“Like rotini?”
“Sure,” I said weakly. “Like rotini.”
The man stepped fully into view then, and I forgot about the vibrator, Cuddles, and my missing shirt buttons. Even flustered and mortified, with his hair sticking up and his cheeks flushed, he was adorable. It was the kind of cuteness that made my knees wobble and my carefully practiced charm abandon me completely.
“I amsosorry,” he said, reaching for the device with hands that were visibly shaking. “Debbie, we need to give this back to the mailman right now.”
“But I want to see how it makes pasta!” she protested.
“It’s, um, broken,” the man managed, his voice doing that squeaky thing again. “Verybroken. We’ll . . . we’ll get you a different pasta maker.”
“A better pasta maker?”
“The best pasta maker,” he promised, finally wrestling the vibrator away from her and clutching it against his chest like a pageant contestant with her bouquet. A heartbeat passed before he realized the thing was still vibrating, making his glasses wiggle and body shake, so he held it out by two fingers like a proper lady holding a dirty nappy.
I was still trying to hold my shirt closed when I realized I was staring.
The man was all nervous energy and flustered intelligence . . . and I couldn’t tear my gaze away.
“So,” I said, because someone had to break the silence. “I’m guessing you’re not Mrs. Rodriguez.”
“No, I’m Theo. Theo Jamison,” he said faintly. “And this is Debbie. Mrs. Rodriguez is next door.”
“Jeremiah,” I said, unsure if the introduction was meant to go both ways but determined to keep the conversation going. I let my shirt go, and it fell open again. I looked down and frowned. “I had a disagreement with a golden retriever.”
Theo’s eyes dropped to my torn shirt, and I watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard. He then smacked his lips like a man desperate for moisture. “I . . . I can see that. Cuddles can be . . . quite vicious.”
The vibrator chose that moment to finally run out of batteries, dying with a pathetic whimper that somehow made the whole situation even more mortifying.
“Well,” I said, backing toward the neighboring house. “I should probably go deliver this to the right address.”
“Probably,” Theo agreed, though neither of us moved. His eyes drifted, and he seemed to think a moment before adding, “But . . . the company might not want you delivering used, um, pasta makers to their customers. It might be best to send that back as a damaged item.”
“Right.” I nodded, shoving the device back into its box and fiddling with the lid that would never close again. “Never double dip your pasta wand . . . maker . . . thing.”
“Daddy,” Debbie piped up, looking between us with the expression of a child who sensed adult foolishness but couldn’t quite put her finger on what kind. “Why is your face all red?”
Theo’s flush deepened impossibly. “It’s just . . . warm in here.”
“But we have the air conditioning on. My feet are cold. Why are you hot?”
“You have tiny feet. They get cold easily. I’m, um, very warm,” he insisted.
I bit back a grin, realizing that my quiet Tuesday had just become infinitely more interesting. But looking at Theo—adorable, flustered Theo—I was pretty sure “interesting” was averygood thing.
Chapter 2
Theo
Istood behindmycirculation desk, arms crossed, surveying my domain with the critical eye of a man who’d spent the last hour reorganizing books that were already in perfect order. Every spine was aligned. Every shelf was dusted. Every book was exactly where it belonged according to the Dewey Decimal System—a system I respected with religious devotion.
The library was perfect.
Absolutely, flawlessly, irritatingly perfect.
And yet.
Somethingwas wrong. I could feel it.
