"I wanna see the toys!" Mason bounced up.
"Do you have trucks?" Jayden asked. "And horses?"
"It's not really—" Heat climbed my neck. "It's not the kind of store where—"
The library door swung open with enough force to make the holiday garland draped over the doorframe flutter. Cold December air rushed in, sending drawings fluttering on the bulletin board. Parents filed through—Mrs. Campbell, Mr. Rodriguez, the Millers, Mrs. Johnson. They'd dropped their kids at four-thirty and were back by five-sixteen for pickup, like every Thursday.
And then Shepherd Starr filled the doorway.
Snow clung to the shoulders of his sheepskin-lined jacket. He stepped inside, and suddenly the Victorian building's high ceilings and tall windows felt too small, the carved woodwork too close. Every coherent thought vanished.
"Daddy!" Dash launched himself forward, grabbing his hat from his lap.
Shep caught him easily, swinging him up. The easy strength in that movement, the gentle way he looked at his son—patient,devoted—made my chest tighten with longing. What would it be like to have someone who cared about me with that same fierce protectiveness? Someone who'd light up when I walked into a room?
"Hey there, cowboy." That slow Texas drawl did things to my equilibrium that had no business happening in a public library. He ruffled Dash's dark hair. "You being good for Miss Flannery?"
"She works at a toy store!" Dash waved his cowboy hat so enthusiastically it nearly flew across the room. "Can we go see? Please, Daddy, please? I bet she has the best toys. Miss Flannery has the best everything."
Shep looked at me over Dash's head, and a slow smile spread across his face. "That so? A toy store?"
I pushed my glasses up even though they'd been fine where they were, then immediately regretted the nervous gesture. "I really need to close up. Sorry, everyone, Story Time's over!"
The other parents collected their children. I busied myself gathering the remaining picture books and shelving them, but I could feel Shep watching me. When I snuck a glance over my shoulder, he was still there by the door, Dash chattering about the Grinch and horses, but Shep's attention was entirely on me.
He'd been bringing Dash to Story Time for almost a year now. Every Thursday at four-thirty, like clockwork. And every Thursday I turned into a fumbling disaster who couldn't meet his eyes without blushing, who stammered through conversations about picture books, who forgot how to act like a normal human being around an attractive man.
"Come on, Dash." His voice dropped lower, rougher. "Let's let Miss Flannery get to her job."
They headed for the door, Dash chattering about whether hearts could really grow three sizes. I gathered my tote and keys with shaking hands, waved goodbye to Mrs. Coldwell atthe circulation desk, and finally exhaled when the door closed behind them.
Vixen had relocated to the circulation desk and sat grooming her shoulder with exaggerated dignity.
"Don't look at me like that," I told her.
She gave me her most unimpressed slow blink.
I had forty minutes to transform from buttoned-up library page who read to preschoolers into... whatever I became when I put on that elf costume. The duality was exhausting.
Outside, thick flakes were falling—the first real accumulation of the season. I loaded Vixen into her carrier, and she gave me a look that clearly said she found this entire situation beneath her dignity. My battered Honda Civic's engine made a concerning grinding sound before finally catching. Brenda Lee's "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" blasted from the radio, aggressively cheerful.
The drive out to Highway 287 took me through Mistletoe Ridge's holiday preparations. Past the Piggly Wiggly, where Mrs. Yates and Mrs. Tucker hurried from their cars to the store entrance, probably discussing the weather—or whoever else's business they could dissect. Past the Starlight theater with its vintage neon sign advertisingIt's a Wonderful Lifefor the third week running. Past Billy Bob's BBQ Barn, decorated with enough Christmas lights to power a small city and an inflatable Santa at least twelve feet tall, its arms waving in the wind.
I loved this town. Everyone knew everyone, which was wonderful and terrible depending on what you were trying to keep secret.
Like working at the only adult boutique in a fifty-mile radius.
Christmas lights on distant ranch houses twinkled across the dark prairie. The storm was intensifying, my wipers working overtime, reducing visibility to almost nothing. The prairie stretched endless on both sides of the highway, broken only byfence lines and the occasional ranch entrance marked by those massive wooden gates Texans loved.
I'd been at Lasso & Lace for eight months—ever since I saw Angela Singer's help-wanted ad on the community center job board. "Sales position - $18/hour plus employee discount" hadn't mentioned what kind of sales. When Angela explained what kind of shop it was, I'd nearly hung up. But eighteen dollars an hour was almost double what the library paid, and I needed every penny for my library science degree.
Fifteen thousand dollars still to go. At this rate, I'd have enough saved by next fall to finally enroll in the MLIS program at Texas Tech.
The job itself wasn't even bad. Angela ran a professional operation—clean, well-lit, more upscale boutique than the seedy place I'd imagined. Most customers were nice. Couples shopping together, women treating themselves, the occasional bachelorette party from Amarillo. Angela had rules: no judgment, no gossip, treat everyone with respect.
What made it mortifying was the secrecy. Parking behind the building. Changing in the back room. Jumping every time the bell chimed, terrified it would be someone from town who'd recognize me. Someone who'd tell Mee-Maw, who'd tell the church ladies, who'd tell everyone at the Piggly Wiggly until I became "that floosie who works at the sex shop" instead of "Flannery Green who does such a nice Story Time."
Someone like Shepherd Starr.
