5/24/18

Romance Snippet Two:


A change from Snippet One posted earlier --  Gwen has become Gina -- don't know why, but the name just seemed more like the character herself.  Also, changed from first person to third person as I wanted several points of view in this romance.  Remember:  this is a work-in-progress!
 
Love Long Overdue
a Mr. Librarian romance

TWO


"What are you doin’ down there, lass?"  Carmichael put his hands on his knees and bent further down.  He was grinning ear to ear. 

"Nothing, just looking for signs of moles.  Old Mr. Anderson can't move around much anymore, so I try to do my bit."  Gina sneaked a peek to see his reaction.  God, just look at those hands, would ya?  Strong fingers, lean and clean.  What would they feel like on her --

"Moles, eh?  I don't see any holes anywhere.” 

“Of course not – I’m doing a good job keeping them away,” she huffed at him.  The grin just widened, showing white teeth against tanned skin. 

“Would you like to come out from under there now?  You must be a bit cramped."  He reached out a hand.  She chose to ignore it and started to scoot backwards.  Of course, that gave him a clean shot of her butt coming right at him.  Not exactly the most elegant exit, but then again, she wasn’t the elegant type.

But his hand was still waiting to help.  She grabbed it at the last second before she toppled over on said butt.  He tugged and she lunged, finding herself grasped firmly by two strong hands.

"Do you live here?"  Speechless, she nodded, feeling the warmth of his hands on her arms.  Little tingly things started happening and, damn, she thought she heard music, just like in those old classic movies.

Of course, idiot.  His cellphone was ringing. 

"Excuse me."  He released me and did a half-turn.  "Carmichael here . . . ah, ye don't say?  Really?  Be there in a tick."  He hung up and turned back to her, idiot woman who was still staring at his hands.  He extended one again.

"Name's Carmichael, Adam Carmichael.  And you are?"  His deep blue eyes watched her, probably wondering if she was suffering from a disability, like not getting one's brain in gear and putting two words together.  She blinked and shook her head up and down like a bobble doll.

"Yes, I live here.  Top floor.  Name's . . . "  What was her name?  Oh, yeah.  "Gina Bradshaw."  She finally looked up beyond his hand, her eyes roving up his chest, the open collar of his shirt revealing the hint of dark chest hairs, a strong jaw, a wide mouth still smiling until her gaze landed on his eyes.  She took the proffered hand, yanking it up and down like a well pump.

“Well, Gina Bradshaw, good to meet you,” he said.  He waved his hand to his car and back to the house.  “Just moving my things in, getting settled.”  He looked down at his hand, still being pumped.  “Do ye think I can have my hand back now, Gina?” 

She dropped it like it burned her skin. “Sorry!  My mind’s on other things.  Busy day, lots to do.”  She grabbed the shears and the daffs and started toward the garage door, but he was in the way.  She waited until he moved, then yanked the door open and left the shears on the potting table. 

"Well, I'll be off now.  See ya."  Gina spun on her heel, only to tumble to the side, the smooth surface of the ballet flats slipping in the grass.  He caught her.  Again.  She felt his warm breath on her cheek and stood stock still. 

"Careful there now."  She heard the low chuckle and tugged her arm free, then started back to the house, wanting to put as much distance between them as possible.  Her head was thick with thoughts and sensations.  She needed air.  She needed to calm those randy body parts.  She figured about two trays of ice cubes should do it.  She opened the back door and started for the stairs, but the damn Scotsman was right behind her. 

Yes, literally behind her.  Behind her behind, watching, she was sure, as she climbed.  As her foot hit the first landing, he tapped my arm.  Flashes of heat broke forth in her addled brain.  Good god, what the heck?  Get a grip, girl.

"You know you've got grass stains all over your as . . . uh, jeans."

"Yes, I know," she growled.

"You better put something on those stains.  They'll never come out."

"I’m well aware of that, thank you."  She lunged for the next steps but he continued to follow.  She stopped and turned, crossing her arms, blocking his way.  These last set of steps were hers.  No one but invited guests and her landlord came any further.  She pointed down the stairs.

"That landing is yours.  Your apartment is on the second floor, Carmichael."  Gina started to turn back but he caught her arm.  His grip was gentle but firm, and his eyes gleamed up at her in the half light from the landing window.

"I know where I live.  I just wanted to see you to your door.  In my country, that's what a gentleman does, you ken?"  A piece of her melted at those words, at the light burr of his accent.  She started to say something, but shut her mouth for fear of stammering.  She gave him a smile, nothing flashy or flirty.  Just a smile.

"Could we go out for a drink sometime?" he asked, as he shifted and came up a step, closing the space between them.  She was drowning in two blue pools rimmed by dark lashes.  Visions of a mountain lake lined by tall pines rose up in her mind's eye.  He hovered over her, his lips at her eye level.  Soft lips, wide and generous.  Things fluttered low in her belly and she sucked in air, knowing that if she didn't, she’d be toppling over the banister until her body – pasty white, mind you – was a mere splat on the floor three levels below.

"Ah, sure.  Sometime," she mumbled.  With all her strength, she turned, caught the last step and just about broke down the door to escape the man and what he was doing to her.  Not even ten minutes had she known him and already she was a puddle of helpless female longings.  Once inside, she leaned against the door, restraining herself from flipping the lock.  Not to keep him out, but to keep herself in.

This was something she'd never experienced before.  She’d always been the one to instigate the dance between man and woman.  She was assertive when she wanted someone.  Wasn't she?  Or was it that she always picked the passive guys, the oneswho needed to be prodded into motion, the ones who could be led around by the nose. 

Could Carmichael be led by the nose?  Highly doubtful.  But that would make it all the more exciting.  The thrill of the chase and all that.  But what about after the chase? 

Gina grabbed her cellphone and hit the speed dial for Julie’s salon while listening to Carmichael’s steps go back down the stairs.

“Yo!  I got you booked for 3:30 –“

“Houston, we have a problem,” Gina muttered, wiping a drop of sweat from the side of her face.

“Uh, oh.  What’s up?”

“Mr. Librarian.  Good god, my body is in meltdown, Julie.”

“Get your ass over here now.  Forget the tanning.  I’ve got a glass of pinot with your name on it.”  She hung up.

Right.  No tanning.  Julie and a glass of pinot. 

It wasn’t enough, but it would have to do. 

* * *

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5/3/18

Romance Snippet:


 It's funny how the writing process goes -- I was working on a new story, a contemporary romance, which is a switch for me, when suddenly there was a knock on my right brain door.  Two characters were standing there, acting as if I'd expected them -- Gwen and Adam.  

Where'd they come from?  And how did my right brain recognize them, along with the fact that it came up with a title for a new series, right then and there:  The Mr. Librarian Romance series?  My left brain was tapping at the window, trying to remind me about the other story I was working on.  But no matter what I did, Gwen and Adam kept surfacing -- as I drove home from work, as I worked in the garden, as I tossed and turned in bed at night.

So I finally gave in, let them stay, put the other story aside -- my apologies to those characters, but they seem the patient type -- and started in on this one.  

Contemporary, in the first person (which I'm not sure about, but thought I'd try) and located on Cape Cod, which I love dearly.  

* * *


A Love Long Overdue
a Mr. Librarian Romance


ONE


"So, did you hear about the new librarian?"

"What happened to the old one?"

"Hello?  Remember, she retired just before the holidays last year."

I munched on my chicken caesar wrap, keeping one eye on a lazy fly that kept circling my plate.

"Hmmm, no, can't say I remember that.  But then again I'm not at the library that often.  Actually, never, now that I think about it."  Who had time these days, working two part-time jobs to make ends meet didn't leave me much time for reading.  I was lucky if I remembered to DVR my favorite television series. 

Julie glanced over at me, her eyes squinting in deep thought.

"You work too hard."

Understatement if I ever heard one.  I laughed.

"You're right.  So who's the new lady librarian?"  I downed my ice tea.  God, who knew it would be this hot in May, especially on the Cape where the ocean breezes usually didn't warm up until later in June.

"Ha, no lady -- it's a guy!" 

"No shit. A guy?  Must be an old fuddy-duddy, an absent-minded professor type, uh?"  I stretched out my long legs, noting how white and pasty they looked in the midday sunlight.  I wondered if I could squeak in a few tanning sessions between jobs.  Probably not; better to just keep wearing jeans and long skirts.  It'd be cheaper, too.

Julie poked me with a long, hot pink fake finger nail.

"Nope, got that wrong.  He's hot.  Very hot.”

"On a scale?"  Our measuring system for new prospects.  Although it never seemed to be accurate.  How many times had Julie and I given a guy the "hot" or "very hot" rating, only to find out he was a dud, a doofus, a big fat zero.

"Most definitely a nine; maybe even a ten."  She stretched out her legs after finishing off the cheeseburger and fries.  Even though Julie's legs were short, they were so tan they made my eyes water.  But then again, Julie was rolling in dough, her salon and spa business the busiest place in town.  It was the local watering hole for most of the women over twenty, a place where you could hunt and gather gossip, learn tips about who to date and who to avoid like the plague, and indulge in a free glass of wine after 3 o'clock most afternoons.

"What makes him a ten?  And what's his name?"  I watched as a fishing boat pulled into the harbor, a few seals following in its wake, hoping for the cast-offs.  I recognized the boat and spotted Hank steering inside the small cabin. My current on-again, off-again beau.  Good looking but not too much upstairs.  A beer and Boston Celtics kind of guy, which was all right with me.  For now, anyway.  I couldn't handle anything deeper at the moment.  The rest I’d held off on because . . . well, not sure.  Maybe my libido was running on empty at the moment.  Two jobs and college loans to pay off could do that to a girl.  Except I wasn’t a ‘girl’ any longer.  Closing in on the mid-thirties mark, I figured I was nearing ‘crone’.

Julie signaled for the check and a refill on her coffee. She looked over at me, and I started to break a sweat.  Julie had a way about her that unnerved me more times than I liked to admit.  Her stare was like a laser, picking up on my ticks and twitches, when I was due for my period, or a highlighting of my somewhat dull brown hair. 

"Get this -- he's from Scotland, thirty-six, tall, dark hair and blue eyes.  Be still my heart!"

"Name?"  My mind was abuzz, trying to picture a tall, dark, brooding Scotsman.  I wondered if he wore a kilt.  Every woman in the world probably wonders what’s under the kilt.  Definitely crunch time for that tanning parlor.

Julie closed her eyes for a second, conjuring up the guy's name. Obviously, she'd spent too much time taking inventory of his physical aspects to remember his name.  Which made me wonder how many women in this small town had done the same already.  Where had I been during all this brouhaha?

"Adam.  Adam Carmichael.  Nice, uh?"  There was that laser stare of hers again.  I kept my head averted and my eyes on the fishing boat, then waved to Hank when he looked up and spotted me.  He gave me that half-grin that used to make my heart beat faster, but now it just kept thudding steadily in my chest.  Thump, thump, thump.  Slow and steady.  Visions of muscular legs and a kilt interefered with my thought process. 

"Adam Carmichael," I said, liking the way it sounded, the way the name rolled off my tongue.  I slapped my legs, stood up and stretched to my full five foot, ten inch height, flipping the thick rope of braid over my shoulder.  Riding a bike around town in this heat required that masses of hair must be relegated to a braid or I'd internally combust.

"I think it's time I renewed my library card," I chirped, wanting to hit the road before Hank headed our way.  Not that I was avoiding him.  But then again there was a new guy to investigate, possibly with a kilt.  I reached for my shoulder bag and handed Julie a ten dollar bill.  "Will that cover it?"  She waved it aside. 

"First off, you never had a library card in your life, dumb-ass.  And second, keep that ten and come by for your highlighting. You're looking a bit peeked these days.  You need more zip." 

We walked out to the parking lot, and I snagged my bike from the side of the cafe.  Yup, zip, that's what I needed.  Zip in my hair, zip in some of my body parts.  Mostly my body parts.  They'd been dormant for so long, I sometimes wondered if I had moved into menopause and not even realized it. 

Zip. Adam Carmichael, male librarian.  Well, I could think of worse things, but seducing a librarian, a bookish-geek type who happened to be hot-looking wouldn't be a bad way to spend the summer months now, would it?  Life on the Cape was looking up.

I swung myself onto the bike and skimmed along the side road, heading for the main drag that would eventually bring me up to the library.  But at the next stop sign, I paused for a moment, looking down at the pale legs, the cutoff shorts, the cheesy t-shirt.  I fingered the braid while I assessed my appearance.

Nah, this wasn't going to work.  I needed a shower, the highlights, some make-up first.  I'd have to dig through my trunk for a summer dress, my winter clothes still hanging in the closet. But it wouldn't hurt to ride by the library, would it?  Maybe Adam Carmichael would be outside taking his lunch break or sitting on one of the park benches, chatting with the patrons.

I took off once again and a few minutes later crested the small rise in the road.  The Jefferson Library, built in the late 19th century, sat on a hill overlooking the town.  It had one of the best views -- or so I heard, seeing as I'd never stepped foot inside the library in all the years I'd lived here. 

Avoiding the cars at the traffic circle, I pulled onto the sidewalk and continued on foot until I could rest the bike against a tree and observe the front doors.  Mothers and toddlers were surging out, while several seniors tried to move past the tribes and get into the building.  It was school break week, so several teens were lying on the grass, soaking in the sun; two of them were tossing a Frisbee half-heartedly.

And then I saw him. It had to be Mr. Librarian.  He towered over everyone else, wavy dark hair tickling against the open collar of a crisp, white shirt. My fingers started tingling wondering how it would feel to run them through those waves.  Would it feel like silk?  Or maybe thick and wiry? 

As he approached the teens, I thought, oh yeah, here it comes.  He's going to ask them to stop, to move away, blah, blah, blah.  Just like old lady what's her name.  I leaned against the tree and waited for the confrontation.  The teens looked up as he drew closer, their expressions taking on the typical I'm bored, I don't want to be here mask.

I noticed that the cut of his khakis was nice and snug around his hips and butt.  A very nice butt, too.  I'd expected a flabby butt from sitting around reading all day.  And glasses.  He wasn't wearing glasses, which should be part-and-parcel of the librarian uniform, shouldn't it? 

He stopped and raised his hand.  The teens looked at each other and then one of them tossed the Frisbee.  Hard.  The thing sliced through the air at least two feet over his head.  Carmichael made a deft leap and caught it.  No wobbles, sweet and clean.  He was grinning like a kid as he let go the Frisbee with a snap of his wrist, low and swift, skimming the grass, making the other teen lunge for it, catching it just in time before he hit the ground. 

I couldn't hear what they were saying to each other, but it was clear that Carmichael had just made two new friends.  Not too shabby, Mr. Librarian, I thought.  And then he looked over in my direction, lifting one brow in question.  I leaned back, trying to slip around the tree trunk, but not before he smiled and gave a half-wave. 

Shit!  He’d caught me scoping him out, staring at him. Maybe he really did wear glasses, maybe he was near-sighted.  Yeah, right.  And maybe I'm blonde, stacked and have oodles of money in the bank.  I yanked the bike and headed off in the opposite direction, pedaling as fast as I could.  I'd take the back roads to my little apartment and re-think this librarian thing.

Maybe Hank was okay.  I'd just stick with the familiar, the known factor.  No stress, no embarrassing moments like just before.  And maybe I'd spend the rest of my life popping beers and watching the sports channels with Hank. 

Nope, not going to happen.  Wheeling the bike onto the back porch, I secured the lock and sat on the top step, staring out into the garden that wrapped around the backyard of the three-family house.  Daffodils and tulips dotted the beds under flowering spikes of forsythia.  In the far corner, a large magnolia tree swayed in the warm breeze that lifted its tentacles of creamy white, star-like blossoms.  It made me think about the Japanese paintings I'd seen in the MFA in Boston years ago, a place I retreated to often when I was slogging my way through college, finally earning my degree in accounting.

And where was I now, almost ten years later?  Working two jobs, crunching numbers for two local CPA firms.  Exciting stuff, uh?  Something had to change and soon.  I didn't know what, but I just knew that if I didn't make something happen, my life would continue to slide along, day by day, year after year until one day I found myself filing for Medicare.

I yanked up a weed that was coming up through the step, squashing it in my hand with more force than necessary.  I'd watched my mom and dad slide along like that, always making plans to do something -- travel, install a new kitchen, move to the city once the kids were grown and out of the house.  But they never did.  Like Hank, it was television, sports, news, dinner, then bed.  Same thing the next day, the next week, the next year until they died.

I sighed.  This rummaging about in the past was doing me no good at all.  Live for today, plan for tomorrow.  I jumped up and climbed the back stairs to my apartment on the third floor.  I flipped on the AC in the living/dining/kitchen area, all one large space under the eaves of the house, then stepped into the bedroom at the opposite end of the house and hit the AC button, moving it to high.  The top floor tended to trap the heat from below, so I spent most of the year in shorts and t-shirts even if it was snowing outside.  Sometimes I think the second job was just to pay for my electric bill.  But with three dormer windows, east, south and west, each with a tiny balcony, I was more than content with my third-floor aerie.  The views alone were amazing and the light was incredible.

Hitting the speed dial of my cell, I made an appointment for a tanning session later that afternoon, then called Julie to see if she could squeeze me in for a touch-up.  After a good long soak in the tiny shower, all scrubbed and cleaned from head to toe, I applied a honeysuckle-scented lotion and did my toe nails in a soft, bronzy shade.  Forget about my fingernails -- I tended to gnaw on them ever since I quit smoking eight years ago.  There was little to work with there. 

The hair I would leave for Julie to deal with.  I moved off to the closet and squirreled around in the trunk holding my summer clothes and came up with a dandy pair of white jeans and a navy-blue V-neck top, the deep blue setting off my hazel-green eyes.  Some mascara and a dab of toned lip gloss, finished off with a pair of silver hoop earrings, completed the ensemble.  I stepped back and looked in the full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door.

Okay, not to panic.  Still in good shape.  Flat tummy, tight ass, pale skin fairly well covered up for now.  Hair will be tackled shortly.  Since I'd be driving my clunker there was no need for the braid.  I'd let the hair do its thing, loose and somewhat wild, tiny corkscrews framing my face.  But Julie would tame those down. 

Shoes or sandals?  I crawled on the floor next to the bed and reached under, feeling for the familiar ballet flats dotted with flowers.  Cute but not silly.  I blew off the dust bunnies and wiped the flats down with a damp wash cloth.  I made a note to vacuum under the bed, not just around it.

I had some time before the tanning session, so I puttered around the place, scooping up the week's debris -- newspapers, tissues, yesterday's dinner still sitting on the coffee table.  I refilled the bird feeder attached to the kitchen window, then decided to cut some flowers for the apartment. It needed color after the long winter months.  I dashed down the stairs again and out into the yard.  My landlord, Homer Anderson, always kept the side door to the bank of garages unlocked, so I picked up a pair of small shears and headed toward the daffodils. 

The sound of a car caught my attention as I leaned down and started snipping.  A door slammed and footsteps sounded on the gravel driveway.  I glanced over my shoulder and almost fell over.  Thank god for the surrounding shrubs because there was Adam Carmichael heading down the driveway toward the front of the house, carrying a large duffle bag and another slung over his shoulder.  Then he disappeared around the corner of the house.  I sat down hard on the grass.  

Oh, come on, this must be a dream!  No, a bad nightmare.  Mr. Librarian living in the same house as me?  It couldn't be.  Maybe he had an evil twin, a doppelganger?  Maybe that chicken caesar wrap was bad and I was suffering from food poisoning? 

The sound of footsteps returned, so I did a fast crawl on my hands and knees until I was hidden under a large evergreen.  Peeking through the branches, I could see Carmichael pulling bags of groceries from the local market out of the trunk.  He turned and looked out at the back yard, frowning.  He put the bags back and started to walk toward the garden. 

I looked over my shoulder to see what was bothering him.  The shears and daffodils lay only about ten feet away where I had ditched them before finding my hidey-hole.  I scooted back a bit more, not breathing, watching him draw closer.  He stopped and looked around, then bent down to pick up the flowers and shears.  He turned his head.  I froze.

*   *   *
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