Chapter One
Dewey Decimal Classification: 040 Unassigned
[Naomi]
I’m going to be forty.
Someday.
Soon-ish.
And I’m thinking these things as I stand in the baking aisle of the Piggly Wiggly late at night, while the world is out partying, and I’m grocery shopping. Alone. At ten-fifteen.
Sigh.
Okay, maybe not the world. Just Green Valley, Tennessee. It’s Friday night and most of Green Valley is attending the weekly jam session, a night of musical talent and good things to eat, at the community center. I don’t attend for several reasons.
I used to go, though.
When I was a teen, I was a wild child. Naomi, God put a spirit in you, girl, my mother would say.
It wasn’t a god, though, at least not one I readily believed in. The spirit wasn’t something placed in me, but something I was born with—something I tried to contain. Daughter of a preacher and a woman who thought she wanted to be a nun, my home was ultraconservative growing up.
Don’t drink. Don’t smoke. Don’t dance.
As soon as I was told not to do those things as a teen, it’s exactly what I wanted to do. Then I turned twenty-one. Recollection of that night pulls my heart in opposing directions, like a tug-of-war within my chest.
I reach for a box of brownie mix to chase away the memories. Chocolaty squares of heaven solve everything. Truthfully, I could make these from scratch. I have a great recipe and guilt gnaws at me as I consider the boxed mix. I volunteered to bring a dessert to a luncheon hosted at the library. I could always order something premade from Donner Bakery or grab something from the pre-packaged goods section here at the grocer, but where’s the fun in that? Adding water, oil, and an egg to the dry mix will make me feel as if I’ve accomplished something.
Julianne MacIntyre can probably sniff out a box-made dessert, and my holistic approach to life prefers I remain all natural. My beliefs are different from the norm. I’m a Wiccan. I celebrate nature, purity, and most importantly, the spirit of women. Mother Nature is my guide. She’s the Goddess Supreme, or rather the Triple Goddess is my ruler. Local rumor is I’m a witch, but my story is nothing fantastical. I’m a librarian at the Green Valley Public Library.
I look left and right, make certain no one notices me, and add the brownie mix to my handheld basket. Sometimes, you just need to break the rules. Tonight, I need quick and easy, I console my conscience as I head for the checkout lane. Ten items or less. I always want to take a red pen to the sign. It’s ten items or fewer. At this time of night, I don’t see how many items a person carries would matter. I’m the only one in here except for Sara Stokes.
“How’s it going, Ms. Winters?” Sara Stokes has the misfortune of once being married to Deveron Stokes, the dry cleaner. He was not a good man and his ex-wife suffered the repercussions of reproducing with him. He was a child support dodger to the nth degree, thus her job working the night shift at the Piggly Wiggly. As a woman roughly my age, it was strange she called me Ms. Winters, but then again, all the mommas were used to formally addressing me in front of their children.
“Just fine, Sara, and yourself?” I’m only half listening to her response as I place my plastic basket on the conveyor, preparing to set my items on the belt when I feel a presence next to me. Someone tall, solid, burly. The scent alone signals he’s all spicy male, and without thought, my head turns. Then my breathing halts.
Nathan Ryder.
Standing six plus, double my size, and with a chest covered by a leather jacket, he peers down at me with silver-colored eyes I’ll never forget. He nods in greeting but I don’t respond. My tongue swells three times larger. My tongue. The same one that tangled with his and licked his—oh my. My gaze drifts down to the very spot I shouldn’t be remembering, a place on him I shouldn’t be imagining.
My hand comes to the collar of my linen peasant blouse, and I tug.
Is it warm in here? Why is the heat on in September? Am I experiencing hot flashes already?
Still drawn to him, my eyes climb up his mountain height and fall again on the unusual spark in his eyes. His hair—more chrome than ink—matches the metallic stitching in the black leather of his jacket. His hair isn’t as long as I remember, being cropped close to his head, almost military in style.
“Ms. Winters?” Sara says, interrupting my perusal of this hunk of man and calling attention to the fact that my basket sits on the belt, but I haven’t unloaded the items, keeping the handle looped over my arm, and fighting the tug of the conveyor. I look ridiculous.
Shaky fingers come to my long white and gray streaked hair, and nervously comb back the strands. My appearance adds to the witch rumors—wild curls of premature gray, clothing made of natural fabrics, and black lace-up boots. A finger catches in my hoop earring and I struggle for a second with myself. A sharp tug and the silver circle releases, flinging from my sensitive earlobe and flicking Nathan in the chest.
Ow. My eyes sting with the release but I notice he catches the jewelry as it ricochets off the hard plains of his pecs under the soft-gray Henley he wears. He holds my earring out in between thick fingers I instantly recall tweaking my nipples once. Maybe twice.
With noticeably trembling fingers, I reach for the hoop.
“Sorry about that,” I mutter, as if I did it on purpose. Right? Who would purposefully stick her fingers in her own nest of hair, get said finger hooked on her dime-store earring, and flip it at a burly man dressed like he’s in a motorcycle club?
I’m a hot mess.
Did I mention how warm it is in the Piggly Wiggly?
I lower my eyes, willing myself to look away from him when I notice he holds only one item.
Is that a box of condoms?
Sweet Goddess, grant me strength.
My eyes flick to his zipper region again, and then I turn away. My cheeks flood with heat, undoubtedly matching the maroon swirls in my ankle-length skirt. I’m fifty shades of red and then some.
“You only have the one item?” I question, no longer able to look in his direction as he taps the box on the metal edge of the counter. I tug my basket upward and step back. “Why don’t you go ahead of me?”
There isn’t enough space between the checkout counter and the rack of candy behind me for the two of us, yet he shifts his large body to face mine and steps forward, pinning my back to the bars of chocolate and bags of trail mix behind me.
His eyes catch mine for a moment, widening in surprise before narrowing in question. He doesn’t appear to recognize me and why would he? It’s been a long time. He gives his head a shake, more like a twitch, and straightens. A mischievous curve appears at the corner of his lips and leaning toward me just the slightest bit, he says, “You sure you don’t want to go first?” And just like that I’m propelled back in time to a night I’ve told myself to forget, and yet, never have. The deep timbre of his voice melts over me like drizzled caramel, suggestively hinting at something I know he doesn’t mean. A pulse beats at the cookie crunch in my center while I stare back at him, swollen tongue and all.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” he adds when I don’t respond. His rough tone drips like nougat and fills my mind with candy-coated metaphors. My head shakes to dismiss his gratitude and he slides forward. And I mean slides, allowing his body to glide across mine in a leisurely drag. His firm upper body narrowly misses my face, but his lower area does not escape my belly, which does its own roundoff back handsprings as the awkwardness of something other than a candy bar—yet strong and yummy—swipes over me. The pressure lasts no more than a few seconds, but I’m like a champagne fountain come to life without a single glass to collect the bubbly drink.