Page 16 of Hottie on Her Shelf
Fitz…didn’t know. He knew who Hallie was because he made it a point to be aware of all city employees, but he never went to the library. Never seemed to cross paths on Main Street with Ms. Scott until yesterday’s disastrous meeting at the pub.
He vividlyremembered the way the wet green stains on her shirt made it cling to her body yesterday morning. And last night…Well, he honestly didn’t remember what she’d been wearing. Just the way her warm brown eyes had fluttered shut for a split second once he’d lifted her to her feet. The way her hair had flowed over his hands, the same brown as the cinnamon tea his Aunt Felicia favored. The tiny, dark freckle right below the outer corner of her left eye that he wanted to lick…
“Um, you know, like a librarian. That’s your specialty, Ollie, not mine. She’ll be up on the dais with me. You can figure out her style then.”
“Looking forward to it.”
Fitz made it a record-breaking seven steps away from the buffet before getting stopped again. He made sure to slap on a smile before looking up.
“Fitzwilliam.” With a swift glance at the loaded plate, his father said, “You’re going to finish that before the event begins, yes?”
“No.” Talk about a fun realization. No shoveling it all down in the next five minutes. “That’s the joy of having another candidate up there with me. I’ll be able to enjoy my breakfast during her answers.”
“You need to stay sharp, pay attention to what she says, in case you need to rebut. No slipping into a sugar coma.”
“Dad, I’m thirty-two. I don’t slip into sugar comas anymore. If you see that happen, call an ambulance, because it means I’ve developed adult-onset diabetes.”
That earned him a frown that made the silver brows almost touch. “You shouldn’t joke about it. You know Jerry McDonald has it. He’s having a hell of a time getting his numbers under control.”
Probably due to the fact that good ol’ Jerry still posted up at the bakery for donuts every morning and finished every golf round with two scotches and a bacon cheeseburger. “You started it, Dad.”
“Hmm.” It was all the acknowledgment he’d get. “Try to throw her words back at her. Twist them. Cut her off whenever possible.”
“Again, no. You taught me better than that. Nobody’s going to vote for me if I’m rude to Ms. Scott.”
“Nonsense.” He made a minute adjustment to his black and gold tie tack. “Everybody’s going to vote for you, regardless.”
“Then there’s no reason to be rude, is there?” Fitz grinned. Always nice to get one over on his old man. “See how I twisted your own words back at you? Clearly, I’m on fire this morning. No need to worry.”
After a strong shoulder grip that would’ve made Mr. Spock envious, his dad looked him in the eyes and said, “Don’t be cocky.”
Man, there was no winning to be had this morning. Fitz kept his head down as he made his way to the dais. The six-foot-long table was skirted with red, white, and blue bunting. Guess he’d have lots of elbow room between him and Hallie.
He took his seat, pushed the microphone aside, and dug in. Tried his best not to make eye contact with anyone because that was just weird while chewing and being so far away from the rest of the tables in the ballroom.
But his gaze did a target-lock on Hallie as she walked up the steps. Navy blouse. Navy pants. Navy shoes. Either she was color-blind and dressing for safety, or…she really did have the clichéd style of a prim, boring librarian.
Except…there’d been nothing prim or boring about the way she’d looked at him when they’d been in a near-clinch, which made Fitz all the more curious about who Hallie Scott really was.
“Mayor. Good morning.”
“Right back at ya.”
She carefully set down her plate, with several chunks of pineapple sliding precariously close to the edge. “How are we supposed to eat and answer questions at the same time?”
He pointed at the first row of tables. “That’s why everyone’s seated so far back from us. Gives a spray zone.”
Hallie’s jaw was only halfway through dropping before Fitz laughed. “Oh, you’re putting me on. Having a little fun at my expense. Again.”
Way to put his foot in it. Again.
“Hell. No, I’m sorry. Just kidding around because I’ve had the same thought. This year’s a big improvement. We’ll each have time to chew and swallow while the other’s talking.”
“In that case, feel free to ramble. I was too nervous to eat, but this smells delicious.” She dove right into her French toast.
“Not to freak you out, but I don’t think I’ll be talking much. You’re the new variable in the equation. Nobody needs to listen to me rehash the same old, same old.”
His eyes glued to her lips as she licked off a drop of syrup. “Throw a girl a bone, won’t you?”
