A Date with the Other Side (Cuttersville #1)(45)
Author: Erin McCarthy

And just in case part of her was thinking that, it sure couldn’t be Boston Macnamara.

Boston rang the doorbell to Shelby’s grandmother’s house and shuffled his feet a little on the porch, not sure if Shelby would actually come out with him or not. She was clearly having reservations about continuing anything between them, but Boston wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

If Brett Delmar was about to yank him right back out of Cuttersville, Boston didn’t have a lot of time. And he didn’t think he could leave this town until he’d held Shelby in his arms, skin on skin, her warm legs tossed around him, his body deep inside hers.

When Jessie Stritmeyer answered the door a split second later, he had a boner.

And the old lady knew.

As if guided there by familial protectiveness, she glanced right down at the front of his jeans and raised a whisker-thin eyebrow. Without even giving a greeting, she said, “You been to the drugstore?”

He didn’t even pretend to misunderstand. “Yes.” Three condoms he’d pulled out of a new box accounted for the other bulge in his pants.

“Alright then.” She held the door open. “Come on in while I round Shelby up. I think she’s shaving her legs.”

Boston didn’t need to know these things. The complexities of female hygiene had always mortified him, having grown up in such a formal household with no sisters. But for some reason, the image of Shelby damp from the shower, bent over, leg high on the bathroom counter, with her towel slipping, slipping, left him as hot as that imagined shower.

Stepping into the tiny front hallway, Boston prepared to wait uncomfortably with his landlord, but when he looked up the twisting spindled staircase, he saw that Shelby wasn’t shaving her legs. She was standing there watching him, hair piled on her head in its usual disarray, rich brown eyes wide.

There was something about Shelby that was timeless, that with just a quick change of her clothes, she could have been a farmer’s daughter in the Depression, or a young immigrant bride in the nineteenth century. She had a strength about her, and she was utterly no-nonsense.

Which was what he wanted between them.

No games, no flirtations, no selfish maneuvering, just a humid country night and desire etched plainly across her face.

“Hey there, Boston.”

“Hi, Shelby. Want to come and watch the fireworks with me?” And make some of their own?

The picnic had been abuzz with the pending Cuttersville fireworks extravaganza set for 10 P.M., and Boston was hoping he and Shelby could find a quiet corner on Main Street to watch them together. As luck would have it, he’d been freed from the pleasure of Amanda’s cynical presence by the arrival of Howie the fireman, who with more earnestness than charm had wooed her away.

Boston had considered slipping the guy a twenty to keep her occupied all week, knowing full well Howie was open to bribes, but he had resisted the urge.

“Sure,” she said in a breathless little voice that wrapped around his groin and squeezed.

If it wasn’t for her grandmother standing there looking amused, he might have bounded up those steps and pressed her against the nearest wall for a deep kiss.

Struggling to divert himself, he turned to Mrs. Stritmeyer. “So who haunts this house?”

Jessie gave him an incredulous look. “No one. You think I’d share a house with a bunch of dead people? No thanks.”

Shelby came down the stairs and waved to her grandmother. “Good night, Gran. Don’t wait up.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.” Jessie headed toward the kitchen. “Not that I’ll get much sleep tonight with all those fools shooting off fireworks in their backyards.”

Shelby laughed, and leaned in to whisper to Boston. “She’s one of those very people, you know. She’s got a box of Roman candles and bottle rockets set out in the garage just ready to go.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Jessie was all old-lady innocence.

“Uh-huh. Just don’t let Fran set the roof on fire this year.” Shelby leaned over and gave her a kiss.

She turned to Boston. “Bingo ladies. They’re wild, I’m telling you.”

He could only imagine. “Good night, Mrs. Stritmeyer.”

“Night, Boston.”

They walked outside, the porch steps creaking under their weight, and Shelby took a deep breath. “I love that smell. Summer.”

He loved her smell. Fresh and sweet, like soap and honey, which no perfume or shower gel could ever replicate.

Boston put his hand on the small of her back as they headed toward his car, just to touch her. Just to feel her warm firm skin under her T-shirt, and to tease himself with how close his fingers were to the top of her panties.

“I know a place where we can watch the fireworks,” Shelby said. “Alone.”

Nothing in his entire thirty-two years had ever sounded better.

“Lead the way.”

Shelby had to get a handle on her heart racing, or it was likely to leap out of her chest and run on down the road. Which would earn her notoriety she didn’t crave.

“We should probably drive there.”

Boston stopped in front of his fancy deep blue car, and the corner of his thin mouth lifted. “Are you taking me to Lovers’ Lane, Shelby?”

“Of course not.” She grinned, nervousness evaporating. “I would never do anything so tacky. I’m taking you to a cornfield.”

He opened the door for her and leaned over, his lips brushing across her jaw. Shelby shivered.

“At least I know you can’t take advantage of me in a cornfield.”

She snorted.

Boston wasn’t touching her anywhere, except for that little dusting with his lips across her chin and around the corners of her mouth. It felt as intimate as sex, that soft coaxing kiss.

“And there won’t be any voyeuristic ghosts to interrupt whatever might happen.”

“That’s true.” Shelby shifted away from him and slid into the car. “Let’s go.”

Before she started making out with him in her gran’s driveway.

Boston came around and got into the car. She pointed him in the right direction to drive and he did, but as he turned left, he glanced at her. “So why did you and Danny really get divorced?”

Shelby was startled out of her impure thoughts. “I told you, we just decided we were better off as friends.”

“He still cares about you.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.” Shelby studied Boston’s profile, the firm jaw, the long aristocratic nose, the smooth stubble-free complexion that seemed so unusual for a man with black hair.