Page 37 of Haunted Hearts
Lydia scoops up her purse from behind the table, turns on her heel, and strides briskly off across the square. I’ve got half a mind to call after her and ask if she’ll bring me a dark roast, but Nancy didn’t ask for anything and I don’t want to risk waking Lydia’s wrath this morning. Besides, she’s already halfway down the street.
“Lydia’s coming around,” Nancy remarks.
She plops herself in a folding chair behind the table and looks up at me through her sunglasses. “I figure I’ll wait until the official announcement to tell her the finalized plans are approved and the bids are going, but I think she’s making peace with the whole thing.”
“You think?” I ask. More cars are pulling up, and the square’s slowly beginning to crowd with more people.
“Oh, definitely.” Nancy waves a hand. “She’s barely mentioned a word to me this past week.”
I’m not surprised Lydia hasn’t said anything else to Nancy. She probably figures Nancy’s a lost cause—and doesn’t hold any real power over the situation, anyway. No, if Lydia wanted to change the course of the renovation, she’d go to someone who holds some sway.
And she has. Ahem.
“Well, that’s good. I was thinking, though, that maybe I ought to tell her about the bidding.”
“You?” Nancy looks surprised.
I shrug. “Yeah. I’m the one in the know, I guess. She’ll probably want details.”
Nancy chuckles. “That may be so, but I’d come wearing a suit of armor for that conversation, if I were you. Don’t take this the wrong way, but… let’s just say she’s not your biggest fan.”
“I’m aware.”
Our conversation is cut short by a couple of women who come up to the table and greet Nancy with shrieks and hugs. I may live in Hawthorne Bay, but I like my distance and hate small talk, so I smile politely and settle back onto one of the folding chairs. Nancy doesn’t even notice. She’s gesturing to the book bundles, explaining the blind date concept to the women. If they want to ask about the blueprints for the building, they can have at it. I’m in plain sight.
As Nancy talks, I look around the square, enjoying the nip of the air on my face and taking in the sights. The little downtown square of Hawthorne Bay is littered with booths, and people stroll leisurely between shops, stopping to admire the window displays strung up with brightly colored leaves and spread with piles of pumpkins. I’m pretty sure I can smell cinnamon rolls, most likely coming from one of the booths.
“Here.” Lydia appears at my elbow and thrusts a paper cup toward me.
I frown. I’m not her freaking purse. She can set her coffee down on the table while she takes her coat off—oh. She’s holding two coffees, one in each hand, and carefully avoiding my gaze. I take the one she’s holding out to me, deliberately letting my fingers brush hers as I do. Her skin is warm, and so is the coffee.
“This is… for me?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“What is it?”
“Drip coffee. Dark roast.”
I take a sip, and it’s dark roast indeed. There’s no sugar, no milk. It’s exactly the way I like it.
“Thanks,” I say. “You didn’t need to do that.”
Lydia shrugs. I think I catch the tiniest of smiles from her before she turns back to the table and joins the conversation Nancy’s having with the small group of people now sifting through the blind date books. Lydia asks them what they’re in the mood for, and, when the answer is historical romance, she rifles through the rows of bundles and extracts a few different options. As the would-be readers peruse their choices, discussing among themselves, I can’t take my eyes off Lydia. She’s so polished, so poised. And apparently also well read, which isn’t much of a surprise given her choice of career.
But underneath that polished exterior, I know there’s a whole other side to this woman smoldering beneath the surface. She’s like magma, Lydia is. Hot and roiling and fierce. Uncontainable. She’s a fucking force of nature, and I don’t even think she knows it. The way she hasn’t backed down about this damn library, always looking me straight in the eye as she plows ahead with her opinion, whether or not it’s going to cost her. How she looked the other night, gazing back at me with sparks in her eyes, down on all fours in front of me on the sand…
Fuck. Don’t go there, Will. This is a fundraiser, not a dick-raiser.
I move my eyes back to the square, trying to steer my mind back into reality. Across the way, there’s the cinnamon roll booth, and next to it is a table covered with candles and handmade soaps. I sip my coffee, relishing the warmth of the paper cup on my cold hands.
There’s a guy at the candle booth perusing the bars of soap who looks kind of familiar. He’s got on a ball cap, and the jacket and jeans he’s wearing look absolutely pristine, like he ironed them before leaving the house or something. I’m about to give up on trying to place the guy when he lifts his cap to run a hand over a thatch of smooth, perfectly coiffed hair—and it hits me.
Well, well, well. If it isn’t Mr. Mediocre Lay himself.
It’s all I can do to keep a smirk off my face as I study the guy from afar, watching as he moves on to sniffing candles. He’s alone this time, which either means the blonde slept in, or they’re not the item Lydia thought they were.Orhe’s here because he knows Lydia will be, and from the way he keeps glancing over here, I’d be willing to bet that’s exactly what it is. He’s here to make his move.
Poor guy doesn’t know I already made mine.
