Yeah, I was single-minded.

What exactly did Astrid the baker want from me? Orgasms? Not a problem, especially if she brought her shortcake on the date.

Miss Turnbuckle pushed back her chair and stood. I hopped to my feet. My parents might have died when I was twelve, but they’d drilled into me good manners early on. Alice had finished that job with a wooden spoon a time or two.

I turned slightly and folded my hands together in front of me to hopefully hide the semi I was now sporting. Because of a shy baker. In front of the octogenarian librarian.

What the fuck was wrong with me?

“It’s time for me to take my old bones home to bed,” Miss Turnbuckle said. “I’ve got three more chapters in my book I’m eager to get to. If it ends like I think, I’ll save it for you to check out.”

“Don’t we need to plan when I’ll pick you up?” I asked.

She shook her head, patted my arm, then squeezed the muscle, her white eyebrows winging up. “I might have bought you, but the date’s with Astrid.”

Miss Turnbuckle waved to someone behind me and headed off in that direction.

My date was with Astrid? This bachelor auction was looking better and better by the minute. I turned my attention to the subtle beauty before me. Astrid looked up with those big green eyes.

“I need a man,” she said, then slapped a hand over her mouth.

The four words were followed by a flush so bright I had to wonder if her pussy was that color after a hard fuck.

I bit back a groan at the thought.

This… whatever this was with Astrid, it was happening. If Astrid needed a man, I sure as shit was going to be it. And she’d get her money’s worth.

2

ASTRID

I need a man?

What the hell was wrong with me? I just told Thatcher Manning—Thatcher Manning—that I needed a man. If aliens could beam me up at this moment, I’d gladly go.

He must think I was insane. No, I was insane for blurting that.

I had to fix this… and fast. Instead of running away screaming, Thatcher offered some kind of weird huff of a laugh and dropped into Aunt Jean’s now empty seat. His knee bumped mine beneath the table.

I glanced at him… barely, then away, then back. “God, I sound creepy and desperate,” I admitted. “Can we forget any of this ever happened?”

He slowly shook his head and I had to take in his ginger hair. It appeared to be recently cut, the sides trimmed short, the top a touch longer, natural curl making it look a bit unruly. Then I focused on his pale eyes that were lit with humor and curiosity, not fear of a crazy woman.