Storiebook Charm (A Spellbound Novel 1) Page 8

  “The clock’s ticking,” he said. “Time’s almost up.”

  She blinked, staring at him. “What did you say?”

  He pulled out his phone and dialed. “You need to keep your strength up.”

  “I’m sure you have beer to pour or drinks to mix.” She moved to unlock the door.

  He was next to her in a flash, his hand on hers, turning the key to the left, the deadbolt slipping back into place. “Actually, I don’t.”

  He started talking into his cell as he disappeared into the kitchen. She heard drawers opening and closing, the clatter of metal, and the ping of glass against glass. A moment later, he was spreading out a quilt he’d taken from a rack in the tearoom, and laying down napkins, silverware, and two empty glasses.

  “Looks good.” She sat, and once again wished she could use her magic to make a meal appear. Why was he being so nice? Her radar went off, but she was suddenly too hungry to care. “Harper’ll shoot us both if we mess anything up in her kitchen. There might be some cold cereal, though.”

  He leveled his gaze at her, the message crystal clear. Cold cereal was not on the menu. “Try again.”

  “We don’t have anything—?” She stopped when she heard a tap-tap-tap on the glass of the front door.

  Reid answered, returning a second later holding a tray laden with covered dishes with one hand, gripping a blender with the other.

  “This is a little better than cold cereal,” he said. He slid the tray onto the top of one of the center, freestanding bookshelves. “I had the cook at The Speakeasy whip up some burgers and fries.”

  “French fries?” she asked, as if there were another kind.

  “Crispy, and with ketchup.”

  “Mmm.” Exactly what she needed. And wanted. She was reluctantly impressed that he’d ordered just the right thing.

  Next, he picked up the glasses and poured from the blender.

  Ah, here it was. She knew it was too good to be true. The margarita. Or the daiquiri.

  Something to get her liquored up, lower her resistance, and get whatever it was he was after.

  “Chocolate shake,” he said, handing her a frosty glass.

  “No thanks—wait, what?” She stared. No way.

  “Chocolate shake.” He frowned. “What, you prefer a malt?”

  “No, I…” She thought he’d try to ply her with alcohol, but he’d gone for her sweet tooth, as if he’d read her mind.

  She took the glass, wrapping her lips around the straw, and sucked, a soft moan escaping as the thick ice cream slipped onto her tongue and down her throat. God, that was good.

  She stood with her back against a shelf, watching him as he removed the domed metal plate covers and set the plates down on the quilt. He knew his way around food and she took a minute to savor the details. Before long he was sure to say or do something to raise a red flag or get her spitting mad. She certainly never thought they’d be sharing a meal like this, and that his acerbic personality would let up enough for her to actually enjoy it.

  But it seemed Reid Malone had a soft side. She looked him over, smiling to herself. His soft side did not include the rock-hard abs she detected under his T-shirt, or the firm, muscled legs and the perfect shape of his behind under his jeans. Even his hands were strong. Capable. Her mind wandered and suddenly she was imagining those clever hands roaming her body, touching her, teasing her, and bringing her to—

  “Earth to Storie.”

  She blinked. The image popped, but the gathering heat in her belly mounted. “What?”

  “You’re losing it.” He pushed her plate toward her. “You need to eat.”

  Reid sat opposite Storie, unable to take his eyes off her. She left the burger and went straight for the fries, but it was the way she puckered her lips around the straw, her cheeks drawing in as she sucked the thick shake up, moaning as the cold ice cream finally exploded into her mouth.

  He was frozen. Immobile. The image of her working that straw brought to mind something entirely luscious and sexual. Her mouth on him, that husky moan growing deeper as he flipped her over and sank himself into her. Blood pulsed from his head straight to his groin.

  He fisted his hands, slowing his breath to stay in control. She took another drink. She was lost in the pleasure, and he was going to have a nervous breakdown.

  Clearly, she had no idea the effect drinking a milkshake was having on him. Would have on any man. “You like that, huh?” His voice strained from the desire coursing through him.

  Her eyes flew open and she met his gaze. Instantly, she released the straw, her cheeks coloring as if she realized the implications of what she’d been doing. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  He took another clarifying breath, his gaze dropping to her lips, before saying, “What?”

  Her eyes skittered around nervously. Instead of answering, she picked up her hamburger and took a big bite. She sat cross-legged, looking anywhere but at him, as if she thought that somehow diminished how damned sexy she looked. She could be plastered in pages from a book and look good. No, she’d look freaking fantastic. Hell, she’d rock anything she put on—that was a fact—but there was something about the jeans and white tank top that drove him wild. Had ever since he’d seen her at the lake.

  She swallowed, turning her head as she took a quick sip of her shake. He bit back his laugh. As if her turning away could erase the image of her lips around that damn straw and the soft, enticing sounds she made. They were burned into his brain.

  She focused on her french fries, drawing her plate closer. “Why do you want out of Whiskey Creek so badly?”

  He shrugged. “I like the city.”

  She peered up at him, frowning. “But your dad’s here. The Speakeasy. And from what I hear, you have a lot of money from your mineral holdings. Isn’t that enough?”

  He contemplated the question, taking a drink of his own shake to wash down the last of his burger. “My mother never thought so.”

  She bit off a harsh laugh. “Mothers aren’t always right.”

  That was a lot of animosity seeping into her words, but he bided his time, not wanting to spoil the moment quite yet. “Mine hated being trapped here.”

  She shook her head, looking completely puzzled. “I guess one person’s entrapment is another’s paradise.”

  He laughed, turning his scrutiny to her again, seizing the opening to change the subject. “Can’t say as I’ve ever looked at it quite like that, but yeah, guess you’re right.”

  “So what happened?”

  “She fell in love with my dad, but she grew to despise him because he was small-town, and there was no brainwashing him out of that. He loves his bar, fishing at the lake, ice cream on the square. Hell, he still is small-town.”

  “And you’re more like her than him,” she said, nodding.

  She made it sound so simple, but it wasn’t. He’d grown up here and he loved all the things his father did, but he’d been drawn to the energy of the city, going off to college in Austin and practically living on Sixth Street. He’d made millions by buying up gas and mineral rights. Sweeping a woman off her feet was easy. Finding the person who wanted the same things as him wasn’t. “Not necessarily. But I don’t think Whiskey Creek is enough, you know?”

  Storie placed another fry in her mouth, and took another sip of her drink.

  His senses charged again. Everything she did seemed to affect him this way. She was distracted and wasn’t thinking, he realized. “You don’t like the city?” he said, hoping conversation would steady him. “This is enough for you?”

  She stopped sucking her drink, seeming to ponder his question. “Absolutely.”

  That wasn’t enough of an answer for him. He could see someone like Jules, who’d never known anything else, just never leaving a place like Whiskey Creek. Staying was easy. But his mother had lived in Dallas. She’d lived in Tucson. Now she lived in California. She knew what else was out there, and so did Storie. She’d lived all over the country, so why c
ome back to Whiskey Creek? “You won’t get bored here?”

  She burst out laughing. “Bored? Is that even possible? There’s so much gossip and drama in a place like this, I bet I won’t even need to watch TV. My dad didn’t leave me anything but this place, but he knew this would be all I needed. I’ll have a front-row seat to life in Whiskey Creek.”

  There was no arguing that point. Everyone knew everyone else’s business in a town like this. In the city, you could be as anonymous as you wanted to be. Maybe that’s why he was always drawn to urban life. But it was never as satisfying as he thought it would be. Money and holdings didn’t mean squat unless there was someone else in your life, and the women he’d had relationships with only wanted the glossy outer shell, not the down-home center. Like his mother. And women like Jules understood the small-town guy, but couldn’t relate to the businessman.

  Hell. He’d become convinced that a woman who could appreciate and love both sides of him didn’t exist. He shook away the idea of a lonely future. “Why the café? I never would have thought about converting an old filling station to a bookstore and coffee shop.”

  A dreamy look came over her face. “Harper and I used to go to this coffee shop in Clement, and then we’d drive to Fort Worth to go to our favorite bookstore. We used to say that someone should combine both.”

  “And The Storiebook Café was born.”

  Her cheeks tinged red with pride. “Yep.” Her gaze traveled around the room. “It’s nearly perfect. Just a few more things before Harper’s set,” she said, turning back to him, her eyes glowing. She hesitated, then added, “Thank you for helping.”

  He dipped his chin in a nod, that damn guilt over deceiving her that he’d been working so hard to bury resurfacing with a vengeance. “Whiskey Creek needs a place like this.”

  “A place where folks can hang out and not get drunk?”

  “Uh, no,” he said, not missing the dig at The Speakeasy. “A bookstore. Keep people reading, you know?”

  “Exactly.” She tilted her head slightly, her eyebrows pulling together. “That’s exactly right.”

  They ate in silence for a few minutes and his mind wandered. He still had a short list of things to get done—not including the upstairs—but he’d made a lot of headway. In the repairs, anyway, but not in his search. Thankfully, his worry that Storie or Harper had access to Jiggs’s garden room had been for nothing. There were no doors to the outside from the old filling station. “I’ll get the bookshelf finished tomorrow.” Hopefully. “That one damned shelf almost seemed cemented in. After that—”

  After that, what? He had to get upstairs. No stone unturned. If he didn’t find the miracle infused oil stuff he’d been looking for, it would crush Jiggs, and he couldn’t let that happen.

  She flashed him a mischievous look, and then jumped up and headed for the tearoom. “I bet I can get that shelf out,” she called over her shoulder.

  “Right,” he said with a scoff. “I’d like to see you try.”

  He left the remains of the dinner, following her. Stopping in the doorway, he took a minute to watch her. He’d spent way too much time the last few days doing that. Just stopping and staring. Thinking about her, what she’d accomplished here, how hard she was working to realize her dream and Harper’s with the café.

  Which made guilt flare over the fact that he’d tried to swoop in and buy the place from her dad. Where would that have left her? And double guilt that he was deceiving her. His whole reason for being here was a lie. What an asshole.

  She moved like a dancer, lithe in her regular uniform of jeans and white tank top. He hadn’t seen her in anything else, he realized. And he wanted to. A floral dress. A miniskirt. A bridal gown.

  Shit. Where had that come from? He cupped one hand behind his neck. And what the hell was he doing? Ever since he was a kid, he’d been halfway gone from Whiskey Creek, one foot out the door. So why was he suddenly having thoughts about Storie in the morning? Storie in the evening? Storie all day long?

  And why did Whiskey Creek suddenly seem more open to possibilities?

  She circled her wrist, pointed to the shelf, and then lowered her arm. Shaking out a sore muscle maybe, but it was an odd movement. She stepped forward, gripped the shelf he’d been struggling with for the last two days, and—

  No freaking way. She lifted the damn thing off like it was air.

  He surged forward. “What the hell? How did you do that?”

  She threw a casual look over her shoulder and shrugged, but he detected a hint of something else in her eyes. Something playfully wicked, he thought. “Guess you loosened it for me,” she said.

  He grimaced, his good humor zapped. “I was ready to take a jackhammer to get that off. There’s no way—”

  She dipped her chin, looking up at him through dark, long lashes. For a second, he’d actually thought she’d exercised some magical power over him, then snap, she’d released the spell, all to make him look like an idiot.

  “Guess you didn’t quite hit the right spot,” she said. Her crooked smile shot him off in another direction.

  His brain fogged, the double meaning of her words taking hold. She’d gone from contrite over her teasing with a damn straw to a full-out siren. If she wasn’t deliberately taunting him, he’d go to church every Sunday for a year—and like it. He was willing to take a chance and call her bluff. He closed the distance between them, looking down at her through his bleary eyes. “You better be careful if you’re going to play games with me.”

  She arched a brow at him. “I’m a Hatfield and you’re a McCoy,” she said. “And I don’t play games with people I don’t trust.”

  She was direct, he had to give her that. “Why don’t you trust me?”

  One corner of her mouth lifted in a sardonic smile. “I know you’re not here out of the goodness of your heart, and I’m no fool.”

  No, clearly, she wasn’t. “So you think I’m up to no good and you’re teasing me with…” He gestured up and down her body. She didn’t have to do anything to torture him. Ever since she’d come back to town—hell, ever since that night at the lake—she’d ruined him for other women. “I think you’ve been messing with me,” he said. He didn’t know how she’d locked that warped shelf into place, or how she’d released it, but right now he didn’t really care. He just wanted to get back to that unfinished business they had.

  Her lips shaped into a small O. “Have I?”

  He moved closer, ready to take their flirtation a step further. “Oh, yeah, you have.”

  She rested her shoulder against the unit, looking innocent and nervous, and before she had time to know what was happening, he locked his arms on either side of her, forcing her to move until her back was against the built-ins. “And I don’t like to be messed with.”

  Her eyes flashed. “What are you going to do about it, big guy?”

  He inched in. “I have plenty of ideas. That night at the lake, remember?”

  As he leaned closer, the defiance in her eyes faltered and her lips parted in surprise, but he wasn’t about to let her off the hook. She’d come back to Whiskey Creek, looking like she did. She’d brought up old memories and made him have second thoughts about any plans to move to Austin or Houston or Dallas. And now she was right in front of him, an innocent lamb, and he was a wolf, ready to devour every inch of her.

  “We’re in a bookstore, not by the lake,” she said, shooting his fantasy about her right to the surface. But Christ, she wasn’t backing down or pushing him away. The look on her face almost felt like a challenge. Could they recapture the magic they’d had that night?

  “You told me to take a good look that day,” he murmured. “I did.”

  She held his gaze. Her jaw tensed and she swallowed, her tongue slipping between her lips to moisten them. Oh yeah, she was rattled, but she met his gaze and said, “Guess I probably got you through some lonely nights, then. Glad to help.”

  He tried to hold in his laugh, but it broke free. “And now here y
ou are—”

  “In the flesh,” she said.

  The weight of those words struck a nerve in his gut. She was right in front of him, and what had started as an antagonistic relationship was taking a definite turn. He dropped his lips to her neck, breathing in her light lavender scent.

  She groaned softly, her skin heating under his touch, her chest rising to meet him as her breath drew in. Just the sound of her voice, low and sexy, hit him deep in the gut. His body went on alert. He shifted, allowing himself the barest pressure against her hip. The touch elicited another moan, but she gripped the shelving to keep herself upright.

  Which was just what he needed to do. Stay in control. With Storie, he could lose it so easily. He still hadn’t kissed her, and he knew that as soon as he dove into her, his mouth against hers, that would be it. He would come undone and might not be able to stop. An old fantasy had a way of taking on a life of its own.

  He had to keep his head about him. Make it last. He stretched an arm up, holding onto one of the corbels under the built-in shelves. Something moved. No, jerked. An earthquake…but they were in Texas, not tremor territory.

  He lurched, losing his balance as the shelving rocked again.

  It shook, knocking against Storie’s shoulder. She lost her balance and staggered sideways. He went with her, losing his own footing when their legs tangled together.

  One minute they’d been standing, the next they were falling. He managed to wrap his arm around her, flipping her as they tumbled to the ground, blocking her fall and taking the brunt of the impact himself.

  “Oh God.” She gasped. “Are you okay?”

  He lay still for a beat, the blow of his back hitting the ground knocking the wind from him. Pain radiated out from the crown of his head, embarrassment causing just as big an ache.

  “Reid?”

  He became aware that she was still stretched out on top of him, the length of her body pressed against his. Not quite the circumstances he’d imagined, but he smiled. His body reacted, an electric charge firing through him. So this was what it felt like to have her so close.