The Road to Rose Bend, Naima Simone [jenna bush book club .TXT] 📗

taking a class in grant writing, and part of the curriculum included writing one for an actual company. They told us their mission, and we had to come up with the purpose for the grant, research and identify funding sources, contact organizations for partnerships and endorsements, create the budget... At first, I was like, what the hell are you doing? But the challenge was kind of exhilarating. And I was helping people. Well, helping an organization help people but still—I was making a change in my small way.”

“Felt good, didn’t it?” he murmured.

“Yeah, it did.” She studied him with an insightfulness that both stirred and unsettled him. “Is that why you ran for mayor?” she asked. “To help bring about change?”

Oh God, wasn’t that a loaded question. “One of the reasons,” he hedged. “I’m not allowing you to change the subject, though. What happened? Did you get the grant?”

She laughed. “Hell no. Even the most seasoned grant writers receive rejects, and I was nowhere near seasoned. But I discovered what I wanted to do. And in taking that class, I changed my major from communications to English and added another one in marketing. It meant another semester in college, but I didn’t care. And all that time, I continued to take grant writing classes. Unlike a good many of my fellow graduates, I walked out with my degree, self-employed, working in my field.”

“That’s amazing, Sydney,” he said, gently squeezing her fingers. “I’m happy for you. And I’m proud of you.”

She shook her head, smiling wryly as she offered him her halfway demolished ice cream cone. He accepted it and sampled it, heat eddying low in his gut. Of course, it was just his imagination that he could taste the sweetness of the salted caramel and her own chocolate and citrus flavor. But the knowledge that his tongue followed the same path as hers had a twisting need prowling through him.

He’d just grazed that boundary line he’d mentally drawn for himself. As long as he didn’t cross it... No matter how hard he tried—and failed—to keep his gaze from tracing the elegant slope of her cheekbones, the sinful bow of her mouth, the lush curves of her breasts, he couldn’t cross that line.

“Proud of me? Why?” she scoffed, waving a hand. “Because I did what I was supposed to do? Granted, probably not many people here expected even that much out of me.”

“Stop.” He gently tugged on her hand, drawing her to a halt. “Look around you. What do you see?”

She tossed him a look that he clearly interpreted as what the hell, but she still glanced around the busy downtown area, packed a little more than usual with shoppers, tourists and traffic because of summer and the upcoming motorcycle rally. But the places that marked Rose Bend as a small, close-knit community still stood, impressive in age yet humble in simplicity.

“What am I supposed to see?” she retorted. “I feel like this is a trick question.”

“Do they teach suspicion in the South along with genteel manners?” He surrendered to his desire and allowed himself a gentle tug on a brown curl.

“Yes. It’s free, along with the master class on the War of Northern Aggression.”

“Smart-ass.”

“Not the worst thing that I’ve been called.”

Delicious. Perfect. Worship-worthy. All things he would—and had—said himself. Goddamn, stop. “Not touching your ass,” he said, then pinched the bridge of his nose, inwardly groaning at his words.

Sydney grinned. “You don’t sound at all happy about that fact,” she drawled.

“Focus,” he grunted.

“I was.” She lifted her shoulders in a shrug, a wicked smile tugging at the corner of her mouth that completely ruined the innocence she was obviously striving for. “Then you started in about manners and asses, and it all went left quick.”

He couldn’t help it; he threw back his head, laughing. Long and hard. And damn if it didn’t feel good. Warm and...cleansing. He brought her hand, still clasped in his, to his mouth and pressed a quick kiss to her knuckles in gratitude.

Her soft gasp reached his ears. Without his permission, his gaze dropped to her mouth. How would that puff of breath feel across his lips if he bent his head over hers?

“What do you see, Sydney?” he asked again, choosing not to acknowledge the question in those liquid brown eyes.

She jerked her head away, obeying his request. For several moments, she studied their surroundings, and when she returned her attention to him, she shook her head. “The same place I left eight years ago.”

“No,” he objected. He held the ice cream cone out to her, and when she shook her head, he tossed it into a nearby garbage can. Then, stepping behind her, he settled his hands on her slim shoulders. “You’re looking out the eyes of that hurt, misunderstood teenage girl. What does the mature, successful woman see now?” When she remained quiet, he offered, “Let me help. See the pharmacy?” He slightly turned her to the left where the store had stood since his parents had been born. “Mr. Price used to run it with an iron fist and pretty much bark at every kid who came in there. Talk about crotchety.” The corner of his mouth quirked at her “hell yeah.” “But now, he has grandkids, twin girls, and you wouldn’t recognize the old man. He actually—wait for it—smiles. And his daughter helps run the pharmacy. She’s enlarged the cosmetics and toy sections, and even added audiobooks.”

With slight pressure, he pivoted her in the opposite direction, so she faced across Main Street.

“Remember Sunnyside Grille?” he continued, referring to the diner that, while not the only one, was the most popular. “About five years ago, Ron and Grace decided to renovate. Got rid of that old Formica floor, the ’50s decor that had probably been dated even back then and that ancient jukebox that played nothing from the last six decades. Even got a new jukebox that plays everything from the Andrews Sisters to Lizzo and switched up their menu to add