She blinks. “Um—what?”
“Emergency at the library,” I tell her, while also typing a reply to Bristol.
RedBarnRhett:I’m on my way.
five
. . .
Bristol
Things were going so well.
One minute I’m bantering with Rhett and the next, I’m walking a group of retirees toward the library’s large-print section when I hear the sound of glass shattering and heavy things tumbling to the ground.
Everyone jumps and looks at me.
I plaster my best “I’ve got it all under control”smile on my face and excuse myself to investigate.
The entire Winter Tales & Cozy Nights display that I spent so much time putting together has collapsed—table legs splayed out, twinkle lights sagging, half the books spilled across the rug like they were fleeing the scene of a crime. Glitter is embedded in the rug, and clings to the shelves, and now my shoes. The glass bowl I thrifted and filled with ornaments is now nothing but sharp, sparkly regret.
Behind me, someone clears their throat.
“Is everything okay here?” a patron asks gently.
“Yes,” I say quickly, snapping out of it. “Just a little mishap. Please, just—give me one moment to get this all cleaned up.”
I’m able to direct everyone away with what I hope reads as an air ofcompetent librarianand notwoman internally screaming.
Once I’ve ushered everyone away from the scene, I start blocking off the area with chairs and quickly print a sign to attach that readsDISPLAY TEMPORARILY CLOSED — PLEASE DON’T TOUCH.
Next, I call the Town Council office since they oversee the library for everything from funding to maintenance, and the person who answers puts me on hold. Then I’m transferred twice. Finally someone cheerfully tells me that while the library’s maintenance is funded by Mistletoe Bay taxes, any repairs or maintenance is invoiced after the work has been completed. They tell me to, “just call a handyman and send over the invoice.”
I hang up and stare at my phone.
Who do I even call?
My brain is full of glitter and panic and the very unfortunate fact that the only handyman I can think of right now is Rhett Jennings.
No.
Absolutely not.
You cannot text the man you matched withthis morningto rescue you from a collapsing holiday display.
Except…
He literally owns the hardware store.
He fixes things for a living.
And the library walldoesneed fixing.
With a sigh, I pull up our message thread.
I type.
Delete.
