I huffed out a breath and rolled my eyes. I should’ve known just a kiss with Lincoln would’ve been the beginning of the end for my sanity.
Shaking off the memory, I shuffled through the papers spread out around me until a small paperback slid across the table toward me.Plowed by His Seeder, its cover featuring a well-built shirtless man wearing muddy jeans that accentuated his very large, um,seeder.
Brows raised, I glanced up to find Penelope shifting on her feet. Her pale pink cardigan was buttoned all the way up, her matching glasses perfectly in place. From the outside, she looked like your average prim, proper librarian. But I’d officially met her in front of a display of ten-inch tentacle dildos at Wicked Little Things, and she’d just dropped a book so filthy, I didn’t think the library even carried that level of smut.
“Good morning to you too, Pen. New favorite?” I asked, tipping my head toward the book.
She cleared her throat and ran a hand down her skirt. “Lots of, um…readers seem to like this one. Thought it might help you relax at the end of the day. You look like you could use a bit of that.”
I huffed out a laugh and leaned back, wincing when fire shot down my leg. “That obvious?”
“Maybe not to most people.” She lifted a single shoulder in a shrug and smiled softly. “But I’m observant.”
Of course she was. The woman noticed everything—observation was practically her kink.
I flipped the book over and scanned the back, my brows lifting as several words stood out—fertile,harvest, andmassive seeder, to name a few. “Thanks for this. Sounds like it’ll pair nicely with a huge tentacle peen.”
A soft squeak came from Penelope, and crimson stained her cheeks. “Oh, um…maybe.”
“Sorry, I have no filter. I know it’s a lot different to talk about alien dicks when we’re seated in front of a display at Wicked Little Things than it is chatting while you’re at work.”
“No, it’s okay.” Though the increased reddening of her cheeks, ears, and chest indicated it very muchwasn’t. “But I should get back to it. I’ll see you later.”
“Sure. And, Pen? Thanks for this,” I said, holding up the book.
She gave me a subtle nod before scurrying off to the checkout counter. I opened the book and flipped through it, my brows lifting the more pages I scanned.
This wasn’t just any library book. This was a fully annotated Penelope original, complete with color-coded tabs and a heart-shaped sticky note marking one of the hottest scenes I’d ever read.
Well, damn. Apparently those buttoned-up cardigans and innocent blush were hiding something a little bit naughty under the surface.
I tucked the book into my bag because I wasdefinitelygoing to be rereading that scene later. Just to really give it the time it deserved. For academic purposes, obviously.
Blowing out a deep sigh, I nudged my laptop back into place and tried to refocus. The form in front of me stared back withsilent judgment. I glared at the line labeled Family Details and swallowed hard. Shockingly, there wasn’t a checkbox forfake husband, real tension, zero clue what the fuck I’m doing.
This grant wasn’t only about saving the farm. It was about proving—to myself, to my brother, to my fake husband—that I could do this. That I was still the version of me who could carry every burden without flinching.
Except sitting here, my back screaming, my brain fried, and my skin still tingling from Lincoln’s touch, I felt less like a rock and more like a cracked pane of glass, one wrong move away from completely shattering.
“Fuel delivery,” a warm voice interrupted my spiral.
I glanced up to find Holly standing next to me, a paper bag in one hand and a coffee cup in the other.
“You’ve been buried back here so long, I thought you could use a little something,” she said, placing the items on the table with a smile.
I scanned the writing on the side of the to-go cup—extra cream, two sugars, dash of cinnamon, exactly how I liked it—and peeked inside the bag to find a blueberry Danish. My favorite, from the bakery I limited myself to once a month because if I didn’t, I’d replace my entire food supply with flaky pastries.
Suddenly, my throat felt too thick and my chest felt too tight and I didn’t know where to put all this emotion. Which only felt stupid because what the hell was I getting all worked up about? It was coffee and a pastry, not a million dollars.
But it wasmycoffee andmypastry, and it was coming from someone who so easily exuded motherly comfort to someone who wasn’t even hers. And considering my mom’s version of comfort was calling me a couple times a year from her perch in Florida to bitch about her latest woes, this was altogether new for me. And completely unexpected.
After clearing my throat several times, I murmured, “Thank you. You didn’t have to do this.”
Holly waved away my words. “Iwantedto. And all it took was a quick text to your husband to find out your favorites.”
Myfakehusband… I’d been shocked to learn he knew my coffee order, but this? He also apparently knew which bakery was my favorite and the Danish I couldn’t get enough of?
When the hell had that happened, and why did it make me feel all warm and melty inside?
