Trouble When You Walked In (Contemporary Romance) (25 page)

“You mean that Anne Silver woman?” Mrs. Hattlebury yelled.

The colonel stood next to his wife, bored, his eyes on the band, who were adjusting guitar and banjo straps, fixing mike heights, and twisting knobs on various black boxes on the floor.

“Yes, her,” Cissie yelled back. “Famous reporters should also never get involved with the subjects of their stories.”

“I agree,” said Mrs. Hattlebury. “She looks at Boone like he’s steak and she’s got A.1. in her purse ready to pour all over him.”

Cissie took a huge gulp of Mrs. Hattlebury’s wine because hers was gone. “There’s no way I’ll get a fair shake on
Morning Coffee
.”

“I’m quite sure it’ll be a Boone Braddock segment, and you’ll be a paltry second-level participant,” shouted Mrs. Hattlebury, who was the type of friend who confirmed your worst fears just when you secretly hoped she’d say you were crazy to be worried. “Honey, I saw all kinds of politics on those Elvis sets. A girl has to look out for herself. What will you do?”

Cissie sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe I should say something to Anne.”

“Which will backfire. No, you need to make sure you’re not invisible here tonight.”

“What do you mean?”

Mrs. Hattlebury’s eyes glinted with mischief. “Why, darlin’, you become the life of the party!”

“I’m no good at that,” said Cissie.

Mrs. Hattlebury looked her up and down. “First, you have to get rid of that boring blouse.”

“It’s a fine blouse!”

“Stand still.” Mrs. Hattlebury unbuttoned two more buttons at Cissie’s neck, then looked over her shoulder at her husband. “I need your pocket knife, dear.”

The colonel pulled one out of his jeans pocket without a word and handed it to his wife.

“What are you doing?” Cissie hissed when Mrs. Hattlebury opened the knife and poked at her shoulder.

“You’ll see. Drink the rest of my wine. I saw you sneaking it.”

“All right.” Cissie did as she was told.

Mrs. Hattlebury tore off one of Cissie’s sleeves.

“Good Lord,” said Cissie, “this is crazy.”

“Shush. Drink the colonel’s beer.”

“I hate beer.”

The other sleeve came off with a loud ripping noise.

Cissie drank the beer. Air poured down the gaping V at the top of her blouse, and now her arms were uncovered. She had to admit, she felt better. The bar was getting hot and stuffy.

“Okay,” said Mrs. Hattlebury, “now we need to add a little lipstick. Those makeup people didn’t do their jobs. You need my Red Rumbler.” She pulled a silver stick from her purse. “Lord, this hue was always Elvis’s favorite.”

“Did you ever kiss him?” Cissie asked.

Mrs. Hattlebury peered over her shoulder at the colonel’s back, then turned to Cissie, her best bad-girl look on. “What do you think?”

Cissie stuck out her lips, and Mrs. Hattlebury did what she had to do. Which was followed by a massive hair teasing with the colonel’s comb. When Mrs. Hattlebury was done, she gazed upward at Cissie’s hair with something like early 1960s joy.

“Look at her, Edward,” Mrs. Hattlebury said, a happy smile on her lips.

The colonel turned, and his eyes lit up. “Olivia, you’re a genius.”

“I know,” said Mrs. Hattlebury serenely. “Honey, pull out your flask and pour Cissie a little libation, and then she’s done for the night.”

“Yes, dear.” The colonel did as he was told.

Cissie thought she’d have to choke it down—it was straight Kentucky bourbon—but it went down quite easily.

“Are you sure about this?” she asked Mrs. Hattlebury, although she didn’t care too much anymore about the answer because she was up for
anything
now that the band had started playing its first song.

The place exploded in whistles and claps, and Cissie wanted to get out of her corner.

Mrs. Hattlebury laid a hand on her arm. “You need to worm your way right to the front of that stage and dance your little heart out when the spirit moves you. And if you have down times, just look hot. Remember this face?” She did her standard Elvis-movie-extra look again. “Show it to the fiddle player. He’s the cutest.”

“Okay,” said Cissie.

“But just once, to get his attention. After that, you do
this
face.” Mrs. Hattlebury’s expression was a slight variation of the other one with more intensity about the eyes. “That’s the
smart
vamp look,” she said, “and that’s how I won the colonel. You”—she poked Cissie’s chest—“want to win two things: the mayor’s office and Boone. You have to take risks, child. No hiding behind words. You have to
feel
. Feel it so much that words won’t do.”

“All right.”

“Now practice the smart vamp look, and you’d better mean it. Put all your love of books behind it, and everything you feel about that library moving, and then add in all that you feel about Boone. Or you’ll come off looking like Janelle.”

“God knows I can’t let that happen.” So Cissie practiced. And she put her whole heart into it. She did want the mayor’s office, she cared about her family’s documents being moved, and how would Sally and Hank Davis volunteer anymore? And why was Boone so deliciously handsome and charming, yet also totally exasperating and challenging and never going to do exactly what she wanted? Yet she wanted to jump into bed with him every time she saw his face? Or his back? Or his boots?

“Edward, take a look,” Mrs. Hattlebury said.

Cissie practiced on him.

“Whoa.” The colonel actually got a glint in his eye. “I like this Cissie.”

“This is the real one.” Mrs. Hattlebury dropped her lipstick into her purse and snapped it shut. “Next time she’s not going to need beer, wine, and bourbon to get her out.” She leaned close to Cissie. “Next time you’re gonna use sex. Lots of good, mind-blowing sex.”

“Really?” Cissie liked that idea.

“Yes, and after that, it’s gonna stick, and you’ll be this Cissie all the time. It’s a perpetual cycle—great sex, fabulous Cissie, which means more great sex, and even more fabulous Cissie.” She angled her head at the colonel, who still had his back to them. “That’s
our
secret.”

“Oh.” Cissie gulped. “It’s a … a good secret.”

“Now don’t get all prissy on me. Get out there.” Mrs. Hattlebury grabbed Cissie’s purse. “I’ll watch this for you. And keep an eye out for Sally. She’s passing out stickers that say ‘Cissie for Mayor.’”

“Wonderful,” Cissie said. Or maybe she said, “Fabulous.” Or accidentally said a combination of both words because she was too excited—or tipsy?—to know what she was saying anymore.

But who cared? All she had to do was dance. And be the center of attention. That didn’t require any words. Just feelings.

*   *   *

“Good to see you, Boone.” Sally slapped him on the back. “Stop being so handsome all the time.”

He put an arm around her. “And you stop being the best mother in the world because all the other mothers are gonna get jealous.”

“They should be jealous. Hank Davis is the best child. Everyone wants Hank Davis in their family, but they can’t have him.” She crooked a finger at him, and he leaned down. “Janelle just got here,” she whispered loudly in his ear, “and she’s hot after you. But she’s not good for you. Neither is that Anne woman. Only one woman is right for you. And she’s running for mayor. But don’t let that stop you from nothing.”

And then she slipped into the crowd.

He immediately put his hand on the back of his shirt and pulled off a round sticker that read “Cissie for Mayor” and showed a pair of luscious red lips.

“Good lord,” said a voice over his shoulder. “I can’t believe that sticker. Talk about taking women’s rights back a hundred years.”

He turned. Janelle was jawing away on her gum and dressed to kill in a black leather miniskirt and a white lacy top. Her shoes were mile-high pointy red heels.

“They’re just lips,” he said, and stuck the sticker on his shirt pocket.

“Boone
.
”
Janelle stuck her hands on her athletic hips. “How much have you had to drink? You’re running for mayor. You can’t wear
her
sticker.”

“I’m in a bar. There’s partying going on. This isn’t the place for serious campaigning.”

“Well, you have a TV crew here who thinks otherwise.”

“I’m not their minion. Let them think what they want.” He wanted to get rid of her, but he was a gentleman and couldn’t walk off. And he was cranky, too, because he couldn’t see Cissie.

He got an idea when he saw Colonel and Mrs. Hattlebury alone at a high-top table by the smaller bar. Janelle didn’t like old people. “Gotta go talk to the Hattleburys. Want to come along?”

“No.” Janelle shuddered and ran away.

Mission accomplished.

Now he could look for Cissie. Maybe the Hattleburys would know where she was.

“She’s out having fun,” said Mrs. Hattlebury. “See?”

There she was, at the front of the crowd, right below the stage. She was bouncing around in a shirt that was barely there—it gaped at the neck, and her slender arms were showing. Her newly golden-brown hair was all poufed up and sexy, and she was eyeing the fiddle player—

Who, dammit all, was eyeing her back.

Red hot jealousy took off like a race car in Boone’s veins and spread from his groin to his feet and back up to his chest and then his temples, where it crossed a finish line with a banner above it that read “Crankier than ever.”

And he’d thought he’d been at his limit. “What happened to her?”

The colonel chuckled. “I call it the Beach Blanket Bingo effect.”

“She’s being Cissie,” said Mrs. Hattlebury cryptically.

Whatever she was being, Boone needed to be near her. Even if just to tell her that the fiddler wasn’t worth her time. Why, he was probably on the road most of the year hitting on girls at every stop.

“Looky there, the TV crew finally found a way to get to her,” said the colonel.

Sure enough, Anne was barking at everyone in her path to get out of the way so the cameraman could get to a chair by the side of the stage. He stood on it and tracked that camera right on Cissie. The sound-boom guy managed to dangle a big fluffy black cloud of fiber above the crowd so it floated above Cissie’s head, although how he’d be able to distinguish her voice from all the other sounds coming in from the band and the crowd, Boone had no idea.

Anne clearly wasn’t after a heartwarming video clip at the moment. That
Morning Coffee
crowd wanted their drama, too.

“I’d better get over there,” Boone said.

“You’d better,” replied the colonel with unusual gusto. “Cissie might be your opponent, but she’s Kettle Knob’s girl, and those TV people are up to no good.”

“You be careful, honey,” warned Mrs. Hattlebury. “That fiddle player is casting a spell over her with that fiddle. A girl can get a little crazy when that happens.”

You know who else could get a little crazy when the fiddle player flirted with Cissie Rogers? The man who had just kissed her all over her naked self in his shower.

Boone prided himself on being a civilized male. He appreciated good art. He could talk about politics, from international down to local. He was a great dancer. But he also loved brute contact sports like football. He liked crossing creeks in water up to his hips, a walking stick in his hand and a dagger on his belt, the better to cut open the trout he was going to catch later that day and fry in a hundred-year-old skillet tucked in his backpack.

He was a man’s man who didn’t ever have to show off his masculinity. A real man didn’t have to. But there were times when the caveman in him came out.

The band started playing “Sitting on Top of the World,” and a few couples started dancing. Everyone backed up to give them room and clapped and stomped, which complicated things, made it harder to get through the crowd. But he kept his eye on Cissie, clapping along by herself up front. She was looking up at that fiddle player and laughing—until the guy to her left—the ogler—turned and tapped her on the shoulder.

She looked toward him. He held out his hand. She took it.

They started dancing in the little cleared-out area.

The same way Boone walked deliberately, silently through the woods toward home when he was tired and hungry after a good camping trip, he headed toward Cissie. He was going to claim her. In front of the whole world. At least in front of his whole world.

She stopped dancing.

Everything got slow.

“I’m cutting in,” he said to the other guy in a neutral voice. No need to be rude.

“I don’t think so,” said the other guy.

“Yeah, I am,” replied Boone.

“Guys,” Cissie said.

“I was with the lady,” her dance partner said.

“She came with me,” Boone answered. That reason should be enough for any man to back off.

“Boone.” Cissie laid her hand on his arm.

He ignored it.

The other guy moved an inch toward him. “Well, I suppose either you abandoned her or she doesn’t want to be with you. After all, she’s been by herself this last half hour dancing up front. What’s up with that?”

“I get you,” said Boone, “but she’s with me. All right? Let’s just leave it at that.”

“I don’t think so,” said the guy.

Boone looked down. Cissie was gone.

“You made her leave,” the ogler said.

The music stopped. There was Cissie up front again. The fiddle player pulled her up onto the stage. She pulled a “Cissie for Mayor” sticker off her blouse, patted it onto his chest, and kissed his cheek.

Everyone hooted and hollered.

“Boone Braddock,” she said into the mike, “and the guy who asked me to dance—I want you two to listen up. It’s time for everyone to vote for Cissie Rogers for mayor. How many of you want the library to leave Kettle Knob? No one, right?”

Another raucous noise came up from the audience, but it didn’t sound like
yay
or
nay.
More like
We’re getting drunk in a bar
.

“You want the library to stay,” Cissie informed her captive audience. “And I’m gonna fight tooth and nail to make that happen. How many of you want an indoor pool?”

The banjo player started playing to get her off the stage.