Sawyer choked on his lemonade.
“You find that funny, Mr. McCall?”
Hell, yes. Weren’t politicians supposed to kiss babies and suck up to people? Becca was far too imperious for that. She hadn’t even been able to pay for a pizza without lecturing the hapless delivery boy.
She misinterpreted the smile he was fighting. “I’ll have you know that women are every bit as capable as—”
“Whoa. No argument here. I’ve known plenty of badass women.”
“So what’s the big joke?” She challenged, those eyes sparking again.
He doubted there was any answer that wouldn’t get him in trouble. Might as well go with the truth. “The idea of you courting votes is a little funny, don’t you think? You seem like someone who speaks her mind, whether the opinion is popular or not.”
“And that’s bad? Community leaders should be honest and straightforward.”
“In theory, sure.” Feeling Marc’s gaze on him reminded Sawyer that there was a seven-year-old listening to his cynicism. “But don’t listen to me. I’m just an outsider. What do I know about the people of Cupid’s Bow?”
Becca stood, gathering up the empty plates. “About that—you being an outsider? Would you mind finishing your lemonade on the porch and enjoying the evening breeze while I call Brody Davenport? I need to start checking your references.”
“No problem.” He scraped his chair back. “Checking up on me is the responsible thing to do.”
She gave him a smile that was part apology, part amusement. “Well, I’d hate to accidentally rent the room to a dangerous alien robot.”
“That would be awesome!” Marc said.
“Which,” she told him affectionately, “is why I’m the one who makes the decisions around here.”
Sawyer understood not letting a second grader run the household, but alien robots aside, he was pretty sure Becca preferred to be the one making decisions no matter who was involved. Just like Charlie. But a hell of a lot prettier.
* * *
AFTER BECCA FINISHED her phone call, she tucked in Marc, who was supposed to read for thirty minutes, then go to sleep. From the excitement on his small freckled face, she suspected he wouldn’t be falling asleep anytime soon. She wasn’t sure yet how she felt about her new tenant, but she had to admit he’d been great with her son.
She should go thank him. And let him know the room was officially his.
She stepped onto the front porch, where the heat was sticky in comparison to the air-conditioned house but not intolerable. Intolerable came in August. Sawyer glanced up from the swing with that too-appealing grin that could’ve belonged to a movie star; the spectacularly vivid sunset behind him added a cinematic effect. The only thing missing was a musical score. Becca told herself she was unaffected and had always liked books more than films, anyway.
“Did Brody vouch for me?” he asked.
“He said I should kick you to the curb—that you’re a pain in the ass who likes to get his own way.”
Sawyer shrugged. “Well, who doesn’t like to get his way?”
Hard to argue that. Brody had also said Sawyer was dependable, loyal and never drank to excess or let himself get goaded into bar fights, like a few of their former rodeo friends.
“Let me show you the room. Pay me cash for tonight, and you can decide in the morning how long you’re staying, after you’ve had a chance to judge the accommodations for yourself.” She almost said something about making sure the bed was comfortable, but stopped herself, recalling his comment about sheets earlier. She did not need to hear any jokes about what took place in his bed.
He unfolded himself from the swing, and she took a moment to appreciate the novelty of being with someone taller than she was. Only a handful of men here in Cupid’s Bow were. In elementary school, she’d hated being the tallest in her class—probably the tallest in the whole school. But she’d decided her height was an advantage at home. Towering over her siblings helped her secure their obedience.
She’d foolishly taken it as a good sign that she and her ex-husband had been the same height; she’d joked to a friend that there was no better way to start a life together than seeing eye to eye. Nice symbolism, lousy results. Pushing aside memories of her failed marriage, she opened the door.
After Sawyer’s reaction to her “pink” furniture, she was hyperaware of her feminine decorating touches as she led him to the back of the house. The hallway was lined with pictures of her and Marc in scallop-edged and filigree frames. A curved glass vase of yellow roses sat on the kitchen counter. The delicately patterned stair runner that went up to the second floor looked like lace from a distance.
Although Sawyer would never see it, her own bedroom was a frilly, silky haven complete with scented candles and ornamental pillows too small to have any practical purpose. Becca prided herself on being sensible and getting things done; she wielded coupons with genius, killed bugs and occasional rodents and could single-handedly fix a lot of the plumbing problems that came with home ownership. But after growing up in a grungy trailer with three brothers—and later, two sisters who wore their brothers’ hand-me-downs—she couldn’t resist surrounding herself with soft, girlie indulgences.
The staircase felt uncharacteristically cramped with Sawyer on the steps behind her, as if he was closer than decency permitted. She suddenly wished she was wearing a loose T-shirt that hung down past her butt instead of a tucked-in polo shirt. Don’t be ridiculous. There’s nothing wrong with your butt, and you don’t care about his opinion of it, anyway. Although...turnabout being fair play, it would make them even if he noticed her body. She’d certainly ogled his earlier today.
“The master bedroom, guest room and Marc’s room are all on this floor,” she said, as they reached the landing. “The attic is one more flight up.”
The extra trip involved a narrow spiral staircase with an iron railing.
A quarter of the way up, Sawyer huffed out an exaggerated breath. “Good thing I’m in shape. But just in case, do you know CPR?”
Of course she did. She’d taken half a dozen first-aid and emergency preparedness classes when she’d been pregnant. But she said nothing, refusing to encourage any jokes about her mouth on Sawyer’s—which didn’t stop the forbidden image from flashing through her mind. The man might be cocky and unapologetically brash, but he’d demonstrated moments of thoughtfulness this evening, too. The right combination of confidence and attentiveness could make for a devastating kiss. Her toes curled inside her sneakers.
Get a grip, Rebecca.
She had no business thinking about kissing her tenant. Or anyone else, until the centennial celebration was over. She was the chairwoman of the centennial committee, and a flawless series of public events would help her win this election. Stick to the plan.
While she was at it, she needed to stick to an impersonal, informative tour—more letting him know where the clean towels were, less imagining where his hands would be if he were kissing her. “Coming up from the outside will be a lot easier than this. The house was built into a little bit of a hill, so the staircase is short. Not to mention, using the private entrance will be less disruptive to me and Marc if you keep late hours.”
Would he be staying out late? He was a good-looking single man in a town with two bars and a popular dance hall. Opportunities abounded. Her stomach clenched. What if he wasn’t alone when he came back to his room at night?
She bit the inside of her lip, conflicted. She didn’t really have the right to insist he be celibate while he was in Cupid’s Bow...but she was responsible for the impressionable child sleeping one floor below.
The attic door