A Date with the Other Side (Cuttersville #1)(15)
Author: Erin McCarthy

The kitchen was yellow, which he suspected wasn’t an authentic Victorian color, but he didn’t care. Especially not when the smell of roasted chicken greeted him.

For a microsecond he wondered if he was in the wrong house. He wasn’t, and the chicken wasn’t a hallucination.

Neither was it Shelby standing in front of his stove, which he had to admit he had expected for a second. Probably because he didn’t know any women in town except for Shelby and Mrs. Stritmeyer and he had a hard time visualizing Jessie slaving over a hot stove in June. Not that he could really picture Shelby doing that either, but it was a nice visual wish, her in those denim shorts and the fantasy heels cooking him chicken.

The kitchen was hotter than he had realized. He pulled at his tie a little.

“Hello,” he said to the matronly woman in a shapeless dress working vigorously with a whisk. Definitely not as appealing as Shelby in short shorts, but the woman had cooked chicken, and for that she was his new best friend.

She turned, dark hair pulled back off her face, a kind smile tugging her mouth upward. “You must be Boston.”

Wiping her hands on her apron—good God, aprons still existed?—she held her hand out to him. “I’m Mary, your housekeeper. Your supper is almost ready.”

Boston found he could love certain things about Cuttersville. The housekeeper who fixed him food was one of them. “You cooked for me?” He wanted to be perfectly clear on that point, because if she removed that chicken and left with it, he was going to cry.

Mary nodded. “I hope you like roasted chicken with lemon sauce, baby potatoes, and fresh-baked bread. And there’s an apple pie for dessert.”

Jackpot. His stomach growled. “It sounds wonderful.”

“Well, I can’t be here every night.” Mary turned and adjusted the heat on the stove. “But I’ll come by once or twice a week and clean the house for you.”

Yes. “I appreciate it.”

“And just a little advice . . . you might want to pick up your undergarments in the mornings, since Shelby brings a tour through at eleven.”

Oh, nice. He had left his boxers on the floor for Shelby and her tourists to snicker at. Of course, Shelby had already seen him naked with an eyelet spread capping him, so underwear was really incidental in comparison.

“Uh, thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“The chicken will be ready in five minutes and there’s extra sauce here in the bowl.” Then Mary gave him a wave and opened the back door. “See you in a few days, Boston.”

“Bye, Mary.” He watched the door close behind her, then grabbed the pot holders she’d left on the counter and opened the oven, just intending to smell it.

Two minutes later, he was sitting at the table and gorging himself, heartily enjoying the chicken and potatoes.

And if he heard an occasional creaking sound from the parlor directly in front of the kitchen, he convinced himself the house was settling. It definitely wasn’t Red-Eyed Rachel’s footsteps because ghosts didn’t exist.

Five days of traipsing through the man’s bedroom and never seeing him was getting to Shelby.

So when she ran into him on the square in front of Hair by Harriet, she couldn’t stop a cheesy grin from sliding across her face. “Hey there, Boston Macnamara. What are you up to?”

Boston pushed his sunglasses up his nose with one finger and gave what could pass for a smile or a twitch. “Shelby Tucker. I’m getting a haircut.”

Shelby took in his neat black hair, short and trim. “Are you done already?”

“No.” He frowned. “I was just about to go in.” He threw his thumb toward Harriet’s.

Momentarily distracted by the fine picture he made standing on the sidewalk in a gray suit, she didn’t take the time to soften her response. “You’re going to Harriet’s? For a haircut?”

He sighed. “It does say Hair by Harriet. And I see people in there, so it’s not a pet-grooming store. What’s the problem?”

“Uh . . .” Shelby wasn’t quite sure how to tell him that the only men to step foot in Harriet’s were Clyde, who was married to Harriet and got his hair cut for free, and Shelby’s cousin Brady, who had to go to Harriet to acquire sapphire highlights. “Nothing.”

She thought to suggest the barber, but then worried that he would give Boston an army flattop, which would be a damn shame. He looked too good the way he was to ruin himself with acclimation to Cuttersville.

“You between tours?” Boston didn’t look in any hurry, despite his hair needs and the oppressive afternoon heat. He leaned against the glass pane of Harriet’s front window, not looking the least bit sweaty.

Shelby felt like a goat, sticky and dirty.

“Actually, it’s a slow day. No tours at all.”

“Maybe you could give me the Haunted Cuttersville Tour sometime.”

“Really?” she asked in surprise.

“Sure. A private tour.”

The words weren’t exactly suggestive, and he wasn’t smiling, but Shelby felt the force of his presence clear down to her inner thighs.

“You never did tell me the rest of the story, you know. Like what happened to Rachel’s maid and who is the Blond Man.”

Not that she thought he gave a hoot about what had happened to the maid, but she nodded slowly. “The maid was smart and took advantage of the situation. She cried that she had been forced by the fiancé, and went on to marry a local lawyer and have three sons.”

Boston smiled, though it was distracted. “Everyone’s out for what they can get, huh?”

“Not everyone.”

“No?”

He studied her, making her once again self-conscious of her raggedy clothes. She had never given a rat’s hooey about her clothes before, and here the man had her so tied up in knots she wanted to put a skirt on for him. It was embarrassing.

“And I’d be happy to give you a private tour.” Of her naked body.

Shelby was appalled with herself. Never, not once, since puberty had kicked in had she lusted after a man like this, plain and simple.

The door to the salon went flying open and slammed Boston on the shoulder. He gave a grunt and turned. Shelby sighed. The fat was in the fire now. Harriet was descending on them in full fuchsia sail, a smile on her round face.

“Shelby, honey, you coming in for a cut? I’ve been dying to get my hands on your mop for years now.”

Oh, thank you. Blowing her bangs out of her eyes, Shelby glared at Harriet. She and Boston had been connecting, reaching for that precarious sultry moment in the White House parlor when she had been sure he was going to kiss her, and here was Harriet pointing out that Shelby wasn’t exactly a man’s wet dream.