I school my features, feigning disinterest to remain professional.
“Fiction or non-fiction?”
“Definitely non-fiction. I want to learn everything there is to know on the subject.”
My body feels instantly hot. If I had a mirror, I’m sure my cheeks would be tinged with pink.
“You do?” He couldn’t possibly mean . . .
“Oh, and if you also have a book on love, true love, the kind that makes you long for a life you never thought possible, I could use that too.” His voice is hushed as he leans forward. “Non-fiction. Because nothing about the way I feel is make-believe.”
I’m shocked. I’m stunned. I’m scared I might be reading this all wrong.
“Jackson,” I whisper, my entire body still frozen. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
“It’s a simple search.” He eyes the computer. “I thought you were a pro.”
I have so many questions, and none of them I want to ask in front of library patrons or my regular volunteers. If we’re finally talking, I can’t do that under prying eyes. I shove to my feet.
“Regina, can you cover the desk?”
“Of course, dear,” my volunteer answers.
I march around the desk, grab Jackson’s hand, and practically drag him to one of the private study rooms. Inside, I release his hand and shut the blinds as soon as the door closes with a soft thud.
I turn to meet his gaze, my heart pounding so loudly it rushes in my ears. I can hardly process that he’s here. But I refuse to let another second pass before clearing up my mistake.
“Jackson, I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you?—”
“Go on a date with me.” He cuts me off before I can explain.
My brow furrows. When Jackson didn’t answer my calls and text, I assumed he was hurt and angry, maybe even done.
“You want to take me on a date?”
“Actually, I want to take you onallthe dates, but why don’t we start with one? Give me a real chance. Giveusa chance. Please, Rosalie. Will you go out with me?”
I shake my head. “What about Clint?”
“What about him?” He shrugs.
“You aren’t jealous about seeing us at brunch?”
“Oh, I am. Very much so. But, I’m not worried about that guy.”
“You aren’t?” It’s a relief. I feel the need to explain. “Your sister set us up.”
“I figured as much.”
“He’s not . . . I don’t . . .” His nonchalance flusters my thoughts. I thought he was upset. Why isn’t he upset?
“Rosalie, I’m not worried about that guy.” He steps forward, slow and with a focused intent that causes me to back up. My back hits the wall.
“You aren’t?”
“Nah. I saw the way you looked at him.”
“How did I look at him?”
