Page 3

3

CADENCE

T he Beaumont City Library doesn’t have the same kind of quiet as its busier cousins in more populated areas. Our library has the kind of quiet that comes with a lack of patrons. Unless the school kids have a project, the preschoolers come for story-time, or the elderly get lonely and need to see a human who’ll talk with them a while, there may as well be crickets chirping.

Except for once every day, around lunchtime, when a certain tall, darkish, and gorgeous older man walks through the doors and offers me just a little glimpse of something different. Something that makes my heart beat faster. A thrilling gift of forbidden excitement edged with danger.

I wipe my palms down on the boring fabric of my conservative skirt. I wish my clothes could be sexier, but with all the resistance I met from Dad, I gave up fighting for that freedom years ago. My collar is high, my skirt is long, and I look every bit the part of the chaste woman he prefers I be. The world will surely end if I show a little leg or — heaven forbid — I let anyone glimpse just how ample my bosom truly is. The second my buds began to bloom, I’ve been made to feel as if my garden should remain the secret kind. Every authority figure I’ve ever had has pressed upon me that such intimate knowledge should be reserved only for my husband — the husband I will never have, because thanks to the invisible, burdensome, virginal good-girl tower walls my father has built around me to serve his own needs, nobody ever dares pursue me.

I’m so sick of it all. I’m tired of the thankless hours I spend caring for my absent mother, while my father over-commits himself elsewhere, to avoid his home. I’m tired of doing as he says, dressing as he says, and living as he says, just because it’s easier than constantly fighting for my right to be free and then having to retract my words out of guilt when he breaks down in tears.

I’m sick of pretending I’m fine, and I’m done with the endless people-pleasing. As much as I love my family, I want more from life than to serve them. I have no desire to be held prisoner by guilt and emotions that aren’t even mine to feel, and I’m ready to challenge this town’s belief that I’m nothing more than my father’s untouchable daughter. I’m my own person, with my own dreams, and I want to be touched, damn it!

I know exactly whose hands I want on me, too.

I glance at the big clock. It’s nearly lunchtime, so Daryl will be finished his work for the day. How many dreams has he already made come true this morning for the kids in his scholarship programs? Passionate, nurturing, and charitable… could this retired cowboy be any hotter?

My heart beats a little faster, and I pull my hair over my shoulder before sitting up straighter. Perched on the edge of my seat, I rub some color into my cheeks and wait almost breathlessly for the big, green door of the library to creak open.

Right on time, Daryl pushes into my lair, announced by the squeaking hinges. He carries an easy smile and his latest read to return. The man enjoys e-books more than print, but he decided a while back that he wanted to read every physical book I have. He started with the wall shelves by the door, and now he’s halfway across the room, which is where he pauses now to collect his next book. He’s very open to consuming information on all kinds of topics, so it’s no surprise that he knows so much about so many things. He’s traveled, too, and I appreciate that immensely, because besides these books, a conversation with Daryl is the closest I ever get to experiencing life beyond the county line.

“Good afternoon, Miss Malone.” He slides both books across the counter to me and withdraws his hands before I can complete my absolutely pathetic school-girl fantasy of our fingers brushing against each other. It actually happened once, and the thrill of it had me floating for an entire week.

I offer him a polite smile as I nod. “A pleasant afternoon to you too, Mr. Winters.” I flip through the pages of the book he’s returning. “Any good?”

He gives me a playful, irresistibly sexy smile. “A bit dry, actually.”

I chuckle softly and nod. “To be expected, for a book about a desert, I suppose.” I pick up his latest selection — a book about a different desert — and turn the cover to face him as I grin. “Do you think this one will be any moister?”

“Too soon to tell.” His gaze lingers on my mouth a moment before he clears his throat and looks away. “I’m trying really hard not to judge it by its cover. Or the description on the back. Or the fact that it was likely published before my grandma was born, because the tiny fishing village on the edge of that cover photo is now a very grand city filled with extremely wealthy oil tycoons. Luckily, I downloaded all of your latest romance recommendations, so I have excellent backup reading, should it fail to entertain me.”

My face starts to get hot, so I lower my head to study the book’s cover again. “Is it Dubai?”

“Mmhm.”

I lift my gaze to meet his. Nobody else traveling our backwoods dirt roads would have ventured as far as that vibrant and bustling Arabian metropolis, where they magically raise islands from the sea to build palatial gems of architecture, but I bet Daryl has. He’s the kind of dream-bird who was raised rugged and rural but grew up and flew off to gain interests beyond farming life.

“Have you been?” I ask, my heart is already fluttering in my chest at the thought of being this close to someone who actually lives the kind of life I want for myself. I’m so lucky to know someone I can live vicariously through. Before he came to town to nurse his estranged aunt, I had nobody real to make my imagined futures seem possible, which made all those aspirations either wishful pipe dreams or dead on arrival.

He nods. “I tagged along with my buddy Jason when he went on business once — he’s that investor friend I told you about a while back, when you asked what I did for a living?”

I nod, because of course I remember every detail of every conversation we’ve ever had. It’s hard to forget the things you play on repeat in your head as a coping mechanism. They tend to become mantras and lore.

“And?” I ask, eager for more escapism fodder, so I can imagine myself living his adventures with him.

Daryl shrugs. “It was beautiful, busy, and about a hundred degrees of hot and sticky before breakfast each morning.”

There’s literally no innuendo in his tone, but if ever there was a day to grab the wheel of my life and steer it in the direction I want, it’s today.

“Hot and sticky in the climatic or climactic sense?” I ask. Even if he doesn’t recognize an attempt to encourage flirting, he may still share his experiences, which will still be helpful to me. I’d love to know what kind of hot and sticky things Daryl has done. For research purposes. How am I meant to flesh out my daydreams without gaining some details? I press my lips together and raise my eyebrows to let him know I’m waiting for his response.

Daryl stares at me for one long, deep breath of his and about sixteen tiny gasps of mine.

He tilts his head and views me side-on. “I was referencing the weather when I said it,” he says slowly. “And while there were opportunities to become hot and sticky via other means, it felt unwise to behave too liberally within the conservative environments I visited.”

“Oh.” I look at the book in my hands and gather myself into a state of confidence, so I can explore this territory further. I want Daryl to treat me like we’re characters in one of my smutty novels, but if I can’t even talk about sex with him, how in the world will I manage to do it? I brace myself and jump boldly into the deep end. “That does makes sense within a conservative culture. The kind of sexual activities you’re famed to enjoy are probably illegal over there.”

He exhales loudly and slowly, and I look up.

“I didn’t really want to find out,” he says quietly and averts his gaze. Color rises in his cheeks, and he rubs the back of his neck like it’s aching. “Why would you…?” He turns back to me and searches my face. “You’re not even blushing.”

I frown. “Should I be?”

He presses the back of his fingers to his cheek and clears his throat. “I am.”

“Why?” I fold my arms. “You enjoy the act, but prefer not to talk about the fucking of women’s asses?” I ask with a teasing smile. “Are you ashamed about being an ass-fucker?”

He winces slightly at the name he’s made for himself around these parts and then takes a step back. With a shy scratch at his beard, he lowers his head to watch his feet. The toe of one of his big boots worries a loose thread in the worn carpet. “No,” he mumbles.

“Then why are you staring at the floor instead of looking me in the eyes?”

He snaps his head up and meets my gaze. “Because you’re a very respectable young woman, and this conversation is extremely inappropriate,” he says, as if he’s not enjoying it.

“Is it?” I slam my hands down on my desk. “Daryl Winters, our daily conversations are literally the only escape I have beyond these books. You, and those eight shelves of fiction over there, are what stop me contemplating the sweet relief of a quick death. Yes, I turned up the heat. Sorry if you weren’t ready for it, but I’m a curious, twenty-six year old virgin, and I’m tired of you coming in here every day under the guise of needing to borrow another book to expand your mind .

“I see the way you look at me, and I know which part of you is expanding when you do it.” I glance at his crotch, where the denim of his jeans is practically wearing thin from trying to contain his chronic interest. “You might try to keep your thoughts restrained around me, but your boners are legit too big to hide, Daryl.

“You obviously like the look of me — despite how much of myself I keep covered — and yet you turn up here every day only to take a dry as a desert book out and have a five-minute chat? Part of me understands that you’re probably as deprived as I am of intelligent conversation that extends past the constant comparison of every year’s crop yields versus that one bumper harvest back in ’68 that nobody alive can even really remember. Maybe you only come here because I’m one of the few people in town who doesn’t treat you like a leper, but I can tell enjoy my company. I enjoy yours too, but whenever I try to show you that I’m interested in more than talking, you take a step back instead of forward, and I have to wait patiently for things to progress again. And frankly Daryl, I’ve grown weary of this game. You’ve been coming in here for months, but you never cross an indecent line, and it’s frustrating to sit here hoping that you will, so I’m taking matters into my own hands.”

He stares at me, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly open, but speechless.

I shrug. “Forgive me for wanting to move our cute little chats into more adult territory. You’re the smartest, most eligible bachelor in town, and I want you to consider me in an adult way. I know I have a specific reputation, and no matter how I try to change that, I can’t, but you have to know that despite what everyone thinks, I have sexual potential, and I’m tired of not being considered as an option. It’s incredibly difficult to gain a different reputation or any knowledge of that world when I’ve had no choice but to be excluded from it. Every man except you avoids me like the plague, so maybe you’re immune to my father’s intimidation tactics and are, therefore, my best bet — or my only possible ally — romantically speaking. Unless my father corrupted you too?” I ask, giving him a narrowed side-eye.

His jaw tenses, and he swallows hard. “Cady, I…” He closes his eyes for a breath and then looks to the heavens. “Cadence Malone, I can not be having this discussion with you, and I refuse to entertain the idea of us…” He growls and adjusts his stance to conceal his growing erection. Unsuccessfully. Now that he’s side-on, it’s even more apparent.

“You know how people talk about me,” he says, shame-faced, with a touch of hurt in his voice. “You know that’ll transfer to you the second someone catches wind that I—” He cuts himself off sharply and changes tack. “If I touch one hair on your head, I?—”

“I’m not asking you to touch my head,” I interrupt, before slumping against the back of my chair with a sigh. “I really thought you’d help me. Are you honestly going to play along with my father’s stupid rules? Are you going to be complicit in keeping me from experiencing my own sexuality?” I shake away the wince that tries to grip my face, then I take a breath and meet his gaze. His hungry, teetering on the verge of giving in to temptation , gaze…

I sit taller, lift my chest, and hope it’ll draw his attention. “Just be real with me, Daryl. I spend way too much time imagining all the ways our obvious chemistry might lead somewhere, and I don’t want to go another day without knowing if it will. So just tell me once and for all. Are you interested in having hot, secret sex with me, or are you going to stand there and deny us both of what we want because you’re scared to get caught tarnishing my reputation? Because at my current level of frustration with the status quo, I’d be open to a thorough tarnishing, Daryl.” I roll my chair backward, to make it easier for him to receive my provocative invitation, as I slowly lift my long skirt to my hips and spread my legs. “Wide open.”