Page 26 of Keeping You
Callie finally looks directly at me, and the air between us crackles with tension. “Well, I’d like to have a few extra for staff and the members of the library board as well. So, let’s go with enough for two dozen?”
“I'll write it up.” Harper grabs an order pad and a pen. “This is great, Callie. Really. Thank you for thinking of us. And we’ll run it over first thing in the morning, as I know you’ll be busy.”
“I’d appreciate that, Harper, thank you.”
As Harper scribbles down the details, I notice a small group of women peering through the front window, their curious gazes darting between Callie and me. Mrs. Jenkins is practically fogging up the glass with her breath.
Callie notices too, and a small, determined smile curves her lips. Before I can process what's happening, she's circling the counter and coming toward me.
“I need to talk to you,” she says, her voice low.
She leans in, and I catch a whiff of something floral and sensual that makes my gut clench and my dick twitch. Then she rises on her toes and presses a quick, light kiss to my cheek, her lips lingering for only a second, as she rests her hand on my chest for balance. The gesture is intimate, intentional, and entirely for show. But my body doesn't care about her motivations. My arousal is instant and hard, and I instinctively place my hand at the small of her back. The simple touch sparks awareness in every nerve ending.
“What are you doing?” I murmur against her hair.
“Making it believable,” she whispers back. Then louder, “I should get back to work. Call me later?”
“Yeah,” I manage, my voice rougher than before. “I'll call you.”
As she turns to leave, I notice the women outside quickly dispersing, no doubt eager to spread the news that the town librarian and the new Sheriff are indeed an item. Even moreinteresting, the bakery door opens again, and two of them step inside, their eyes wide with curiosity.
Harper looks between me and the retreating figure of Callie, her expression unreadable. “That was interesting.”
“It's nothing,” I say, but the words sound hollow even to my own ears.
“Didn't seem like nothing. First at Pete’s, now here. And I’ve heard the rumors.” She hands me the order slip. “Can you take this back to Anna, please?”
“Sure.”
“And Luke?”
I glance over my shoulder at her. “Yeah?”
“Be careful.” Her voice softens. “I don't want either of you to get hurt.”
I want to say something, but I don't know what. A couple of new customers are approaching the counter, their expressions eager for both pastries and gossip. I retreat to the kitchen, my mind spinning with the scent of Callie's perfume and the ghost of her lips against my skin.
By the time I finish helping my sisters at the bakery, the sun is setting and casting long shadows across Main Street. I should probably head home and take a shower, but I find myself walking across the street toward the library. She’s been closed for a couple of hours now, but I can still see the lights on in the back. And I didn’t see her leave.
I circle around, knocking on the side door where she can hear me knocking in case she’s in her office. For a long moment, there's silence, and I'm about to turn away when the door opens.
Callie’s got her hair pulled back in a messy bun, and a pair of black-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. Her lipstick is gone. Her eyes appear a little tired. I glance down and see that she’s ditched her shoes. She looks softer, more vulnerable without her public face on.
“What are you doing here?”
“You said to call you,” I say. “I thought I'd do one better.”
She hesitates, chewing on her bottom lip, drawing my gaze. A group of kids out for a walk, slow their steps to stare. One points at us and whispers something that makes the others giggle.
“Get in here,” Callie mutters, grabbing my arm and pulling me inside. “This town, I swear.” She closes the door firmly, then leans against it with a sigh.
Is she about to tell me her words at the bakery were nothing more than part of the play? I wait for her as she locks the door behind us. And then I follow her quietly back to her office. It’s small but cozy, two walls lined with books and a desk cluttered with paper. It smells like her—vanilla, old paper, and something uniquely Callie.
“That was quite a show you put on this morning,” I say, sitting on the edge of her desk while she circles to the other side, keeping the aged furniture between us.
“It worked, didn't it?” She crosses her arms. “Martha was in here an hour later, asking all sorts of questions about you.”
“And what did you tell her?”
