Page 16 of Love, Lacey Donovan
Summer took the card and clutched it to her chest.
“Do you want to use it now?”
She shook her head. “I’ll save it to use with Uncle Kit.”
“You should come on Saturday.” My heart beat double-time at the thought of seeing Beckett again. “I’m working all day.”
Chapter 7
“Be careful up there, Miss Lacey!”
I was standing ten feet up on a rolling library ladder, reaching for a book. At the sound of my name, I looked down and froze.
An emotion so acute I could only describe it as panic surged through me at seeing him again.Beckett. He made me feel hot and tingly and vulnerable, as if every dirty thought I’d had about him was printed across my chest.
He looked different when fully dressed. I couldn’t see those tight abs, but I knew they were under there. His neatly combed hair and black glasses lent him the look of a superhero in disguise.
Oh God. The way he was looking at me made me feel like I was bursting into flames. He probably remembered me scolding him. I was embarrassed for both of us. My cheeks flamed.
“I’m fine.”
I forced my voice to sound that way, but I was anything but fine. I was on fire. Those fantasies I’d been having every time I closed my eyes rushed back to haunt me. I’d dreamed about Beckett just last night.
I tore my gaze away from him and reached for the book.
Ah. That was better. When my hand closed around the slim volume, I relaxed, drawing comfort from the words within the leather binding.Wuthering Heightswas one of my favorites. Heathcliff had been my first love, Catherine my first strong heroine.
I pulled the book from the shelf and glanced at it briefly, appreciating the leather cover engraved with flowing script before slipping it in my bag. One glance down told me Beckett was still staring up at me as I descended the ladder. I was nervous as a twice-jilted bride on her wedding day to see him again, but at least I was wearing my good-butt jeans.
“Weren’t you scared up there?” Summer eyed the ladder with huge blue eyes.
“Not at all.” I pulled the Emily Brontë novel from my bag and showed it to Summer. “Check it out. This is what I was reading at your age.”
Summer took the book and flipped through the first few pages, a frown creasing her brow.
“Isn’t she a little young for Brontë?” Beckett asked.
His voice was as I remembered it, significantly Southern with a touch of raspy gravel.
I couldn’t help challenging him. “Have you read it?”
Beckett nodded. “In school,” he said. “Not for pleasure.”
A sudden flush of warmth spread through me as I pictured Beckett reading—or doinganything—for pleasure. He was close enough I could smell the spicy scent of his aftershave. His skin was smooth and January pale, with a faint shadow on his chiseled jaw. A thrill ran through me to discover the color of his eyes—brown with flecks of mossy green, rich and earthy like the forest floor.
Summer handedWuthering Heightsback to me. “I’m here for my free book. Can I really choose anything I want?”
“None of that apocalypse crap.” I shook my finger at her. “It will warp your brain.”
“But romance novels are better?” Beckett asked, teasing me.
“Muchbetter.”
I hadn’t meant for the words to come out all husky. Embarrassed, I cleared my throat and looked away from Beckett’s knowing gaze.
“Are those real tattoos?” Summer asked.
“Summer.” Beckett shot her a warning look.
