Mayday (5 page)

At least for the minute or so of surging she'd receive
, she reminded herself.
Don't forget: Mayor Hottie was kind of a dud in bed.

He waved her into his office, indicating the padded leather seat in front of his desk. She settled, expecting to talk to him from across the wooden expanse. Instead, he rested that fine ass on the edge of the desk facing her, crossing his legs at the ankle.

“Helen,” he said, “I owe you an apology. A big one.”

She couldn't doubt his sincerity. Those tiger's-eyes almost glowed with honest contrition, and regret had carved a deep furrow between his brows.

“I accept,” she said. “Now let's discuss May Day and the library.”

“But I need to explain—”

She held up a hand. “I don't want to talk about it. If you want us to have a good working relationship, you'll let it drop.”

He exhaled long and slow. “I was hoping to talk to you about it so we could get to know each other. Become friends. Maybe see if we could become more than friends, if we gave it a chance.”

“And I was hoping to keep our relationship entirely professional.”

His intent perusal of her face made her want to squirm. “If you want to avoid me so much, why did you even agree to represent the library for the May Day Celebration Committee?”

She didn't particularly want to discuss her work or living situation with him, but whatever. Who cared what he thought of her?

“I've worked at the library as a part-time adult reference librarian for three years. Before that, I managed our local Bannon Bookstore. But then . . .” She trailed off, unable to finish the recitation of her greatest disappointment. Even now, she found the whole thing difficult to discuss. Sometimes, in her dreams, Bannon's regional manager once again tracked her down in the stacks, taking her to the stock room to give her the bad news. And every time she had that dream, Helen woke up sobbing.

“It went out of business, just like all the other stores in the chain,” he said. “Even though your particular location actually turned a tidy profit.”

Her mouth dropped open. “How did you know that?”

“Research on the area's financial situation,” he said with a shrug. “I may not have been much of a student, but I did my homework before I ran for mayor.”

“Impressive,” she said, unable to resist watching him squirm again at the praise.

As if on cue, he fiddled with the cuff of his jacket and wiggled a bit on the edge of the desk. God help her, it was adorable.

“Anyway,” she continued, “when I found myself jobless, I searched for the nearest place where I could still handle books and recommend them to people.”

“The library.”

“The library,” she confirmed. “During my first two years in the reference department, I took enough online courses to earn my Master of Library Science degree. I've never been able to snag a full-time position with benefits, though. Other people were already in line to take any full-time jobs that came open.”

“I'm sorry, Helen.” He laid a consoling hand on her arm. When she edged away, he let that hand drop to his side again.

“But now that you've managed to wrangle some additional funding for the library”—she sent him a quick smile of gratitude—“a new position might become available. A part-time job as Community Outreach Coordinator. Our assistant library director, Tina, wanted me to bolster my qualifications for the job, so she assigned me to represent the library on the May Day Committee.”

“If you got this position,” Wes said slowly, “you'd become a full-time employee. Get benefits.”

What the hell? Why not just tell him?

“And move out of my parents' house.” She looked down at the floor, noting the black-and-white pattern of the stone tiles. “I had to sell my condo when I got laid off.”

When she snuck a glance upward, he didn't look disdainful. More . . . curious.

“I know this isn't my business,” he said. “And I know you don't want to talk about that night . . .”

“But if you live with your parents, wouldn't they have worried if you'd spent the night with me?”

“Are you asking me if you did a good deed by kicking me out of bed?” she asked, tapping one foot rapidly on the floor.

“No!” he exclaimed. “God, no. Though I should note that I didn't actually kick you out of bed. You got up and got dressed as soon as I started to talk to you.” He squirmed a bit again. “You know. Afterward.”

“Come on, Wes,” she said, shaking her head. “Like you weren't about to ask me to leave anyway.”

He sighed. “I probably would have. I wasn't making a lot of great decisions that night.”

An unexpected hint of melancholy had found its way into his voice, and it—along with his acknowledgment that he regretted taking her home—made her heart ache. Which was precisely the reason she hadn't wanted to discuss that night. At all. Ever. Not with him, anyway.

“In answer to your question, my parents are retired. They travel a lot and were out of town that night. So they wouldn't have worried,” she explained. “Now let's get back to the topic at hand. May Day and the library.”

He crossed his arms across his chest, regarding her thoughtfully. “So, if I understand you correctly, serving as the library liaison to the May Day Celebration Committee will help your application for this Community Outreach job.”

“Yes.”

“Wouldn't a recommendation from the mayor attesting to your impeccable professionalism, your strong ties to local businesses and individuals, and your community spirit do even more to bolster your cause?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Yes. Of course. But what's the catch?”

“Well . . .” he began, and then hesitated.

“If you're expecting me to sleep with you again for a letter of recommendation, you can take that letter and cram it up your—”

“No!” he shouted. “Goddammit, Helen. What kind of man do you think I am?”

“A politician,” she said. “A man used to getting what he wants.”

“What I want is time with you. As friends.”

Interesting
. He didn't seem like the sort of man who pursued platonic relationships with women. From her very limited experience, she'd say he tended to either ignore women or fuck them. Nothing in between.

But maybe she was a little biased on the topic.

“Just friends?” Her eyes narrowed as she studied his face, searching for signs of deceit.

“I won't lie to you. I hope that as we get to know each other, you'll be willing to hear me out. Willing to listen to my explanation of what happened that night. Then maybe we would see if we could have more than friendship.”

Again, he seemed sincere. That line between his brows had deepened, and he'd leaned forward, as if pleading for her understanding and cooperation.

She saw his heartfelt intensity. She even believed it. But she couldn't comprehend it.

Wes was an ambitious, well-spoken, handsome man who'd fought hard for his successes as mayor. He could have any woman he wanted. She, in contrast, was a chubby nerd who lived with her parents and aspired to a full-time job with benefits. Why was he pursuing her? Did he simply want what he couldn't have? Was he looking to redeem his reputation as a lover?

She didn't understand. Not at all. But she guessed it didn't matter. Because he wasn't getting more from her than casual friendship, no matter what happened between them from this point forward.

She eyed him over the top of her glasses. “Let me get this straight. You want my friendship in exchange for a letter of recommendation to the job search committee? That seems unethical in a variety of exciting ways.”

He shook his head. “I'll write you a letter anyway. I promise. But the more I know about you, the more time I spend with you, the more detailed and personal I can make that letter. It would really differentiate you from the other applicants.”

Her foot continued tapping against the floor. What he offered . . . it was tempting. Too tempting, maybe. Could she manage to hold onto her dignity and her heart if she kept spending time with Wes? The whole idea seemed like a surefire path to heartbreak, to be honest.

Then again, what
wouldn't
she do to ensure getting the Community Outreach job?

Not much. Not much at all. Especially if she didn't have to compromise her ethics.

“All right.” She stood and stretched out her hand. “But the recommendation needs to be honest. If you don't feel like I've done a good job, don't write it. On the other hand, if you feel like I've excelled, I want a glowing letter. Like, so glowing it might as well be radioactive.”

He took her hand in a firm grip, which he let linger a little too long for comfort.

“Thank you, Helen,” he said, and his voice caressed every exposed nerve in her body. “So when can we start?”

She sighed and headed for the door. “Put on your coat, Mayor. Might as well start now.”

“Perfect.” He threw on his wool peacoat, looking dapper and eager.

She sighed again. Yes. Just perfect. If she didn't mind spending time with the man most likely to destroy her ego and break her heart again.

“Where do you want to go?” he asked.

That question, at least, she could answer without hesitation.

“Somewhere I can get a drink,” she told him.

T
wo months later, Wes gazed at Helen over the top of his coffee mug and marveled once again at how such filthy stories emerged from such a soft, sweet-looking mouth.

Sliding her glasses up on top of her head, she continued her latest tale of library oddity. “So then Con had to figure out what to do about the elderly dude in the bathrobe and slippers. I mean, the Bookmobile serves people who can't come to the library, but there are limits. And those limits involve terry-cloth robes flapping in the winter breeze.” She wrinkled her freckled nose. “And from what Con said, other things were flapping too. Floppy things. Surprisingly girthy things.”

He choked on his coffee, somehow managing to get it up his nose as he laughed.

She took a sip of tea and smiled in the satisfied way she always did after making him crack up. He'd discovered over the past two months that Helen loved to tell stories, especially ones that made him cringe and laugh at the same time. During their last conversation over coffee, he'd cringe-laughed so hard he'd actually pulled a muscle in his face.

“Did I tell you about all these slippery books we kept getting returned from Angie's smut room at Battlefield?” She leaned forward in her chair. “It turns out it wasn't hand lotion, after all. Or not
just
hand lotion. Penny finally figured out—”

“No, you haven't told me. And I really want to hear about it.” Kind of. “But I was curious. You told me earlier about Penny's engagement. How do you feel about it?”

With one swift motion, she lowered her frames back onto the bridge of her nose. Her gaze sharpened on him, evaluating his question. Considering how to answer it.

“Penny couldn't be happier,” Helen finally said with a genuine smile, the one that made the dimple on her right cheek peek out. “Jack treats her like a queen, and they have so much in common. They can exchange obscure literary references for hours. Not to mention their mutual fondness for slutting up
Jane Eyre
.”

He couldn't hold back a snort of mirth, tweaking his injury yet again. His conversations with Helen often included more information than he necessarily wanted about Penny and Jack's fondness for Rochester-Jane cosplay. Much as he hated to admit it, though, he enjoyed the stories. Listening to them felt kind of like watching a sexy train crash. Plus, he considered them his long-belated education in world literature.

Following Helen down that particular conversational rabbit hole would prove easy. Too easy. As usual, she was trying to distract him.

He tried again. “That wasn't really my question. How do
you
feel about it?”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Is that something you'd like at some point in your life?”

“A man who seduces his quiet but fierce-hearted governess while harboring a crazy wife in the attic? Nah. That's more Penny's thing than mine.”

He sighed and pinched his forehead between his thumb and forefinger. “No, not that. I was referring to an engagement. A committed relationship. Is that something you want?”

“I hadn't thought about it.” She busied herself straightening her spoon, positioning it exactly in the middle of her napkin.

You're such a liar
, he thought.
One way or another, you've thought about it. You just don't want to tell me, because it would reveal too much about yourself.

Usually, when she chose to dodge personal questions, he didn't push her further. Today, though, he would.

For all these weeks, he'd respected her wishes and bided his time. Texted her. Met her for coffee after work. Forwarded funny e-mails. Grabbed occasional dinners with her and Angie after May Day Celebration Committee meetings.

They'd become friends, and he treasured the connection with her. The moments he spent in her cheerful, intelligent company lit up the lonely corners of his day. He fell asleep thinking about the stories she told him. He woke up hoping to see a new message from her on his phone or computer. He had no intention of severing their friendship, such as it was. No, his plans ran the exact opposite way.

Yes, he was a man on a mission today. Several missions, actually.

He already had the next few missions mapped out in his head, but he didn't want to jinx himself. One thing at a time.

Back to the first mission. “Then think about it,” he said. “Take your time. I'm not going anywhere.”

She directed a desperate glance at the clock on the wall. “I'm glad you have the time. I'm not sure I do, though. My lunch break ends soon.”

Leaning back in his chair, he crossed his legs at the ankle. “When we got here ten minutes ago, you said you had thirty minutes to spend with me. That you didn't have to get back until two.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but he continued before she got out a word.

“In fact, you even mentioned how happy you were that you'd accomplished all your assigned tasks for the afternoon,” he said. “All of them. Every . . . single . . . one.”

Her mouth closed again, and she pressed those soft lips into a sullen line.

He drank the last sip of his coffee in a leisurely swallow. “So, again, take your time, Helen. I can wait.”

Drumming her fingers on the table, she glared at him. He smiled back at her.

With a final huff of annoyance, she gave in. “Yes,” she said. “If I fell in love with someone, I'd want commitment and marriage.”

Her answer didn't surprise him, but he found it heartening anyway. For two months now, he'd been asking questions. He'd been trying to pry past her defenses to see who she really was. What she really wanted. What she feared. And this was the first time he'd gotten any sort of answer.

“Me too,” he said. “With the right woman, I'd want a committed relationship. No question about it.”

Her brow furrowed. “You don't exactly have the reputation of a man who wants commitment. You've dated a lot of women. I mean,
a lot
. Not that I keep track,” she rushed to add. “But Niceville is a pretty small town. Word gets around. And so do you, from what I hear. Are you saying you've changed?”

Gotcha
, he thought with satisfaction.
That's the first truly personal question you've asked me in over eight weeks.

“That's exactly what I'm saying. Have you heard any of those stories about me in the past year?” he asked.

“Well . . . no. I guess not. But you did invite me home after only—” She cut herself off. “Never mind.”

Yes. Yes. Finally
.

“Not ‘never mind,'” he said. “Let's talk about it. I've wanted to discuss what happened that night for a long time now.”

“I haven't,” she said. “And you agreed not to push.”

“But I need to tell you—”

“No,” she repeated. “I don't want to hear it. The last thing I want to do is relive one of the worst nights of my life.”

He drew in a sharp breath, unable to decide what hurt more. Was it the way she was shutting him down again? Was it the knowledge that he'd inadvertently caused her so much pain that she couldn't talk about it a year later? Or was it the way she'd just dismissed their time together as not merely disappointing, but as a lowlight of her fucking
life
?

If he'd regretted their first time together before, that regret paled in comparison with the visceral frustration he felt now. He'd had her naked—well, partially naked, anyway—and open to him in every way. Physically. Emotionally. Everything. And what had he done? Rushed her through sex and made a lame excuse to keep her at a distance. Pissed her off and made her wary of him. Erected a wall between them, one that now seemed almost insurmountable.

Her fingers shook as she rearranged her spoon yet again, and her soft shoulders looked stiff. Tense.

With a sigh, he admitted defeat. He wanted to keep pushing. God help him, he wanted to hack away at her defenses until he'd forced her to listen to him and acknowledge the promise of what they could have together. But no matter how much he wanted to move their relationship to the next level, he couldn't risk her ending it entirely. Which she might very well do unless he dropped the topic at hand.

“Okay,” he said. “We don't need to talk about it. Not now, anyway.”

“Not ever,” she corrected.

Okay, so he'd failed at Mission Two. But he'd sort of accomplished Mission One, and there was no rule saying he had to take the tasks in order, right? Couldn't he just move on to Mission Three?

“I have a late-afternoon meeting today. I don't have any plans for tonight, though,” he said, making sure his voice remained casual.

Her hand stilled on the spoon.

He cleared his throat and went for it. “Are you free for dinner this evening?”

 

Wes placed his empty coffee cup on the table and waited for her answer.

This wasn't an invitation for one of their usual friendly dinners. Helen could tell from his body language. Hell, she could tell from the way he'd been pushing her during the entire conversation.

He wanted a date. And for a variety of very persuasive reasons, he wasn't going to get one. Even though the sight of those tiger's-eyes, focused on her with such intensity, shook her resolve and made her breath catch.

For two months now, she'd protected herself. Avoided discussing personal topics. Dodged any attempts he made to touch her. Reminded herself again and again that she wasn't the type of woman who could keep a man like him. He needed a sophisticated partner, a woman of ambition who'd feel comfortable and confident on display by his side. Not a near-virgin who shopped in the plus-size section of department stores, preferred reading to parties, and barely felt like an adult most days.

He'd rejected her once. She wasn't giving him the chance to do it again.

But the reasons to keep her distance—those logical, damnable reasons—were just so fucking hard to remember sometimes. Like when he listened to her stories and laughed so hard he snorted. Or when he talked about the kids in his swim classes with open affection. Or when he mentioned his parents with studied disinterest, even as his face sagged and his eyes grew lost.

Most of all, it was hard to remember that she was completely wrong for him when he looked at her
that way
. The way he was looking at her right now. As if she contained everything interesting and desirable in his world, and he was desperate for her.

Every minute they spent together, she found him harder to resist. He paid such close attention to everything she said and did. He worked so hard for their community. He was honest, funny, and remarkably stubborn. Especially when it came to wooing her.

She needed to refuse his dinner invitation. Her lips, however, refused to shape the words.

When a few seconds had passed without an answer from her, he reached out to touch her arm. “Helen?” he prompted. “Do you want to meet for dinner tonight?”

His warm fingertips pressed lightly on her skin, and she nearly gasped at the instant heat that flared in that spot. No wonder she'd been avoiding physical contact with him for months. He could undermine her resistance with nothing but an innocent touch of his hand.

With one smooth motion, she removed her arm from his reach.

“I'm sorry.” Unable to meet his gaze, she studied the faux marble surface of the table between them. “I can't.”

He let out a long, slow breath, his fingers curling into his palms. “Do you have other plans?”

That was a question she didn't care to answer.

“Let's do dinner another night.” She glanced up at him and forced a smile. “Where would you like to go after the next May Day meeting?”

Wes was a smart man and a politician. He recognized evasion when he heard it. His lips thinned in frustration, and a long, silent minute stretched between them before he responded.

“Sallie's Diner again, I suppose. What better place for two friends to go?” He laughed, but the sound contained more bitterness than genuine amusement.

Had her refusal actually hurt him? Did he really care that much about a date with her?

“Wes . . .” She stopped, not sure what to say. The truth would reveal more than she wanted to expose. Her lingering hurt at their ill-fated night together. Her insecurities. How much he meant to her, even without a single date together.

“What?” He sat completely still and waited, his attention never wavering from her face.

“Nothing.” She stood up and tucked a dollar bill under her mug. “I'd better get back to work before my break ends. Thanks for asking me to get coffee with you.”

Then she walked out of the café without another word, unable to look at him for another moment. If she did, she'd forget the various reasons she couldn't date him. She'd agree to whatever he wanted. She'd wind up heartbroken.

And she'd have no one to blame this time but herself.