Chapter 2

I’m playingwith fire by coming here, but I can’t not check on her. And I have an excuse.

The Harley burbles as I direct it toward the Heatstroke Public Library. It’s been a day since Hannah choked on a hot pepper, and I’ve spent every minute thinking about what happened.

I haven’t been angry enough to lose control in years. Not since before I moved to Heatstroke, but yesterday, I nearly lost it. That fucking dumbass. It still makes me boil with anger—the sight of Hannah red in the face, dragging on that reporter’s arm, dropping to her knees in front of him while he gave her a vacant “TV-friendly” smile and announced she was out of the contest.

What kind of man was he to let that happen?

What kind of man are you?

I park the Harley in a spot outside the library, take off my helmet, hang it over my handlebar, and snap the helmet lock into place. I grab the book on horticulture from my saddlebag and head up the stone steps toward the open front doors.

Turn around.

But I won’t or I can’t.

I made a promise to look out for her. And another promise I try not to think about, and the two parts of my brain are warring. I manage to convince myself that I’m being a good friend to Cash by the time I enter the library.

Hannah’s not at the glossy front counter, the wood worn from years of use, so I tuck the book under my arm and head between the stacks. I nod to the elderly woman behind the counter, and she purses her lips. Maybe because she was there for my loss of temper yesterday. Or maybe it’s the permanent frown I wear.

The library smells like every library on the planet. Books, a hint of dust, and old wood. The quiet in here is a comfort, but it doesn’t stop me from pacing up and down the rows of books with my features twisted into a scowl.

Shouldn’t be here. This is a bad fucking idea.

But I can’t forget it. My arms wrapped around her middle, the soft scent of her floral perfume, hints of roses and something else I couldn’t place. Her blue eyes staring up at me, wide, shining, innocent.

You’re sick. You’re a sick, sick man. This is my best friend’s little sister. She is ten years younger than me, for fuck’s sake.

I pace back to the front of the library, the book under my arm, and stop near the romance section, my gaze tracing the spines of the books.

“There you are, Hannah,” the librarian at the counter says.

“Sorry, Irma, I had to use the bathroom,” Hannah replies, her voice sweet and soft.

Normal. Her voice is normal. Her voice is almost childlike. But I can’t convince myself of that, because it’s not. It’s a tempting voice from a twenty-eight-year-old woman.

“Again?” Irma asks.

“Yeah, let’s just say habaneros and I do not get along.”

The corners of my lips twitch, and I stroke my beard, staying behind the shelf and out of line of sight.

“It’s such a pity that happened yesterday,” Irma says, and she doesn’t sound upset enough in my humble opinion. “You vomited all over Richard Walton, you know. People are not going to forget that any time soon. Goodness, I’m surprised you decided to come into work today. I wouldn’t dare show my face after that.”

Hannah clears her throat. “I didn’t vomit on him.”

“Well, what on earth would you call it? He was covered in pieces of pepper. I heard The Heatstroke Hit Piece is going to interview him about the ordeal. I’m surprised they haven’t been in contact.”

“My official comment is that I have no comment,” Hannah says. “And what I’d call it, Irma, is nearly choking to death on a mouthful of peppers. Or ‘the incident.’” She lets out a sigh that makes me grit my teeth. “I just want to put the whole darn thing behind me. I want to put this town behind me, now that we’re talking about it.”

“You’re still going to do it then, dear?” Irma asks.

“Yeah. I’ve saved up enough money. I just have to book the tickets. Work up the courage to tell my family.”

My fists ball up and release. She’s leaving?

“We’re going to miss you,” Irma says. “But maybe it’s for the best. Give the town some time to cool off after what happened yesterday. People were shocked, especially when Carter Savage accosted poor Mr. Walton.”

“He was trying to help,” Hannah says.

“I’ve never seen him behave that way. Like an animal. I heard he was getting up to all sorts of strange things out on that ranch, but?—”

“He’s running a self-defense camp,” Hannah cuts in. “He’s an ex-Navy SEAL so he was probably just worried about the safety standards or something.”

I wish that was why. Fuck, I’m not entirely sure why I blew my lid like that. I don’t want to believe it’s because of Hannah.

The conversation between the women dies down as another person enters the library and returns their books. I grab a book off the shelf in front of me, then head over to the counter where Hannah’s working.

She is beautiful. Beyond compare.

Her dark hair falls loose around her shoulders today, and she’s wearing those black cat’s eye glasses on the tip of her button nose as she peers down at the computer screen. It’s summer, and Hannah’s camisole is tight across her chest, showing off perky tits and an expanse of tan cleavage that reminds me how bad of a choice this was to come here today.

Irma gives me a sideways glance but continues helping the man at her side of the counter.

I place the books down.

Hannah gives a benign smile and tears her gaze away from the screen. “Hi—oh,” she says, and her smile disappears the minute our eyes meet.

“Returning.” I tap the book on horticulture. “Checking out.” I tap the book I grabbed off the shelf. I haven’t even read its title. It’s just an excuse to check on her.

But you already did. You don’t need to be here.

Hannah’s lips part, and she gnaws on her bottom lip. “Oh. Right.” She glances down. “Right. Yeah. Okay, so you’re returning a book on horticulture, huh?” Her voice squeaks. “That’s great. Are you learning how to… horticult?” Two pink spots appear on her cheeks. “I mean, uh, grow things? You’re learning how to grow. Plants. Not you. Ha.” She lifts a hand to her forehead and then drops it again. “It’s been a long day, sorry, you know, after and the whole… pepper-spewing incident yesterday? I’ve, uh, been meaning to thank you for that. So, thank you. It was the most horrifying moment of my life, but at least I’m alive to experience the shame and humiliation, right?”

“You’re welcome.” I place my library card on the counter.

Her throat works as she swallows, those gorgeous lips part again and she wets them. “Well, that’s great. Thanks! I was just about to ask for your library lard.” She squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head. “Card.”

She is so fucking adorable it makes me angry. “Can you hurry it up?”

“Right!” She scans my card and taps away on the computer with the tips of her cute pink nails. Her hands are artistic, her fingers long, and I picture them doing things that I shouldn’t. Running over her breasts, grasping them, sliding over the plane of her tan stomach, toward the hem of a lacy?—

“No fines, so that’s good.” She sucks in a breath and nearly chokes on it. She makes a grab for the book, just as I lower my gaze to the cover.

And the couple on the cover, caught in a romantic embrace. The guy has Fabio hair and a bare chest, and the woman is swooning in his arms, wearing a cotton shift that hides nothing.

The title, Riding the Wind, is printed across the cover in sweeping lettering, and I’m regretting the fact that I did not check what I picked off the shelf before coming over. I’m more of an “enemies-to-lovers” man.

“Oh,” Hannah says. “Oh, well, I… Wow. No horticulting tonight, I guess.” She shifts her glasses up her nose. “Sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Nothing at all, Princess.

She hurriedly stamps the book for me, scans my card, and slides both of them back. “There you go.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, of course.”

I tuck the book under my arm and study her. “You good?” The memory of that reporter ignoring her has my jaw clenched tight.

“Yes,” she says, and glances sideways, clearly uncomfortable. “Are you?”

I grunt, and then I turn and walk off.

“Have a nice day!” she calls out.

The only way my day is going to be “nice” is if I manage to forget the way she smells, moves, and talks. Which is not going to happen, because there’s a potluck at Ganny Taylor’s house tonight, and I’m attending.

I don’t date women. I don’t even think about touching women any more. But Hannah Taylor has and always will make me question everything. And that’s exactly why I’ll never get too close.