I just couldn’t leave her with anyone, and the three people I trusted… Well, Gram passed away, a thief murdered Eric, and my brother moved away after high school, choosing to travel the world before settling in Maine. After that, I just stopped trying. I didn’t have anyone.
But more than that, all Lark had at the time was me. I couldn’t imagine dating anyone, and I didn’t want to. A boyfriend or a relationship was more hassle than it was worth, and I’d have to bring them around Lark, which dredges up me not trusting anyone.
My heart skips a beat as I look at Arlo. Not because of the budding friendship between us, but because I think I do trust him.
“I have my clearances,” he says, trying again.
I push the word out past the lump in my throat. “Okay.”
His lips curve up into a crooked smile, and I nearly melt on the spot. “Really?” He nearly does an impersonation of Bridget and hops from foot to foot.
“Yeah, really.” Enough of this. I get up, grab my almost empty coffee cup, and head around the counter, his spicy scent tingling my nose.
“You will love the girls.”
I waggle my brows. “So that was her?”
“I knew I wouldn’t get out of that.” He sits on the stool I just got up from, his shoulders slumping. “Yes, Bloom.”
“Why Bloom?” I wince. That came out wrong, but I can’t take it back. I meant the nickname.
Luckily, Arlo picks up on my awkwardness. “Why her or why the nickname?”
I raise a brow without answering. I may have made the mistake of asking, but I’ll also own it.
“Know what? Ask her later.” He shoos me. “Go, or you are going to be late for your very first day.”
“I doubt Ms. Aberdeen is even there yet.” I walk to the door, pausing on the threshold. “Arlo?” I don’t wait for him to answer before pressing on. “Thank you.” I push through the door, the bells tinkling in my wake.
CHAPTER 10
The first dayof any new job should never start with tardiness, so I rushed across the street as fast as my legs could carry me. Lady Luck granted me some of her coveted good juju, and the doors stood open for me, which I shut as soon as I got inside. The small insane woman obsessed with Pauly was nowhere to be found. After a solid half hour, I stopped looking for her and started cleaning, hoping she knew I was here and I’d somehow get paid for it.
A layer of fine dust covered every single inch of the place, yet—and I use this word sparingly—the library held a magical essence to it. When I walked through the large glass doors, it threw me into a small marble entryway. Two doors sat on opposite sides of the room, one to the right and one to the left. In the center, a large cherry wood desk split the area in two.
There was even a little spinning globe on the top. And a bell.
No lie, I rang that thing a solid dozen times before moving on. It satisfied that annoying part of me that never left childhood.
The doors to either side remained locked, but I found a set of keys hidden in the desk and opened both doors before flipping the sign to “Open.”
I dubbed the left side the adult side. It held all the normal things, like fiction and non, as well as ancient encyclopedias. Dust motes danced in the air, and with a little light, I could almost imagine them as fairies.
It was the right side of the building, though, that stole my breath.
It’s a fairy-tale land reimagined as a library. Tall trees made of papier mâché stretched to the ceiling, while a certain caterpillar lounged in the rafters and a dusty tea party sat frozen in time.
Shivers danced up my spine as I moved between the shelves. I decided then and there to open this side first, and starting Wednesday, we were going to have story time.
That thought stole my entire day. I washed the shelves after finding a bucket in a supply closet, the one set beside that break room where I did not find the elusive Ms. Aberdeen. I did, however, findJersey Shoreplaying on repeat.
I’m not a cleaner, if I’m honest, preferring to hirie someone to do the tasks I don’t like to do. Granted, that isn’t very often because,k for most of my life, I lived in squalor.
Growing up with Gram was incredible, and some of my favorite memories of her were when she’d read us bedtime stories. The pages came alive, and my imagination was filled with princesses and knights, as well as heroes braving death and war to find their brides.
Those nights were my favorite, and not the ones that reminded me I didn’t have a mom and dad. I could pretend my life was something else, something magical, when she read to us.
And at the end, as Gram lay dying in her hospital bed, I read to her. I read about love and romance, as well as witches and warlocks. Even my brother flew down to spend those last moments with her, and together, we filled them with some of our favorite works.
