evelyn says, zeroing in on one of my favorite quotes from the book. And I have to hide a smile behind my hand when I notice that she’s quoting it directly to Charles.

  Perhaps he’s not the only one with ulterior motives when it comes to book club?

  When it’s all over, a little more than an hour later, we decide on The Secret Life of Bees—and honey cocoa truffles—for next month, and most of the seniors head for the door. Charles hangs back as always, offering to help me clean up, but I know what he’s really doing.

  I smile, my hands on my hips, and say, “Let’s hear it, Charles. What’s your pitch this month?”

  He grins back at me. “No pitch, Cookie… I was just hoping you’d given some more thought to going out with my grandson.”

  “And I’m sure he’s just thrilled you’re peddling him around the library,” I tease. I can’t help being flattered at how persistent he is, but I’ve never been a fan of getting set up or the whole blind date idea. That’s the sort of thing that only works out in romance novels.

  “Well, to be honest, he’s just as stubborn as you,” Charles says. “That’s one of the reasons I think you’d be perfect for each other. Plus, he loves books just as much as you do.”

  Okay… that’s one point in the mystery man’s favor.

  “What have you got to lose?” Charles asks. “You’re single, right?”

  And I like it that way, I think. After six years of non-stop school and studying, I’m in no hurry to settle down, and the last thing I want is to go on a potentially awful date that could end up making things at my new job awkward.

  Still…

  Nora and Brooklyn were all for it, and if I just say yes, maybe Charles can stop worrying about me and his grandson and start noticing the pretty older woman in his book club.

  “Yes, I’m single,” I concede.

  “My grandson has a good heart and a decent job, and he can talk about books all night long,” Charles says. “I just know you’d hit it off.”

  Bu
t what’s wrong with him? I wonder, if he’s so wonderful and yet his dating life is restricted to getting hooked up with the local librarian he’s never even met.

  “Okay,” I say, making a snap decision before I can talk myself out of it. I’ve got nothing to do this weekend but work, and I told myself after graduation that I wanted to be more adventurous, to figure out what I truly want in life. Well, this was adventurous, all right.

  “Really?” Charles seems taken aback, like he never really expected to win this argument. Then a broad smile takes over his face and he claps his hands. “Excellent. I’ll let Chuck know.”

  Oh boy, what have I done?

  Nora and Brooklyn will to have a field day when they find out. But it’s done—I’m doing it.

  “Tell him he can pick me up at my place after my shift on Friday,” I say, “if he’s game.”

  “Oh, I’ll make sure he is, Cookie,” Charles says. I write down my address, then he takes another seed cake and saunters out, pleased as hell with himself.

  2

  Chuck

  “Gramps?”

  The house is quiet even though my grandfather’s prized vintage Jag is in the driveway, and for a second, I worry. He’s getting older, and I don’t get over here as often as I’d like.

  “Gramps!” I call again, setting down the load of groceries I’m carrying on the kitchen counter.

  “What’s all this shouting about?” My grandfather, the eminent Charles McArthur, asks, appearing in the doorway from the back yard. He’s got a pair of gardening shears in one hand and his crisp button-up shirt is rolled up to the elbows. Seventy-two years old and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him dressed down.

  “You out there pruning Grandma’s roses again?” I ask. “I can always hire a gardener–”

  “Over my dead body, Chucky boy,” he says, and I smile. Grandma Carol has been gone ten years, but you wouldn’t know it to look at the flower garden in the back yard. And Grandpa won’t let anyone touch it—not even me.

  I put my hands up in a surrendering gesture. “You got it.” Then I turn to the groceries I brought in. “I got everything on your list, and I picked up your prescriptions,” I tell him. “Plus I bought steaks—I figured we could get out the grill for dinner tonight.”

  “Not that I’m complaining, exactly, but what’s a strapping young lad like yourself doing spending his evenings with an old fart like me?” Grandpa asks, coming over to help unload the groceries.

  I laugh.

  We both know he does not think of himself as an old fart, and that he gets out more often than I do. My life is all about work—selling the best luxury real estate properties in the Seattle area and pushing my award-winning brokerage to greater heights. Add in networking events and a visit or two each week to make sure the man who raised me is doing okay for himself, and I don’t have time for much else.

  “What’s an old fart like you doing driving that ’58 Jaguar around town?” I shoot back. “You should keep it in the garage. That’s what you got the Lexus for.”

  “But then I couldn’t enjoy the Jaguar,” he answers. He comes over and sets a heavy hand on my shoulder, forcing me to stop what I’m doing. “Chuck, how many times do I have to remind you that life is about the here and now, not some mythical destination?”

  That’s easy to say when you’re retired, with a successful literary career behind you, after you’ve fallen for the love of your life and raised a family and you’ve got nothing better to do than to live in the moment. Not so much when you still have something to prove.

  “I’ll try to remember that, Gramps,” I promise, half-hearted, then pull a couple steaks out of the grocery bag. “Medium rare?”

  “You got it,” he answers.

  I go outside to prep the grill, and my grandfather wanders out after me with a couple of ice-cold beers. While we wait for the steaks to cook, he asks me what I’ve been reading lately and I tell him about the book on my bedside table about the psychology of effective selling.

  Gramps lets out an exaggerated yawn, then asks, “When’s the last time you read a good work of fiction? You know, something that appealed to your emotions, not just your intellect?”

  Emotions… nope, no time for those either.

  “It’s been a while,” I admit. I used to pour through books of all genres, all the time. Now I’m lucky if I get through more than five pages every night before I conk out.

  Instead of the lecture I assume I’m about to get from my former literature professor of a grandfather, he asks, “Are you busy Friday night?”

  I furrow my brow and take a swig of beer. “No, why? Are we going to form a book club?”

  “Not exactly,” he says, and I can see the gears moving behind his eyes. When he gets like this, it almost always involves him meddling in my life, trying to get me to settle down and start a family because he doesn’t think what I’ve got right now is enough.

  I flip the steaks with a pair of tongs, revealing perfect, juicy grill marks, and I think I’ve got just about everything I need.

  “So, what’s going on Friday night?” I ask.

  “I got you a date,” Gramps says. I’m mid-eyeroll because he’s tried this once or twice before and it’s never worked out, but he smacks my arm and says, “Hear me out.”

  “Fine. Who is she?”

  As if I need my grandfather to find women for me. Don’t get me wrong—just because I’m single with no plans to change that anytime soon doesn’t mean I don’t do all right. I meet women now and then—it’s just that I have a one-date policy because my brokerage and I can’t afford to get distracted right now.

  “Her name is Cookie–”

  “Cookie?”

  “Well, that’s what I call her. Cassidy, if you want to be formal,” he explains. “She’s the librarian that runs the senior book club I was telling you about, the one that bakes.”

  Great, I think. A frumpy librarian who’s probably going to shush me if I talk too loud on our date. Sounds like a lot of fun.

  Gramps must see the judging look on my face because he smacks me again as I’m pulling the steaks off the grill. “Now, don’t go judging a book by its cover—hell, you haven’t even seen the cover yet.”

  But I can imagine. Actually… I’m starting to get a mental image of a woman in a pencil skirt and those pantyhose with the seam up the back… her hair in a bun… heels accentuating the curves of her calves. Okay, a librarian isn’t the worst person Gramps could have set me up with.

  “All right, all right,” I say. “Friday night?”

  Grandpa Charles is grinning, having gotten his way once again. “Yes. You’re to pick her up after her shift—I got her address. What you do from there is up to you.”

  We go over to an iron patio set to eat and along with the steaks comes the lecture I’ve been bracing for. Gramps can’t help it if he’s a diehard romantic—Grandma Carol was his soulmate, and my parents were soulmates too, even if they didn’t get long enough together. He can’t help wanting the same for me, even if I’m not sure there’s really anyone out there who can keep up with me.

  3

  Cassidy

  I rush home after the library closes on Friday night, wanting to freshen up and change into something date night appropriate, even though I’ve got no clue what Charles’ grandson has in store for me. The whole situation feels a little ridiculous and surreal, and yet I’m feeling oddly excited about it too.

  When’s the last time I went on a date? My life has been nothing but books, books, books for the last few years—first of the textbook variety, and lately I’ve been focused on getting acclimated at my new job.

  But my life has to start sometime, right? Why not tonight?

  I’m standing in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of my bedroom when I see my eighteen-year-old sister, Grace, over my shoulder. She’s leaning against the doorframe, watching me decide between two necklaces.

  “The gold one,” she says, coming into my room. “Is th
at the one Mom gave you for graduation?”

  I nod. The necklace has a delicate gold heart pendant that falls just above my cleavage, and Grace is right—it’s framed nicely in the deep V-neck of the vintage tea dress I’m wearing. I’ve got red Mary Jane heels on, and lipstick to match, and I’ve stopped just short of putting my wavy brunette locks up in Victory rolls. That’d probably be a bit much for a blind date, but I’ll take any excuse to delve into my collection of retro dresses.

  “How do I look?” I ask my kid sister.

  “Like a fifties housewife,” she teases. “Except more cleavage.”

  I smirk. That is the idea. If I’m going to be more adventurous then I’m going all in.

  The doorbell rings downstairs and my heart leaps into my throat. What if this is the beginning of something? The thought comes involuntarily to mind, and I push it away just as quickly, then give my little sister a grin.

  “Go get ‘im, girl,” she says.

  We head downstairs, passing Mom’s office on the way, and she calls through the open door, “Have a good time on your date, sweetie!”

  “Thanks, Mom!”

  I go down the stairs first, and Grace almost smashes into my backside when I stop abruptly on the final stair. In the foyer, standing beside my father, is the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen.

  Seriously… if I were to close my eyes and conjure up my dream man, he’d be it.

  He’s tall—at least six feet—with smoldering chocolate eyes and a carefully groomed scruff covering his square jaw. He’s wearing a charcoal-gray suit and he just happens to have a tie on that matches the subtle polka dots of my dress. His eyes burn into mine as I hesitate on the stairs, suddenly feeling a little weak in the knees and wondering what kind of mistake has occurred.