“You’re incorrigible.”
“I can’t think of anything sexier than a beautiful woman with a great vocabulary.”
She laughed because she had to. There was nothing else she could do. “You’re also impossible.”
“I’ve heard that. And for your information, I have always liked book girls. Smart girls. Newspaper editor. Yearbook editor. Girl with the highest GPA. Girl with the perfect SAT score. Girl with the biggest brain.”
She laughed and pushed her glasses up on the bridge of her nose. “Book girls, huh?”
“Book girls with glasses.”
“Stop.” But she was smiling and feeling easier, better, than she had all day and she was looking forward to the Ball Friday, more now than she ever had. “And I should go. We have an early morning staff meeting tomorrow—its every Thursday—but tomorrow I’m supposed to present a report on the books I’m recommending we purchase this summer.”
“That’s exciting.”
“Yes, except that Margaret will say we have no money so we can’t buy any of them.”
“Not as exciting.”
“No, but I can try.”
“Where are you parked? Can I walk you to your car?”
“No. I’m just down over a block. I’m good.”
“I think I should walk you there.”
“I don’t think its necessary. Marietta has a population of what? Ten thousand?”
“Give or take a few.”
“I’m safe.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m positive.”
“Text me when you reach your car.”
“I don’t have your number.”
“Then we need to correct that immediately,” he said, fishing into his pocket for his phone. He scrolled through contacts, typed a message and hit send. “Now you do.”
Taylor’s phone buzzed in her satchel. She opened her satchel and took out her phone, reading the new text. Save this number, it read.
Smiling, she added the number to her contacts. “Saved.”
“Don’t you feel better now?”
“I’m not sure,” she said, and it was a lie, because she felt positively fizzy and warm and wonderful on the inside. “And how did you get my number in the first place?”
“Jane.”
“Ah.” She blushed. She couldn’t help it. “Good night, Troy.”
“Good night, Beautiful.”
Troy watched Taylor leave, her long dark hair hanging halfway down her back, her brown coat hitting at her hip, giving him an excellent view of her legs. She had great legs. He liked her very much in jeans. He thought he’d probably like her very much out of jeans as well...
Grey set Troy’s beer in front of him. “Anything else?” Grey asked.
Troy shook his head. “Nope.”
“Alright.” Grey moved.
Troy took a sip of his beer. The glass was thick and chilled. The beer was perfectly cold, a hint of ice, but not too frosty. This was exactly what he needed after a depressing dinner with McCorkle and a flirtatious conversation with his favorite librarian.
He’d only just taken a second sip when suddenly Callan Carrigan was at his side, ordering a beer and taking a seat on the bar stool next to his.
“Look whose back in town,” Callan said, turning on the bar stool to face him even as she waved off the chilled glass to drink straight from the bottle. “Troy Sheenan, the venture capitalist himself.”
Troy gave Callan a long look as she downed nearly one third of the bottle.
He liked Callan. He’d seen a fair amount of her growing up as she and Dillon used to chum around, despite their parents’ disapproval. But the Carrigan girls weren’t topics of conversation at their house. In fact, the Carrigans were never to be mentioned in their house. The feud between the families had been strong. If Dillon or one of the other boys mentioned Callan or another of the girls, Mom would leave the table in tears, and Dad would start in on his lectures. Or worse.
Troy watched Callan take another long swig from the bottle. Her bottle was nearly empty.
Something was definitely bugging Callan tonight.
“What’s up, kid?” Troy asked, taking a sip from his glass, deliberately dropping the nickname he and Trey had given her way back when, a nickname that always fired her up.
Her eyebrows lifted. “Kid, huh? You do know I’m practically running the Circle C these days?”
“Trailing in your dad’s shadow, more like.” Troy was just teasing but Callan wasn’t in the mood.
“You want to piss me off, don’t you?”
He gave her another long look over the rim of his glass. She was slender with dark hair that she usually wore in a ponytail—except when she was at the bar on a Friday night looking for trouble. Her slight boyish build made her look far younger than her twenty-five years. But her tight jeans and tank top showed off her curves all the same. “So what’s going on? Why are you here? I would have thought you’d be home doing your nails and getting all dolled up for the big Valentine Ball.”