If only Harlow could bake...
What the hell did that matter?
“By the way,” Brook Lynn said, peeking around Jase. “I saw Harlow Glass in town.”
Beck lost all interest in the game. Not that he’d had any to begin with. “Where is she?”
“Well, well. I thought you might be interested,” she said and shook her head. “I just hoped I was wrong, that you’d—”
Beck spoke over her with a clipped “Where?”
“She was snooping around the library.”
The library again? He raced out of the game room, grabbed his wallet and called, “I’ll be back in a bit.” He didn’t need keys. His car had a push-button start, which activated with his thumbprint.
His friends’ laughter followed him all the way outside, but he didn’t care. He drove so fast he left skid marks on the road, breaking speed records as lush trees, rolling hills and wild strawberry patches whizzed past, nothing but a blur. Only when he reached the town square did he slow to a crawl. Pedestrians strolled along sidewalks, and kids too young for school played chase underneath a large red-and-white-striped umbrella.
Everyone who spotted him smiled and waved, and it did something odd to his insides.
He parked in back of the library, the lot empty. There was no sign of Harlow. If she’d already taken off...well, he might just tear the town apart looking for her. He stormed around to the front—and finally felt as if he could breathe.
She stood at the door, muttering to herself. “I can do this. I can. I have lady balls, and they’re big. Huge.”
He fought a grin. Lady balls?
She hadn’t yet noticed him, so he took a moment to drink her in. The gleam of her dark hair. The glow of her skin, now scrubbed free of dirt, revealing more freckles for him to count...to trace with his tongue. But her cheeks had hollowed a bit, he noticed with a frown. Had she eaten today?
There went what remained of his amusement. She wore another too-thin shirt, and a pair of jean shorts too big for her, bagged low on her waist. Her sandals were frayed at the buckles.
Just how poor was she?
“Harlow,” he said, loving the taste of her name.
Nothing. No reaction from her.
“I can do this,” she muttered.
He closed the distance, ghosted his knuckles over the heated satin of her cheekbone. A mistake. Not only because she gasped and swung toward him, one of her palms fluttering to her chest while the other extended to push him away, but because the contact jacked him up. Made him desperate for another touch. Any touch, as long as it came from her.
Her panic morphed into consternation as his identity clicked. “Beck.” She took a minute to control her accelerated breathing. “What are you doing here?”
“What do you think I’m doing here? I’ve come to continue my study on the art of seduction.”
“Please.” Those gorgeous baby blues seemed to cut through a veneer he’d worked years to perfect, reaching the black soul he would have done anything to cleanse. “You’re already an expert, and you know it.”
“So you’ve succumbed to my charms already?” A man could hope.
“Me? Succumb to you? Never!” She flicked her hair over her shoulder, saying defiantly, “You’re like a brother to me.”
Careful to moderate his tone, he said, “Is that why you ran from me yesterday?” He even managed to adopt an indulgent expression as he leaned his shoulder against the doorpost. “Because I’m like a stepbrother you can’t stop dreaming about?”
A pretty blush bloomed in her cheeks and even extended down her neck, under her collar. A blush like that gave him ideas. Bad, bad ideas. “I didn’t run from you,” she admitted, “but from what was going to happen once I passed through those doors.”
Relief drove him to reach for her. He couldn’t have stopped the action if he’d tried—Have to touch her. He twined their fingers, the feel of her skin tantalizing and teasing him. Though she resisted at first, she soon stilled, a tangible spark erupting between them, burrowing into him, whirring through him. He shuddered with awareness and unwittingly erased what remained of her personal space, needing to be closer to her on the most primitive level. To take from her. To give to her.
“Beck?” she whispered, suddenly panting. “What are you doing?”
He didn’t know. He couldn’t seem to control his reactions to her, his body burning for hers.
Frustrated by her—and himself—he released her and stepped back. “You had a shift at the Bungalow last night? Is that why you didn’t come over this morning?”
She rubbed at her wrist, as if she could still feel him there, and it only made him want to touch her longer, harder. “Uh, yep. That’s right. Had trouble with one of the regulars.”
“He get grabby during one of your famous bump-and-grinds?”
“Yeah. Thankfully the bouncers kicked him out before he ever made contact.”
At least she was sticking to her story. “I promise to keep my hands to myself...at least for a little while...if you’ve changed your mind and want to give me that lap dance.”
“Sorry, but I still plan to garden for you. After I learn how to garden.”
“Why not research in the privacy of your own home, on a computer? You do have a computer, don’t you? Or at least a phone with internet access.” Tell me the truth, sweetheart. For once.
“Maybe I just prefer the old-fashioned way. Did you ever think of that?”
A supposition rather than a lie. I’m on to you now, honey. “Let’s go inside, then.”
She nibbled on her bottom lip. “The librarian hates me for something I did as a teenager.”
“Ah. Fixing public relations problems just happens to be my specialty.” He flung his arm over her shoulders, ignored the rightness of having her softness pressed against his hardness once again and urged her forward. “Give me five minutes, and she’ll love you.”
“Impossible,” Harlow said, but this time she allowed him to lead her past the door.
He felt the sweet intensity of her gaze lingering on his profile, and like everything else about her, it affected him deeply. “What will you give me if I succeed?”
“My eternal gratitude.”
“Well, that’s certainly a good start.”
The room was small and crammed with dozens of shelves. The scent of old books and dust assailed him as a short, round woman with silver streaks in her slicked-back hair walked around the checkout desk with the precision of a military commander. Glasses hung around her neck, bouncing with her every step.
“Harlow Glass.” Her features pinched with displeasure. “You are not welcome here. You’ve been told repeatedly not to darken—”
“Ms. Cavanaugh,” Beck said, reading the name tag pinned to the collar of her dress. “It’s so lovely to finally meet you.” He claimed her hand, kissed her knuckles. “Had I known a woman such as yourself guarded these precious tomes, I would have come much sooner.”
“Yes. Well.” She cleared her throat and returned her attention to Harlow. “You know you’re not supposed to—”
“I hope you don’t mind our intrusion,