During the noon hour, Libby tapped her toe impatiently on the brand-new paver town square Zeb Miller and his boys had built, studying the empty terra cotta planters with a finger to her lips. “But sagebrush is so … so …” Notepad and pencil to her chest, she wrinkled her nose, striving to come up with a provocation that would put a burr in Finn’s boot. She settled on an insult she’d once hurled at him in school when he’d called her a spoiled rich girl. Hurting people’s feelings was not something she was prone to do, but Finn McShane had always managed to get under her skin, bringing out the worst in her. And before she knew it, the slur had just popped out of her mouth. Never had she seen Finn McShane turn that shade of red before, revealing she’d struck one of the few nerves in the cockiest boy in her class: his poor upbringing. “Pathetically common and pitifully poor,” she finished with a flourish, whirling to give him her best condescending look.
His eyes narrowed considerably, and she had to bite back a smile, thinking she’d never had so much fun insulting Finn McShane before. Their “pretend” rivalry was certainly working. No one seemed even remotely aware that Finn and she had feelings for each other, not even Miss Willoughby or the ever-matchmaking Mrs. Poppy. Although Libby did feel a wee bit guilty about the older ladies’ gentle reprimands and concerned glances whenever she and Finn sparred. So much so, in fact, that even Libby wondered at times if the attraction were real or if she’d only dreamed those tender kisses he’d given her since that night at the Poppys’. Especially since some of their heated festival disagreements since then were certainly anything but “pretend.”
But the attraction was real, she knew, based on the countless hours they spent alone talking at City Hall before the meetings when they’d both arrive early. During those times, they shared about safer subjects like their hopes and dreams rather than festival business. Sometimes their talks were serious and sometimes playful, but always filled with a growing affection that was, for Libby at least, slowly ripening into love. Of course, Finn couldn’t really show that when he walked her, Kitty, and Martha home after each meeting, always reverting to their usual squabbling instead. But he sure showed it when he dropped Libby off last, stealing kisses in the bushes before he delivered her to her door. Those moments together were precious to her, not only because they were some of the rare times she and Finn weren’t butting heads, but because she got to see the tender and caring man behind the gruff and cocky exterior.
The same “gruff and cocky exterior” he now conveyed with a stubborn clamp of his mouth and an exaggerated roll of his eyes. Without question, those kisses seemed pretty distant right about now as he slacked a hip with a disgruntled fold of arms. “‘Pathetically common and pitifully poor’ plants that are native to our fair state, Miss O’Shea, in case you haven’t noticed from the lofty height of your gilded castle.”
“Now, Finn …” Mrs. Poppy said softly, obviously concerned that Libby and he intended to continue the battle of words they’d just had at City Hall.
“No, he’s right, Mrs. Poppy. I have been exposed to more than pigweed and thistle since my mother adores her gardens, so we really can’t blame poor Mr. McShane if he can’t rise above the mundane.”
A muscle twitched in Finn’s sculpted face, and Libby couldn’t decide if the sweat beading his brow was from the heat of the day or the heat of his temper. “I’ll choose ‘mundane’ any day over ‘dead,’ Miss Bell, because I guarantee if you put roses in those pots, we’ll end up with dead sticks.”
“Not if Millie waters them twice a week,” Libby insisted, grateful the mayor’s secretary had volunteered to take on the task. “And the roses my mother is donating are already well established in pots, Mr. McShane, so they should transplant nicely.”
“Oh absolutely,” Miss Willoughby concurred with marked enthusiasm, her sentiments wholeheartedly echoed by Mrs. Poppy.
“Yeah, well I wish other things transplanted as nicely,” he muttered loudly, earning a warning glare from his former teacher. He threw his hands up in the air. “Looks like I’m outnumbered—again. Maybe I should just go back to work where I actually have some input.”
“Oh, now don’t be a crab, Griffin,” Mrs. Poppy said with a motherly pat of his arm, her soothing tone belied by a twinkle in her eyes. “You wouldn’t have input there either if you didn’t work alone, young man.”
“So, it’s roses in the pots and fancy wrought iron to decorate the wooden benches.” Libby checked those items off her list, dismissing Finn with a bright smile. “All agreed?”
“No,” Finn groused, “but does it matter?” He slapped his Stetson against his knee to clear it of dust before plopping it on his head. “Afternoon, ladies—I have real work to do.” Without so much as a glance her way, Finn tore off down the street toward the V&T.
“Mr. McShane, wait!” Libby called after she said her goodbyes to the ladies, hurrying to catch up with Finn. “We are not done here, sir.”
Finn wheeled around in the open doorway of the V&T, hand on the knob and a scowl on his face. “What is it now, Miss O’Shea?” he boomed, loud enough for Miss Delilah and everyone on the street and walkway to hear. “You’ve already taken up most of my lunch hour.”
“I’d like to discuss the park benches some more.” She nodded at several ladies who passed her on the boardwalk as she stopped before Finn.
“Of course you would,” he said in a near growl, charging into the V&T while a wide-eyed Delilah looked on. He paused at the door of his office to glare, hands on his hips. “Let me guess—now you want to add little lacey pillows with hearts and flowers on them.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, you mule.” Libby closed the front door behind her with a little too much force, sparing a strained smile in Miss Delilah’s direction before she followed Finn into his office. “I want to discuss how the V&T might benefit from possibly donating a bench or two.”
“For the love of mercy, Miss Bell, the V&T has already given its all to this festival, not to mention the excessive time of its director who’s been hounded to death by his co-chair.” He turned his back on her to storm to his desk, grumbling all the way.
“You want hounded?” Libby slammed his office door behind her with a rattle of the glass and marched right around his desk. “I’ll show you ‘hounded.’”
“Oh yes, ma’am, please—‘hound’ away,” Finn said in her ear as he butted her to the wall with a low groan, smothering her neck with kisses. “Heaven help me, I’ve missed you, Libby.”
Near melting, Libby matched his groan with a weak one of her own before she raised her voice several octaves, hopefully loud enough for Miss Delilah to hear through the closed door. “You’re going to miss more than that, Mr. McShame, if you don’t sit down right now and listen to me, so SIT!”
“With pleasure.” Finn grinned as he eased back on his desk, tugging Libby along while he pressed a kiss to her hair, arms securely around her waist. “So, speak to me, Miss O’Shea,” he whispered, thumb grazing the small of her back.
“Wellllllll …” Excitement bubbling inside, Libby toyed with the edge of Finn’s string tie with a shy smile. “I thought of a great way to pay for the four benches, Finn, but I wanted to check with you first before I proposed it to the rest of the committee.”
He crooked a dark brow, mouth veering off-center as he tugged on a lock of her hair. “What? Make V&T pay for them all?”
“Not all of them, silly,” she said with a soft giggle, “but whoever does donate a bench will have the honor of claiming it as their own with a brass plate right on top for all to see.” She tipped her head with a nervous chew of her lip. “So … what do you think?”
He drew her close to graze her lips with a slow and lingering kiss. “I think you’re flat-out adorable, Co-chair O’Shea, and I’m all for ‘claiming’ something as my own.” He burrowed his lips into the crook of her neck, skimming kisses all the way up to the soft flesh of her ear. “And I’m sure not talking benches,” he breathed, his words warm against her throat while he tenderly suckled her lobe.
“Focus, McShane!” she shouted in a near gasp, her breathing ragged as she prodded him back with a hazy smile. “So my idea—do you like it? The engraver at the newspaper said he could make the brass plates if you do.”
“I love it,” he said, depositing a kiss to the tip of her nose. “And the bench idea is nice too.” Giving her a tight squeeze, he stood to his feet and slowly ushered her to the door. “You need to scoot before somebody gets suspicious, but put the V&T down for one bench, Libs, and I’ll make Milo pick up another for the newspaper.”
“Excellent, Director Finn!” She reached for the door knob, smile radiant. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“Sure you can,” he said softly, the heat in his eyes unleashing more than a little heat of her own. He gently nudged her against the wall with a half-lidded look that made her throat go dry, turning her bones to butter when he slowly tugged and toyed her mouth with his before delving in deeper. His voice was a husky rasp when he finally pulled away. “And someday soon, I hope.”
Breathless from the warmth purling through her body, she glanced up, voice far too frail. “How soon?”
His manner sobered considerably as he quietly slipped several curls over her shoulder, his gaze focused on his fingers rather than on her face. “I honestly don’t know right now, Libby, but I’m working on it, I promise.” He finally looked up, eyes tender. “I just think we need to give it a decent amount of time beyond the festival, so can you trust me a little while longer?”
Libby swallowed the disappointment clogging her throat. “Sure, Finn.”
“Thank you.” He bent to graze her forehead with a tender kiss. “Then I’ll see you early at our final meeting before setup, all right?” He moved to open the door, hand on the knob as he gave her a wink before his smile slashed into a scowl. “Fine—have it your way, Miss O’Shea,” he bellowed as he opened it wide, “you usually do.”
“Oh, you’re just impossible,” she shouted back, head high as she marched out of his office. “This festival can’t come soon enough to suit me, I can tell you that.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” a feminine voice said sharply from behind, and Libby spun around to see Jo Beth in front of Miss Delilah’s desk. She pinned Libby with a superior glare as she swished past with her nose in the air. “Everyone knows how you’ve badgered poor Finn throughout this entire process, so I guarantee, Liberty O’Shea, you won’t be the only one relieved when it’s done.” Her voice suddenly melted into warm honey as she placed a possessive hand on Finn’s arm. “Finn, Mama made all of your favorite dishes for my birthday dinner before the dance, so be sure to come hungry.”
Finn’s gaze flicked to Libby and back, his firm tone clearly at odds with the ruddy rash bleeding up the back of his neck.
“Sorry, Jo Beth, but I have festival responsibilities to attend to before the dance.”
“But it’s my birthday,” she said with a pout in her voice, “and you promised to help make it the best celebration ever, remember? Besides,” she said with a haughty glance over her shoulder, “Liberty won’t mind because everyone knows she likes to run the show.”
Finn gave a gruff clear of his throat. “I wish I could, Jo Beth, but I’m co-chair—”
“Humpf. If that’s what you want to call it.” Libby’s voice rose in volume, all prior patience and understanding regarding Jo Beth suddenly going up in smoke along with her temper. “Frankly, I’m used to you shirking your responsibilities, Mr. McShane,” she snapped, enough sparks burning in her eyes to rival the fireworks display planned in the new town square. “So what’s one more?”
“See?” Smile smug, Jo Beth hooked her arm through Finn’s, the look of adoration on her face enough to make Libby lose her lunch. “Now we can celebrate my birthday as planned.”
As planned.
“Jo Beth, I’m really sorry, but I can’t—”
“Oh, sure you can!” Libby marched to the door, grappling for the knob while her fury rose faster than the blood in her cheeks. Smile stiff, she turned, her notorious rivalry with Finn coming in awfully handy as she jutted her chin to scorch him with a glare. “You’re more hindrance than help half the time anyway, so be my guest, please. After all, you did promise Jo Beth, Mr. McShane,” she said, horrified at the unexpected moisture that stung at the back of her lids, “and we all know you don’t break promises.” She slammed the door hard, hand shaking as she swiped at her eyes.
Just hearts.