Page 23 of The Coppersmith Farmhouse (Jamison Valley 1)
It was the “please” that did it. I had a feeling Jess didn’t say that word much.
“Fine,” I whispered, taking another step back.
I couldn’t think when he was that close to me. The intoxicating, clean, fresh scent from his skin made me woozy.
Rushing inside, I said a quick good-bye to Rowen and a smugly smiling Maisy. Then I hurried back outside, dipping my chin so I could watch my feet as I walked to the truck. In the three minutes he’d been here, I was already fumbling to keep my cool.
My fingers brushed the truck’s door handle but were held back when Jess gripped my elbow, gently pulling my arm away so he could open the door for me.
When his fingers touched my skin, a current jolted through me from my elbow through my arm and down to my feet.
He must have felt something too because he pulled in a sharp, short breath and didn’t make another move to open the door. Instead, he moved his body closer to mine until just an inch separated us. All I had to do was turn slightly and my chest would be pressed against his.
Before I did something stupid, like wrap my arms around his neck and crush my lips to his, I murmured a quiet thank-you and stepped back. He opened the door and I hopped inside, taking a few long breaths while he jogged around the hood.
We drove to town in silence. Usually I would have tried to make idle conversation but I had no idea what to say. My elbow was still tingling and the sexual tension between us was stifling in the confines of the truck.
Thankfully, the drive was short and soon we were at the café.
“I’ll have the special, please,” I said to the waitress at the café, handing her my menu.
“Same. Side of ranch too. Thanks, Tina.” Jess didn’t have a menu. Tina hadn’t even brought one over for him.
We were seated in a booth at the front window of the Prescott Café, looking out over Main Street, having both just ordered the chicken fajita wrap with shoestring fries.
Booths hugged three walls of the Prescott Café while square tables filled in the middle. At the back, stools lined the counter that separated the kitchen from the restaurant floor. About three-quarters of the café was full of patrons. From my seat in the booth, I could see the cook working away in the kitchen behind the counter and the five-tiered display case of pies and cakes next to the register. My eyes had zeroed in on the chocolate cake on tier two when Jess mumbled, “Jesus.”
“What?”
He tipped his head toward the window. An older couple was standing right outside, staring down at us. When I faced them, they both smiled and the man winked. I wasn’t sure what to do but they seemed friendly, so I smiled back and gave them a tiny wave with my fingers.
“You’re not helping, Georgia.”
“What? They seem nice. Do you know them?” I asked.
“Seth Balan and his wife. Seth’s part of the Coffee Club. You and your little wave there are gonna be the only topic at Club tomorrow morning.”
“Ah . . . what’s the Coffee Club?”
“Local group of old men who meet here every day for coffee. When they’re not talking about grain prices or the cattle market, they gossip worse than a bunch of teenage girls. Any time I need to know what’s going around town about something, I come to Club to get the scoop. You sitting here with me, looking like that, it’s all they’ll talk about tomorrow.”
“So what? They’ll talk about how I ate dinner with you once? That doesn’t seem so bad,” I said.
He sighed and leaned forward. “I don’t eat with anyone on Friday nights, Freckles. Anyone. I prefer to sit alone and been doing it that way for years. You’re new in town. You’re beautiful, especially in those jeans and shoes. And you’re in my booth. By nine-thirty tomorrow morning, everyone in town will know about you and me.”
“Oh.” I blushed and looked at the table.
There was a lot in that statement for me to process. Me being the hot topic at tomorrow’s old-crony gossip group. Jess eating alone every Friday night. Jess thinking I was beautiful. Him noticing my jeans and shoes.
It was sweet and it made me feel good. So good my belly fluttered.
Not once since he’d arrived at the farmhouse tonight had I gotten the impression he was faking anything, putting on a show or hiding ulterior motives. In fact, Jess didn’t seem the type of man who would be fake about anything. And if that was true, maybe I was reading him all wrong. Maybe his apology this morning had been sincere.
But I wasn’t ready to stop being cautious. We hadn’t spent enough time together for me to get a good sense of his intentions or to forgive him for how he had acted toward me earlier in the week.
My best course of action would be a subject change. “How long have you been sheriff?”
“Going on five years.”
