“You’ve got to see the Halloween display in the children’s section,” Tammy said now.
Reed resisted groaning aloud. It would be ungracious of him—and he was grateful for the library’s support—but all he’d wanted to do today was find a little peace and quiet. “Maybe another—”
“Nonsense.” She had hold of his wrist and was pulling him to his feet. Reed remembered why he’d stopped seeing her. Tammy was a pursuer. Not that he believed women should have to wait for a man to make the first move, but Reed did know himself. While he might not like game-playing between the sexes, he absolutely enjoyed the chase.
Tammy’s force-of-will propelled him down the short flight of steps to the children’s area. The library had a vital program, including craft afternoons and storytelling hours. He was all for it. What he didn’t love was the display in one corner.
“Oh, God.” He pointed at the life-size cardboard cut-out of himself. “Where the hell did you get that?”
She made a non-committal sound and pointed at the table set beside it, where a selection of his books were spread on its surface. A sign read “Get Your Halloween Shivers at The School.”
“I appreciate all this, but—”
“’Tis the season to be scary,” Tammy said in pleased tones.
“That depiction of me should do it.” The photographer had suggested several different poses and attire and he’d gone along with it all, just to get the damn thing over with. The publisher had chosen this shot: him wearing a black, ankle-length duster over black jeans, boots, and a blue shirt. The expression in his half-narrowed eyes—he’d likely been thinking he’d do anything to end the torture—hinted he was pyrokinetic and was considering setting the closest person on fire.
It gave
him
the willies.
Tammy seemed happy with it, though, so he kept his mouth shut beyond thanking her for the presentation. That widened her smile and she glanced up at him through her lashes as she toyed with the button at her throat. “I know how you could show your true appreciation,” she suggested.
Reed cleared his throat, giving himself time to consider the offer. He’d tumbled with Tammy over a year ago, and they’d had good times. But she’d wanted a man who didn’t abandon her in twisted sheets during the nighttime hours for the recording of what was roiling in his twisted imagination. Despite his current schedule change, he was still that man.
Not to mention his preoccupation with another woman.
Then, as if he truly had some special powers after all, he saw a pair of familiar bare legs descending the stairs to the children’s section. This was supposed to be his peaceful haven! He was supposed to be forgetting all about her, those legs, the big brown eyes, the zap, zing, pow of their combined sexual chemistry.
“I gotta go,” he murmured to Tammy, edging away. It wasn’t cowardice, he told himself. His retreat was to protect his concentration. Or to get it back. Too much Cleo on the brain was messing with his other obligations. His main character, Jesse, had woken up to find feathers scattered all over his bedspread and Reed didn’t have a clue how they’d gotten there.
That was not how he worked.
He knew ahead of time the twists and turns. Never before had he worked blind.
After his tumultuous upbringing and his foul year at Oceanview, Reed did a thorough looking before leaping.
Lucky for him, a patron snagged Tammy’s attention just then and he was able to sidle away, into the rows of children’s books. As soon as Cleo and company—her two boys were with her—cleared the stairs, he’d make a beeline for the exit.
Of course, his devotion to books tripped him up. As he was skulking in the aisle of graphic novels, one caught his eye and he got snared in an illustrated rendering of Robinson Crusoe’s adventures. It took him several minutes to surface, and when he remembered the true task-at-hand, between a space on the shelves he could see Cleo and one of those boys of hers, seated at a kid-sized table, each with a selection of books.
Other people inspected the contents of fellow shoppers’ grocery carts. Reed was insatiably curious about what fellow readers checked out. Her son, the older one, Eli, was bent over a chapter book, and several others were at his elbow. Reed couldn’t see the titles, but he could tell the boy enjoyed reading.
Cleo was focused on an open page as well, her elbow on the table, her chin in her hand. Reed allowed himself a few moments of appreciation. Her shiny blond hair was true towhead…he’d bet all he had that it was her own color, and not just because her boys had the same stuff. But her eyebrows were dark gold, two perfect arcs. Her complexion was peachy, a warm shade between pale and pink. Her mouth had a deep bow in the upper lip, which he decided made it so kissable. Today, she had tiny earrings hanging from her dainty lobes and squinting, he realized they were made out of mini, primary-colored macaronis.
A thousand bucks said they were a summer camp project the boys had brought home. It made him smile that she wore the things.
Khaki cargo shorts, the length mid-thigh, still revealed plenty of pretty leg and her long-sleeved T-shirt clung to her breasts—
“Whatcha doing?” a young voice asked.
Reed jumped. Then he glanced down, finding Cleo’s younger son Obie staring up at him with inquisitive eyes. Guilt sluiced threw him. He couldn’t tell the kid he’d been ogling his mother. “What are
you
doing?” he countered, showing why he was known for his sharp, fast-moving dialogue.
Not.
The kid didn’t seem to notice Reed’s lack of conversational skill. “How’s your treehouse?”
“Um…fine?”
A silence developed as the boy continued staring at him. Though he wrote for the species, the truth was, Reed wasn’t all that familiar with children. His stories were the ones in his head and that they suited children was just…happenstance. Merely an outcome of the way his imagination worked, most likely as a catharsis for a childhood of uncertainty, chaos, and occasional cruelty. Cheaper and more fun than a therapist.
“My mom says you write books,” Obie said.
“Yeah. Do you like to read?”
“I like to know things,” the boy said. He scratched the side of his nose. His skin was like his mother’s but scattered with golden freckles that she didn’t have. “I’m very smart.”
“Ah.” Reed nodded. “Good for you.”
“I do math with the third-graders.” He scratched again. “It makes some people jealous.”
“And maybe throw old lunch stuff at you?”
Obie shrugged, and shoved his hands in the pockets of his shorts. His legs were thin and looked spindly beneath the hem. At the sight, something old and sick moved through Reed’s chest.
Skinny legs, frail and white, sus—
Obie grabbed his shirt. “Are you okay?”
Reed shook himself. “Yeah, fine.” He cleared his throat. “You looking for a book?”
“Nah. I picked some.”
But he didn’t seem eager to move on. Reed cleared his throat again. “How’s, uh, that walking home thing going? Any more trouble?”
Obie made a face. “She comes and gets us now.”
Of course she did. Because that’s the action a good mother would take. Not that he’d know firsthand, as the Rock Royalty were notoriously low on decent mother figures, but it didn’t surprise him that Cleo had taken this step. Through the space between books, he stole a look at her, still seated at the table. So damn beautiful. As he watched, she crossed one long, bare leg over the other, and even with her little kid at his side, Reed felt himself respond, his palm itching to touch, his mouth eager to follow it on a happy voyage of discovery.
Then he remembered Obie and tore his gaze away. “So, uh, she walks you home?”
“We told her we were fine, but…”
“But?”
He drew in a breath, blew it out as a long sigh. “It’s like Eli says, sometimes it’s easier to just go along.”
“Good advice,” Reed said, the response automatic, but then he thought,
Whoa. Wait.
Sometimes it’s easier to just go along.
Advice perhaps he should take.
Why not? Why not let this pressing urge he had to get to know Cleo…better…dictate his actions? Certainly all his attempts to kick her out of his mind hadn’t worked. But if he let his nature take its course, he’d pursue her and then they could enjoy the outcome of this mutual—let her try to deny it—attraction.
It wasn’t as if there’d be any drastic consequences. There wasn’t time for that. She was, according to Cilla and Alexa, virtually on her way out of the neighborhood.
But before she left, they could play with fire.
Cleo followed the boys out of the library, struggling with her listing purse and their small mountain of books. Eli hopped onto the handrail and slid down the metal on the seat of his pants instead of taking the steps. Obie tried to mimic his brother, but had to give up due to his short legs.
“What’s for dinner, Mom?” her older son asked.
Dinner. She blew out a breath, ruffling her bangs in the process. So many decisions to make on a daily basis and “what’s for dinner” could sometimes put her over the edge. “Something delicious,” she said, opting for positive when nothing else came to mind.
Then she felt her phone buzz inside her purse. “Wait, boys, my cell is ringing…” But they had already skipped ahead, rushing toward the small playground adjacent to the library building. “Fine,” she grumbled, trying to hold onto the books and unzip her purse at the same time.
“Let me help.”
Before she could reply, the stack was taken from her grasp and she was left to gape at her neighbor just as her phone stopped making noise. “Oh,” she said. “You.” Reed Hopkins wore a ball cap over his hair and there was a scruff of dark whiskers along his jaw. She couldn’t decide if she wanted to bite him or push him away. Decisions, decisions!
“Obie said he saw you inside.” She pushed her bangs off her forehead. “I wasn’t sure if it was true or if he was making it up.”
“Does he do that often?” Reed asked. “Make stuff up I mean. Not that I think there’s anything wrong with that.” A smile kicked up one corner of his mouth.
“Obviously not.” She felt her face heat because in that stack of books he was holding for her were a couple of titles written by him. “Cilla and Alexa told me you’re a writer.”
“And they told
me
you didn’t fall over in a faint when you heard the kinds of stories I write.”
She shrugged. “I’m the mother of boys. It’s hard to scare me off.”
He tilted his head, smiling again. “Good.”
Oh, sheesh. Replaying her remarks, she realized it sounded like she was trying to say she wasn’t scared away from
him
. It had to sound like she was…interested. Embarrassed, she looked toward the boys, pretending she was checking on their welfare and not feeling fourteen while the high school quarterback was flirting with her after school.
“My stories are put on those banned book lists all the time. Nice to know you don’t think I’m so dangerous.”
He
was
flirting with her! She dared a quick look at him and knew she was right. Before she could think how to respond, her purse startled rattling, the sound of her phone vibrating against the plastic dispenser of mints that always lay at the bottom.
Glad for the distraction, she shoved her hand in her leather satchel and rooted around. Of course, the phone went still just as she pulled it free. The call log showed her former in-laws were trying to get in touch. Dismayed, Cleo stared at the number from rural Tulare, California. It wasn’t unusual to hear from Don and June. She was on good terms with them and the boys spoke to their grandparents often. But the Andersons habitually called on Sunday mornings.
“Cleo? Is everything all right?”
“Sure,” she said, though her instincts were sounding an alarm. She’d learned to heed them, ever since her ex came home from his first deployment, edgy and irritable.
“Do you need to return that call?”
“Um…maybe?” Pressing the heel of her hand to her forehead, she tried banishing her apprehension.
“How about if I wait over there by your sons while you make your call?” He lifted his stubbled chin in the direction of the swings.
“You don’t have to—”
“I have a stake in seeing these books get home safely,” he said, tilting the pile so she could see that
Cadet Cadaver, The School Book One
by Reed Hopkins sat on top.
Her cheeks heated.
“Make your call,” he ordered, then sauntered off.
He walked like a man of power, loose-limbed and confident. Watching him move, she forgot all about her phone until it once again began to buzz. Quickly, she swiped accept, and brought the device to her ear. “June? Is everything all right?”
“How are you, honey?” Her voice was warm, though there was a note of strain that had entered it in the last few years.
Cleo closed her eyes, for a moment back again in the old kitchen with its worn linoleum and aging but clean yellow curtains. The home’s single phone hung on the wall there, the receiver tethered by a curly cord. “I’m good, June. The boys are doing well too.”
“I’m so glad to hear that. Thank you for sending the artwork. I liked Eli’s horse picture. Not sure what Obie drew—”
“I’m not sure he knows,” Cleo interjected with a laugh.
“Well, the colors were real pretty.”
“I’ll tell him you said so.” She drew a design on the sidewalk with the toe of her sneaker. This call wasn’t only about catch-up, she could tell that, but didn’t want to hurry into bad news. The sun was shining, the boys were expending their energy on the playground equipment, an intriguing, attractive man was waiting nearby.
Maybe for her.
“What about you?” June asked now.
“I’m fine,” she answered absently, her gaze lingering on a strong back and narrow hips.
“How’s that big city?”
Cleo smiled. June said “big city” like another person might say “Sodom and “Gomorrah,” even though she’d assured the older woman that the neighborhood where they’d landed was as wholesome as could be.
Except for the horror writer on the other side of the fence. Even with the sun shining down, even though he’d smiled at her and even teased a little, in his presence she felt anxious…or maybe it was exhilarated.