I spread my hands wide in front of her. "Would I like? I'd fuckin' love. Lead the way."
Her pale blue dress swirled around her legs as she moved toward the back of the shop. The fabric looked soft, maybe a bit stretchy, and all I could think about was dragging it up her thighs. I'd bend her over the counter, shove that dress up to her waist, discard her panties, and then fill her with one glorious thrust. I could see her lips parting on a sigh, her eyelids drifting shut, her cheek pressed flat against the surface.
"Jackson?"
"Wh-yeah?" I asked, the majority of my brain busy cultivating my newest fantasy.
I blinked twice and glanced around the storeroom. It was a compact space with floor-to-ceiling shelves, a battered kitchen table, and a small desk up against the far wall. I'd expected a mountain range of books but this was painstakingly ordered.
She grinned and seemed to gulp down a laugh. "I asked if you wanted any coffee," she said. "I have tea and water, too."
"Water," I croaked. "Water would be great."
Annette gestured toward the table. "Have a seat," she said.
I heeded her request but sitting only consumed a handful of seconds. After completing that task, I didn't know what to do with myself. I couldn't pin her to the table and claim her panties as my prize. Not yet. Not until I drew out the woman who slapped my ass like the vixen I knew she was last night.
"Annette, I—"
"Did you finish that basketball book? The one about the Larry Bird-Magic Johnson rivalry?" she asked, blowing right past my attempt to revisit the events of last night. "I've sold that book to a couple of people, and always heard positive things about it. The author has several other titles if you'd like me to order them for you."
Annette set the glass of water and a plate in front of me, a fist-sized blueberry muffin in the center. Then she joined me at the table with a mug. "No muffin for you?" I asked.
She waved off my question. "I'm good. I had one before the evening rush."
"Okay." I shrugged as I broke the muffin in half. "I haven't finished that book yet. I'm sorry. I have it on my bedside table—"
"I know," she interrupted. Her words were quiet and husky, just as I imagined they'd be when I pushed inside her and she told me how full she felt. "I saw it there. That's why I asked."
I stared at Annette, my heart hammering as I stood at this crossroads. I didn't want to make the wrong move and I didn't know what she wanted.
"I'm sorry about last night," she continued. "I'm sorry I wrecked your evening and I'm sorry I was such a mess."
"Don't be," I replied. She started to interrupt but I held up my hand. "No, Annette. You can apologize for sneaking out of my house without saying goodbye and that's about it."
"Then I'm sorry for sneaking out," she said, laughing. "But I know you didn't have to bring me home with you and put me to bed. You could've—I don't know—done something else. I'm sure you don't take every drunk chick in Talbott's Cove home with you after last call."
"You're right about that," I said. "I don't take women home. You're the first woman I've had in my house. I could've sent a deputy to The Galley to pick you up and get you settled for the evening."
"But you didn't," she said.
I nodded. "I didn't do that. I wanted to take you home."
"You wanted to take me home," she repeated.
"Yes, Annette," I replied. "I wanted to take you home. I don't regret anything and it kills me that you're upset about it."
She sat back in her chair, crossed her arms over her chest, and glared at me for a long, uncomfortable beat. I had no idea what was going on.
"You're placating me," she said eventually.
There were many things I'd expected Annette to say in response. That wasn't in the top one thousand. "I'm—I'm what?" I asked.
"Placating me," she repeated. "You know all about my personal drama and you're using it against me."
"I-I-I, uh…what?" I stammered. I couldn't stop shaking my head. "No, that's ridiculous. If anything, I've spent the past twenty-four hours trying to pretend you weren't lusting over the lobsterman."
"And why is that?" she asked.
