He pushed open the door. The familiar bell chimed.
Rachel Morrison stood at the circulation desk, her chestnut hair pulled back in a neat bun, reading glasses perched on her nose as she studied something on her computer. She looked up when Mac approached, and he nearly forgot how to speak.
She was beautiful. Like, stop-your-heart, forget-your-name beautiful. Her brown eyes were intelligent and warm, her face delicate but strong, and when she looked at him, Mac felt like the rest of the world went quiet.
"Can I help?" She tilted her head.
"Hi. I'm Mac. I mean, Ryan MacKenzie. Everyone calls me Mac. I play hockey. For the Eagles. The team. The local team. Not NHL, only local, which is fine. I like it here, it's great." The words tumbled out in a rush, and Mac wanted to sink through the floor.
"I can see that." Her lips tilted upward, maybe with amusement, maybe with pity, Mac couldn't tell. "I know you, you know? You come here. A lot."
Relief flooded through him. She knew him. She'd noticed him. That was something. "Yes, yes, of course, stupid me." Mac thrust the flowers forward like he was presenting evidence in court. "These are for you."
Rachel looked at the flowers, then at him, her expression unreadable. "Why?"
"Because you're beautiful and I wanted to ask you out but I'm terrible at this and my best friend Cole told me to be honest, so I'm being honest, and these are for you, and would you maybe want to get coffee sometime?" The entire sentence came out in one breath. Mac was pretty sure he was dying.
Rachel took the flowers carefully, setting them on the desk. Her fingers brushed the petals. "You're friends with Cole Hansen."
"I am. He's my best friend."
"He seems nice. Ellie definitely is."
"They are. Both of them. Great people. And we all are. Nice, I mean. Especially me. I'm very nice." Mac was sweating now. He was making this worse. He was definitely making this worse.
"Are you?" Rachel's expression remained neutral, but something flickered in her eyes.
"I could be. I am. I would be. If you gave me a chance." He gripped the edge of her desk to keep from fidgeting. "Rachel, I've been wanting to ask you out for weeks. And I know this is probably weird, getting flowers from some guy you barely know, but I think you're amazing, and I'd really like to take you to coffee. Or lunch. Or dinner. Whatever you'recomfortable with. No pressure. But I had to ask because if I didn't, I'd regret it forever, and Cole says I need to stop overthinking things, and—" He forced himself to stop talking. "I'm doing it again. Talking too much."
Rachel studied him for a long moment. Mac held his breath, trying not to pass out from lack of oxygen or embarrassment or both.
"Okay."
Mac's brain short-circuited. "Okay?"
"Coffee, tomorrow, at Sophie’s. Two PM."
Mac's face split into a grin so wide it hurt. His heart was doing something difficult in his chest, somersaults maybe, or backflips. "I won't. I promise. Thank you. You won't regret this. I'm actually really fun once you get to know me. I read books too; that's why I'm in a library. I love books—"
"Mac?"
"Yeah?"
"I’ll see you tomorrow."
"Right. Yes. Two PM. I'll be here. Early, probably. I'll be early." Mac backed toward the door, never breaking eye contact, which is how he tripped over a chair. He caught himself on a bookshelf, sent three mysteries tumbling to the floor, scrambled to pick them up, gave an awkward wave, and fled.
3
Mac
Mac stood in the library parking lot, breathing hard, adrenaline coursing through his veins like he'd just scored the winning goal in overtime.
She said yes.
Rachel Morrison said yes.
With shaking hands, he pulled out his phone and immediately texted the group chat.
