“Luckily, there aren’t any kids around, but still, that doesn’t seem like proper language for a librarian.”
My eyes snap up, and I’m met with the cool and minty scent of my neighbor. I scan the room to double-check that there are no little ears nearby. When the coast is clear, I take a deep breath and close my laptop.
“Hi, Henry,” I answer in a flat tone. I try to keep a calm and collected appearance. Something he’s mastered so well.
“Everything okay?” he asks. The innocent act sends chills down my body, but I ignore them. I think back to our new friendship agreement and try to push all other thoughts to the side.
“Yes,” I lie. I contemplate telling him about my bad grade, but I don’t want to bore him with my problems. “Is there something I can help you with?”
Henry’s face drops at my evasiveness, but he recovers quickly. “I’m supposed to be helping with the local teen writing group. The library director told me she left me a packet of information at the front desk and that I could pick it up at any time.”
“Right,” I answer quickly, pretending I know what he’s talking about. Working the night shift, I rarely interacted with my boss. She did have this cute habit of leaving post-it notes on my desk with tasks and other information that would’vebeen better shared in an email or a text. Not to mention, her handwriting was illegible most of the time.
After a quick scan of my desk, I come up empty. “Let me go check in her office,” I rattle off before bolting to the back.
I could feel Henry’s heated stare on my back as I turned. The thought of him being at the library every week made my heart beat a little faster. It was hard enough living under him. Knowing he’d be here would only fuel this undying need to know more about him. And now that we were friends, maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.
I’d spent the last week restraining myself from doing FBI-level stalking. I kept brushing it off as my maternal instinct to know more about the man living above my son, but it was more than that.
My hands fall to my hips when I see the state of the director’s desk. As I scan the sea of scattered paperwork, my eyes catch on a manila folder with Henry’s name scribbled across it. I smile in triumph and grab it before heading back out to meet him.
When I reach the front, the professor is nowhere to be seen. I peek over my desk and look around the small area surrounding the library's lobby. When I notice a pile of brown curls hanging out near the non-fiction section, I smile. Instead of calling him over, my curiosity gets the best of me, and I decide to investigate what he’s looking at.
The library is dead at this time of night. Drab beige wraps around the entirety of the room and is capped with an outdated popcorn ceiling I’ve found myself staring at one too many times. The only thing making the space less depressing is the colorful bulletin boards that change with each season. Right now, daisies are decorating the main board, shrouded in green confetti and bright-colored paintings created by the preschool children who visit in the mornings.
I make my way over to Henry, whose attention is focused on the small map section in a forgotten corner of the library.He’s so wrapped up in whatever train of thought is running through his brain that he doesn’t notice me peering over his shoulder.
Much like the other day in the kitchen, I study him. His chin is rested on his knuckles and his face is tilted downward. The tip of his nose casts a shadow over his pursed lips, making him look like he’s trying to decipher a hidden message.
I only stand there for a few seconds, but it’s enough time to observe an entirely new side of Henry. My hands tingle when he tilts his head slightly, and one of his curls falls out of place. I desperately want to reach out and tuck it back into place, but my staring alone was enough to send this man for the hills.
“Do you have any maps of just Honey Grove?” he asks, pulling me out of my trance.
My heart wants to burst out of my ribcage when I realize he’s known I was here the entire time. I swallow my pride and take a deep breath before replying, “What do you need a map of Honey Grove for?”
He turns toward me to answer my question, but I angle my face away from his so he can’t see the vermilion shade creeping across my cheeks. “It’s for a book I’m writing.”
“Of course you’re an author,” I mumble to myself. I finally face him, and he has a cocky smirk painted across his face. “What kind of books do you write?”
“Romance,” he answers without hesitation. “Well, my first two novels were romances. Now I’m writing a small-town thriller. Well, technically, ghostwriting.”
“Ghostwriting? What’s that?”
A crease forms between Henry’s eyebrows as he contemplates how to answer my question. “It’s when you write a book for someone else, but their name goes on the cover. I’m basically getting paid to write someone else’s idea.”
After he finishes speaking, his eyes fall to the floor. Thebright glimmer that’s been shining through fades, and I can tell there’s much more to the story. I decide to tread lightly and change the subject.
“Romance, huh? I did not peg you as that type of guy.”
“Always so eager to judge.” Henry steps closer and challenges my observation. My heart needs a break after all the exercise it’s getting tonight. “What kind of guy do you think I am?”
My jaw tightens as I narrow my eyes. “You just strike me as more of a ‘brooding detective’ than a ‘hopeless romantic.”
“Noted,” he replies with a laugh, looking down at me. “I guess that’s why I’m switching things up.”
My brain is pushing more questions to the tip of my tongue, but I shove them down. “I’m not sure if Honey Grove is the best setting for a thriller, but I’ll help you find the map.” I step around him, making sure to maintain my distance.
I look down and instantly spot the Honey Grove map book that has big golden letters engraved on a dark brown spine where it sits on the second to last shelf. I turn back to face Henry in disbelief, and a hint of playfulness flashes behind his glasses.
