Page 3 of Lucky Haven

It’s sundress season in Dragonfly Creek, and the pretty new librarian—new to the job, if not the town—is respecting the fuck out of it.

Which is a problem, because my garage is right across the road from the library, and I have eyes.

Despite my best efforts to contain myself, my appreciation for Haven Bingham’s modest sundresses is deeply inappropriate. In my defence, even the most modest dress wouldn’t be able to contain her lush cleavage.

For three weeks in a row, I’ve been treated to an unbearably hot parade of incredibly touchable cotton.

Which I can’t touch, of course.

For one thing, If I get too close to Haven, she flinches. For another, I told her ten years ago she could do a hell of a lot better than a creepy minister, and I meant it. An ex-con mechanic might rate slightly better than a creep, because I do know how to keep my hands to my fucking self, but I’m so far from good enough for her it’s not funny.

“Are you listening?”

I tear my eyes off Haven, who is putting a folding placard outside the library, and re-focus on the voice in my ear. “Sorry, Zane, say that again? It’s loud in the garage.”

“Family dinner next week. Dax is coming into town, Mom wants everyone there, no excuses. But if you want to bring a date, that’s fine.”

Across the street, a gust of warm, midsummer wind catches the hem of Haven’s sundress, and she spins around, her dark red hair gleaming like rubbed bronze in the sun.

I swallow around the lump in my throat. “No, it’ll just be me.”

Even before Haven moved back to town six months ago, I wasn’t interested in dating anyone. Doesn’t stop gossips from making up all sorts of stories about me, and that reputation has its advantages. But there’s a zero percent chance of me having a date for a family dinner. Less than zero. Negative a million.

Because the only woman I want is the one woman I need to keep my careful distance from.

And other than immediately establishing a weekly visit to the library for literacy reasons, I’ve managed to do that since her return.

Once a week is the right balance point between restraint and indulgence.

On the one hand, I could go every day and it wouldn’t fully satisfy my cravings.

On the other, if I don’t get a chance to be up close and semi-personal with Haven at least once every seven, I think I might actually lose my mind.

And that pulsing desire has only gotten stronger lately. The sundresses aren’t to blame. Her dark red hair that looks like sin isn’t to blame, and neither is her bossy mouth. This attraction goes back years. And recent events have sharpened my awareness of her to a finely honed point.

She’s always been that girl for me. The one who captures my eye, who holds my attention. Who haunts my dreams, because I’ll never be good enough for her.

And before I could name all of that, I thought she annoyed me.

In elementary school, it was because she was smart and kind. In high school, she annoyed me because she was smart, kind, and suddenly very religious.

As an adult, it got worse because she was still smart, still kind, still very religious, but also suddenly very hot.

And then I was arrested.

Aggravated assault, they said.

Reasonable interference in a domestic violence situation, I said.

Turns out, their voices carried more weight than mine did.

Haven Bingham was the only person in that courtroom, other than my flesh and blood, who looked like she agreed with me.

Something changed the day I was convicted. She stopped annoying me, and started occupying my thoughts in different, more complicated ways.

I didn’t see her again for six years.

And then six months ago, she moved back to Dragonfly Creek with a shiny new degree in library science or some shit like that.