Bethel's Meadow Read Online Free

Smith,” he shouted as he slapped me on the back. “Whatcha reading there, bubba?”
    Sidebottom’s biggest problem in life was that he bore a disturbing resemblance to Newt Gingrich. He was five-nine, a tad on the chubby side, and had dirty blond hair that went all over the place like a damned mop. His nose was reminiscent of actor Owen Wilson’s misshapen beak. His eyes were a dull gray, yet there was a certain playfulness about them that made him tolerable, on the whole. And because of recent teeth-whitening treatments, when Sidebottom smiled it damn near made me snow blind.
    “ Atlas Shrugged ,” I answered softly as I glanced at the end of the aisle. I was certain someone was coming to shut us up. “And Sidebottom, how about turning the volume down a tad? We are, after all, in a library. Not to mention the fact that I have a head—”
    “ Shhhhhhush. ”
    It was one of the librarians. She appeared at the end of the aisle and stood there giving us a reproving glare that we fully deserved. I was going to apologize to her but Sidebottom beat me to it.
    “Sorry, honey bun,” he said with a wink, followed by the most winning smile I had ever seen him flash.
    I’d never even think about calling any woman “honey bun,” but as of the past couple of weeks such patronizing monikers were rolling off of Sidebottom’s tongue with alarming frequency. He was usually very shy and awkward around women, but now he was acting like he had just been to a Dale Carnegie seminar, without adhering exactly to the spirit of Mr. Carnegie’s principles.
    “It won’t happen again,” he said to her. “But I haven’t seen my buddy Smith here in a month of Sundays.” He was lying—we had just seen each other yesterday.
    “Well, okay,” she said with a tender smile, seeming somewhat disarmed. “Just make sure that in the future you contain your enthusiasm.”
    Perhaps in her late twenties to early thirties, the girl didn’t look anything like the stereotypical librarian. Her long, luxuriant, wavy red hair framed a face with a clear, milky white complexion. She had captivating big blue eyes that whipped up a massive swarm of butterflies in my belly. She wore white slacks and a pink blouse that highlighted the goods so well that my mouth dried up and my knees went weak. At about five-eight, she had a deliciously lithe figure that included absolutely perfect breasts—not overstated, done just right by the Creator.
    But what my eyes finally settled upon were her feet: she had on brown high-heeled loafers and white bobby socks. It didn’t diminish her beauty one bit; instead it lent her an air of approachability that she otherwise wouldn’t have had.
    She had an angel’s face, a Hollywood actress’s body, and geeky feet.
    Still smiling, the librarian gaily marched away. Sidebottom turned to me and softly whistled his approval of the girl’s assets.
    “You’re the man,” I said to him. “You’ve recently acquired that indefinable trait that just makes the women melt right where they stand.”
    “Yeah,” he said with a mischievous smile. “I’ve been doing a lot of reading up on the ladies of late. I’m still in the early stages of my training, though.” Sidebottom then held up a black leather-bound book with gilded pages.
    “The Bible?” I asked.
    “Not the Bible, bubba, but a bible. Look a little closer.”
    I took it from him and quickly thumbed through it. It was a true story about a journalist who had infiltrated a cult of pickup artists. I laughed and handed it back to him.
    “I think I’ve heard about this book,” I said. “These guys go around the country giving paid seminars on how to seduce women right in the middle of a nightclub or a bar.”
    “Don’t be so judgmental,” Sidebottom said. “Not every man has your looks or your easy way around women.” He sounded bitter, not complimentary.
    “If you’d just relax around women you’d never have trouble getting on with them,” I said. “You