“Thanks. You mind if I—?” She gestures toward her hoodie like she’s about to take it off, and I immediately turn around.
“No, yeah. Go ahead. I’ll just—yeah.”
I face the wall, my ears hot. I hear the wet slap of fabric hitting the floor. Then the rustle of skin on cotton. And then?—
I see her reflection in the glass of the fake fireplace.
And I am not ready for it.
Black bra. Bare shoulders. Her skin’s pale but flushed from the cold. Her stomach is flat, a little soft at the bottom. A tattoo near her ribs, partially hidden. The pink in her hair is brighter in the firelight, and for a second, the whole scene looks surreal—like someone pulled her out of a dream and dropped her in my library.
My body reacts before I can talk myself out of it. A gut-deep, tight-jawed, absolutely inappropriate reaction.
Fuck.
I clear my throat and squeeze my eyes shut.
This is not the time or place. She’s clearly exhausted. Wet. Cold. Probably lost. And I’m out here acting like I’ve never seen a woman in a bra before.
Get it together, Shepard.
She slips the shirt on with a soft sigh and sinks back into the chair, hands wrapped around the mug. I stay facing the other way until I’m sure she’s decent.
When I finally turn back around, she’s watching me.
“So,” I say, forcing a casual tone, “is it okay if I ask why you’re looking for the mayor?”
She taps her fingers against the ceramic. “I’m here to paint murals.”
My brows go up. “You’re the beautification plan?”
She snorts. “What the hell does that mean?”
I grin. “There’s been talk. Planting flowers. Repainting signs. Making the town more lively.”
She takes a sip of cocoa, eyes closing as she hums in appreciation.
Goddammit.
The sound goes straight to my spine.
“Well,” she says, “guess I’m the lucky one who gets to slap paint all over your precious brick.”
I laugh. “Be gentle. Some of those bricks are older than my grandmother.”
She tilts her head. “You a librarian?”
“Not exactly.” I motion to the stacks behind us. “I’m the library director. In charge of modernization, expansion, community programs… and dusting. Lots of dusting.”
She smirks. “Fancy title. You got an assistant?”
“Not yet. Unless you count Marjorie.”
“Marjorie?”
“Retired librarian. She comes in twice a week to glare at the new tech and re-shelve the nonfiction when I do it wrong.”
Sadie laughs—actually laughs—and it’s a low, rough sound that curls around my ribs.
