“Right,” I croaked, scanning the book and sliding it back to her. “Well, enjoy your . . . tragic teenagers.”
“Oh, I will.” She picked up the book and held it against her chest like it was something precious. “Especially since you recommended it.”
“I didn’t recommend—”
The bell rang, cutting off my protest with its shrill, merciful sound.
“See you later, Mr. J,” Jessica called over her shoulder, already sashaying toward the door. “Think about that coffee. I know this adorable little place downtown . . .”
Her voice trailed off as she disappeared into the hallway, leaving me standing behind the circulation desk like a shell-shocked veteran of some particularly brutal literary war.
I slumped back in my chair and buried my face in my hands.
This was my life.
This was what I’d signed up for when I decided to become a school librarian.
Kids who read romantic subtext into everything and sixteen-year-old girls who thought flirting with their teachers was an appropriate extracurricular activity.
I was still contemplating poor life choices when I heard footsteps approaching the desk. Heavy footsteps. Adult footsteps.
Please, I thought desperately,let it be another teacher. Let it be the principal or the custodian or the police coming to arrest me and steal me away. Let it be anyone over the age of eighteen who wasn’t going to proposition me in the middle of my workplace.
I looked up, prepared to greet whoever had come to save me from my Jessica-induced existential crisis.
And promptly forgot how to breathe.
Because standing in front of my desk was a giant box with massive arms.
I mean . . . it was a man . . . a man with giant arms holding a box. A heavy box. A heavy box that made his biceps press against his skin in ways that made my pants tight. I couldn’t see the guy behind the box, but he looked tall, broad-shouldered, and his arms . . . God . . . his arms bulged as he shifted the box in his grip.
Then he peered around the box.
The first thing I saw was unruly blond hair, like a surfer who’d just come in from the ocean, his hair having dried on the way but without the help of a comb or brush.
Then he blinked, eyes the color of the Mediterranean widened in recognition, and he smiled.
Right at me.
“Wow. Hi. You’re Noodle Dad, aren’t you?” he said in a voice that was deep and smooth and did devastating things to my already fragile composure.
“Noodle Dad?” I stammered.
His grin widened as his head bobbed. “You know, with the little girl and the, um, very aggressive pasta stirrer?”
My brain cells smashed together, and I remembered an even more horrifically embarrassing moment than any induced by Jessica.
“Oh, yes, that would be me. Noodle Dad.”
Why had I just surrendered to that nickname? Fuck my life.
“It’s been a few weeks. I’m Jeremiah. You can call me Jer. That’s what my friends call me. You know, short for Jeremiah.”
My brows bunched. Was he making fun of me, or was he . . . seriously explaining how nicknames worked?
“Uh, okay. Hi, Jer.”
His smile somehow widened further. My cheeks ached for him.
