It takes a minute to figure out the best mechanics for launch, but I find by pushing off the very edge of one of the shelves, careful not to scrape the wood or touch any of the book spines, I can sail a few feet down the rail. So I do. A few times.
It gives me the same giddy feeling as the Mad Hatter spinning teacup ride, and my inner child can’t hold her peace any longer. I go full Belle, except I can’t remember more than one line of her song, so I make up my own lyrics as I send myself gliding again.
“There goes Hayes Bradford, a big jerk like always, his dumb hair in a big swoop”—push-glide—“and in case you didn’t know, I’ll tell you where to go, because your jerkface landed me in the poop.” My voice is bad and my lyrics are worse, but I laugh, because this is the first time in three months I’ve had pure fun.
I do another glide I’ll dub the full Belle: one hand and foot on the ladder, leaning forward with a ballerina arm stretching toward another book ahead of me. I probably look like a Muppet, but Ifeellike Belle, and I sing some more lyrics, going full operatic style to match my dramatic ladder swooping. “I’ve landed on my feet, because me you can’t defeat, and I can’t wait until someone gives you the scoooooop.”
A sound cracks through the library, and I squeak and lose my balance, grabbing the side of the ladder with both hands. The momentum causes the ladder to come to a stop as my body swings around it, me now clinging to the side of it, my anchor leg hooked around it while the other one dangles.
A man leans against the doorway, finishing up a slow clap with one more loud crack.
“Truly awful,” he says, straightening. “Now, who are you, and why are you in my grandfather’s house?”
Chapter Two
Phoebe
I getmyself untangled from the ladder and land on the floor. It takes all of three seconds and isn’t nearly enough time to compose myself. Not after getting caught by anyone singing anything, ever, but especially not by some guy catching me singing about the job politics that led me out of Boston.
Singing about it badly. Operatically.
Some guy who is apparently my benefactor’s grandson?
Or so he says.
I clear my throat because opera has strained it. “Who is your grandfather?”
He tilts his head, watching me for a second like he’s deciding something. “Foster Martin. Your turn. Why are you in his library?”
Knowing who the house belongs to doesn’t necessarily make this guy a relative. It’s a well-known house.
“Can you prove you’re his grandson?”
He shrugs. “Yes. But I don’t have to. If I call the police right now, they’re questioning you, not me. Still waiting. Who are you?”
“Phoebe Hopper, director of the Serendipity Springs Museum.”
He scans me from head to toe with a doubtful look. It would be insulting, except I get it. I’m wearing sneakers, cutoffs, and a vintage Adidas shirt that’s older than I am. My hair is in two braids to keep it off my neck in the heat, and I don’t look like the director of anything, except maybe Muppet Daycare.
“You don’t start until Monday,” he finally says.
This is definitely Foster Martin’s grandson. How else would he know that? I don’t want to antagonize him any further because I don’t want to start my tenure on the bad side of the Martin family.
“Right,” I say, fighting the urge to fidget. “I wanted to stop by and look over everything first. Which reminds me, when I came in, the back door was unlocked, and the drapes in here were open. That’s bad for the books.” See? I’m getting right to work.
“Probably not as bad as riding the ladder like Cirque du Soleil.”
Why am I trying to brazen this out? He caught me dead to rights, and there’s no point trying to turn it around on him.
I squeeze my eyes shut, pinch the bridge of my nose, and take a deep breath before I force myself to relax and face him again. “You’re right. Sorry. I wanted to do it before I’m official, and it’s conduct unbecoming of a museum director. But for what it’s worth, I was careful where I placed my foot for launch.”
He smiles, and for the first time, I trulylookat him. He’s tall and lean with medium-length dark wavy hair and a distinct five o’clock shadow. Together, they would say “Hollywood lumberjack,” but he’s wearing a gray Stanford T-shirt, black shorts, and black nubuck slip-on loafers that scream “Ispent summers in Martha’s Vineyard but went to Stanford to rebel.”
That smile, though. That smile, in a silky whisper, spells t-r-o-u-b-l-e.
I’ve hit my limit with East Coast pretty boys. Been there, done that, not going back. At least, not going back until I have a newly opened museum on my resume to wave in front of pretty boy Hayes Bradford’s face.
“I wouldn’t expect anything less than careful foot placement from a museum director. Although if you want the best ride, it’s definitely the biography section.” He nods to the far wall of the library. “Don’t know what it is, but you can go about three feet farther from a push in that section than anywhere else.”
