Baby Talk and Wedding Bells - Brenda Harlen

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bite of his muffin.

      She broke off another piece of brownie and popped it into her mouth. Then she licked a smear of caramel off her thumb—a quick and spontaneous swipe of her tongue over her skin that probably wasn’t intended to be provocative but certainly had that effect on his body and thoughts.

      “I only remember the date because it happens to be my birthday, too,” she admitted.

      He sipped his coffee. “As a librarian, how much do you know about chemistry?”

      “Enough to pass the course in high school.” She smiled. “Barely.”

      “And what do you think we should do about this chemistry between us?” he asked.

      She choked on her latte. “Excuse me?”

      “I’m stumbling here,” he acknowledged. “Because it’s been a long time since I’ve been attracted to a woman—other than my wife, I mean.”

      She eyed him warily. “Are you saying that you’re attracted to me?”

      “Why else would I be here when there are at least a dozen coffee shops closer to my office?”

      “I thought you came to the library to return the train Saige took home.”

      “That was my excuse to come by and see you,” he said.

      She dropped her gaze to her plate, using her fingertip to push the brownie crumbs into the center.

      “You didn’t expect me to admit that, did you?”

      “I didn’t expect it to be true,” she told him.

      “I was a little surprised myself,” he confided. “When I found the train, I planned to leave it with my mother, for her to return. And when I dropped Saige off this morning, I had it with me, but for some reason, I held on to it. As I headed toward my office, I figured I’d give it to her later. Except that I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

      She wiped her fingers on her napkin, then folded it on top of her plate.

      “This would be a good time for you to admit that you’ve been thinking about me, too,” he told her.

      “Even if it’s not true?”

      He reached across the table and stroked a finger over the back of her hand. She went immediately and completely still, not even breathing as her gaze locked with his.

      “You’ve thought about me,” he said. “Whether you’re willing to admit it or not.”

      “Maybe I have,” she acknowledged, slowly pulling her hand away. “Once or twice.”

      “So what do you think we should do about this chemistry?” he asked again.

      “I’m the wrong person to ask,” she said lightly. “All of my experiments simply fizzled and died.”

      “Maybe you were working with the wrong partner,” he suggested.

      “Maybe.” She finished her latte and set the mug on top of her empty plate. “I really need to get back to work, but thanks for the coffee and the brownie.”

      “Anytime.”

      He stayed where he was and watched her walk away, because he’d never in his life chased after a woman and he wasn’t going to start now.

      Instead, he took his time finishing his coffee before he headed back to his own office—where he thought of her throughout the rest of the day, because he knew he would be seeing the sexy librarian again. Very soon.

       Chapter Four

      When Cassie left work later that afternoon, she headed to Serenity Gardens to visit Irene Houlahan. Almost three years earlier, the former librarian had slipped and fallen down her basement stairs, a nasty tumble that resulted in a broken collarbone and femur and forced her to sell her two-story home and move into the assisted-living facility for seniors.

      The septuagenarian had never married, had no children and no family in Charisma, but once upon a time, she’d changed Cassie’s life. No, she’d done more than change her life—she’d saved it. And Cassie knew that she’d never be able to repay the woman who was so much more to her than a friend and mentor.

      Since Irene had taken up residence at Serenity Gardens, Cassie had visited her two or three times a week. The move had been good for Irene, who was now surrounded by contemporaries who encouraged her to take part in various social activities on the property. And then, just after the New Year, Jerry Riordan had moved in across the hall.

      His arrival had generated a fair amount of buzz among the residents and staff, and Cassie had overheard enough to know that he was seventy-two years old, a retired civil engineer and widower with three children and eight grandchildren, all of whom lived out of state. He was close to six feet tall, slender of build and apparently in possession of all of his own teeth, which made him the object of much female admiration within the residence.

      But far more interesting to Cassie was her discovery that the newest resident of the fifth floor was spending a fair amount of time with the retired librarian. One day when Cassie was visiting, she’d asked Irene about her history with Jerry. Her friend had ignored the question, instead instructing Cassie to find To Kill a Mockingbird on her shelf. Of course, the woman’s personal library was as ruthlessly organized as the public facility, so Cassie found it easily—an old and obviously much-read volume with a dust jacket curling at the edges.

      “You’ve obviously had this a very long time.”

      “A lot more years than you’ve been alive,” Irene acknowledged.

      Cassie opened the cover to check the copyright page, but her attention was caught by writing inside the front cover. Knowing that her friend would never deface a work of art—and books undoubtedly fit that description—the bold strokes of ink snagged her attention.

      Irene held out her hand. “The book.”

      The impatience in her tone didn’t stop Cassie from taking a quick peek at the inscription:

      To Irene—who embodies all the best characteristics of Scout, Jem and Dill. One day you will be the heroine of your own adventures, but for now, I hope you enjoy their story.

      Happy Birthday,

      Jerry

      She closed the cover and looked at her friend. “Jerry—as in Jerry Riordan?”

      “Did someone mention my name?” the man asked from the doorway.

      “Were your ears burning?” Irene snapped at him.

      Jerry shrugged. “Might have been—my hearing’s not quite what it used to be.” Then he spotted the volume in Cassie’s hand and his pale blue eyes lit up. “Well, that book is familiar.”

      “There are more than thirty million copies of it in print,” Irene pointed out.

      “And that looks like the same copy I gave to you for your fourteenth birthday,” he said.

      “Probably because it is,” she acknowledged, finally abandoning any pretense of faulty memory.

      “I can’t believe you still have it,” Jerry said, speaking so softly it was almost as if he was talking to himself.

      “It’s one of my favorite books,” she said. “Why would I get rid of it?”

      “Over the years, things have a tendency to go missing or be forgotten.”

      “Maybe by some people,” the old woman said pointedly.

      “I never forgot you, Irene,” Jerry assured her.

      Cassie continued to stand beside the bookcase, wondering if she was actually invisible or just felt that way. She didn’t mind being

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