"My tomatoes ain't gonna make nothing this year," Denny was lamenting.
"Oh," Cleav choked out.
"Got cutworm," Denny told him, shaking his head sorrowfully. "It's a damn shame."
"A shame," Cleav agreed, his voice unusually high.
"But," Denny rationalized, "the taters are going to be fine."
"Fine."
"Corn ain't too bad, neither."
Esme's explorationtook a wicked turn, and Cleav made a choking sound.
"What's wrong?" Denny jumped at Cleav's exclamation.
"I . . ." Cleav appeared almost breathless, his eyes wide. "I just thought of something I need to do."
Hurriedly Cleav made his way to the end of the counter, stopping only to grab the Closed sign from beneath the cash drawer.
Holding the sign in front of him, he hurried Denny out the door.
"I've really got to lock up now," he explained lamely. "You can come back tomorrow."
"Good Lord, boy. What in heaven's name is wrong?" Denny asked as Cleav discourteously shut the door in the old man's face.
Chapter Thirteen
After hanging the sign in the window and jerking down the shade, Cleav turned his back to the door. Flushed and trying to catch his breath, he glanced over at Esme, who was peeking over the top of the counter.
Esme's look was wary.
"I guess I shouldn't touch you like that?" she suggested.
Cleav looked at her for a moment. He was fully aroused, and his nostrils flared like a stallion who'd got a whiff of a mare in heat. His whole concentration centered not on his knowledge and good manners but on the pulsing heat at the front of his trousers.
He pushed away from the door and began walking toward Esme.
"Ladies do not touch gentlemen in that manner," he said.
Esme nodded, shamefaced. "I never claimed to be a lady," she pointed out.
Cleav reached the far side of the counter and bent forward, bringing his face close to hers. "No, you didn't," he agreed.
No woman, lady or otherwise, had ever fired his blood as did the young innocent before him. He had ignored her, insulted her, humiliated her, but she was still here. Still here and wanting him. Esme Crabb was in love with him. Suddenly he thought himself the luckiest man in Tennessee.
They faced each other for a moment until Esme dropped her gaze. Cleav gently grasped her chin and raised her eyes to his. "No, you never claimed to be a lady, Esme," he told her quietly. "And I am just ungentlemanly enough to appreciate that."
Stepping away from her, he walked to the piece-goods cupboard. Esme watched him curiously as he rummaged through it for a moment.
"Ah, here it is," he said finally.
Pulling out the remnant of rose crepe de chine he whipped it open like a picnic tablecloth and laid it on the hardwood floor. "Ladies want romance and flowers, featherbeds and clean sheets," he said.
Esme looked at him and then at the pretty pallet of rose crepe de chine. "I only want you."
Cleav leaned against the counter and removed first one boot and then the other. Slipping his thumbs under his suspenders, he allowed them to fall loosely to his hips.
