The tallest aide checks her tablet. “Ms Davidson, thanks for coming. This is Matt Donovan, tour logistics forStorm & Silence.” She gestures to Hoodie Guy; he turns, cap brim shading most of his face.
Up close, details arrange themselves: he’s all broad shoulders and long lean lines, the kind of build you get from lugging flight cases, not lifting decorative dumbbells. Every time he shifts, the soft cotton of his hoodie stretches just enough to hint at toned biceps underneath; my professional vocabulary deserts me and all I can think issolid.
Then there’s his face—angles a bit too sharp to be classically pretty, half a day of stubble framing a mouth that looks made for either sin or sonnets, maybe both. But it’s his eyes that ambush me: startling blue, clear and intense, like a lightning strike freeze-framed over the ocean. When he looks at me, they soften into real focus. No doubt about it: Matt is hot!
He extends a callused hand. “Pleasure to meet you. Heard you’re the brains behind the bookish side of this circus.”
His voice is lower than I expect—warm but threaded with something playful. I take his hand; calluses scrape gently, the tactile signature of someone who works with his hands. My chest does a small, embarrassing flip at the contact.
“Brains might be generous,” I say. “But yes, I keep the fiction section from catching fire.”
The aide herds everyone toward the orange spray-painted lines. “We’ll start at the perimeter and work inward.”
For the next twenty minutes, we circle the plaza, trading measurements and coffee-cup calculations.
And the whole time, I’m painfully aware of Matt.
It’s like I can feel him beside me—quiet, steady. He’s got that kind of presence, the kind that doesn’t have to try. When our hands brush accidentally, a zing shoots through me.
Whatisit with men and me lately? I don’t usually feel this kind of heat for someone I barely know. And Matt definitely gives off a bad boy vibe—not like my masquerade stranger, but sexy in his own right.
While we walk, I pitch my dream “quiet-reading cove”—beanbags, fountain-pen floor lamps, noise-canceling headphones.
The city events guy grimaces and mutters something about vibe disruption.
Before I can fire back, Matt leans in and lowers his voice. “Personally,” he murmurs, “I think a silent corner at a loud show sounds like rebellion in its purest form.”
I glance up. The brim hides half his expression, but one dimple teases at the edge of his smile. Energy—fresh, fizzy—kicks inside my ribcage.
“You’re in favour?” I ask.
He shrugs. “What can I say? I’m very fond of books.”
The informal tour winds down near a stack of coiled power cable, the city aides drifting off to compare permit notes. Matt and I are left in a patch of thin sunlight that cuts through the scaffolding.
“So,” I say, tucking hair behind my ear, “thanks for backing the reading-cove idea. A lot of crews hearquietand assume I’m out to destroy rock-and-roll.”
Matt’s mouth tilts into a half-smile wicked enough to make heat creep up my neck. “Nah, quiet corners are underrated. Besides, half the band’ll probably sneak in there to nap.”
I laugh. “If a drummer dozes on my beanbags he’s signing up for story-time duty.”
“Now that,” he says, “I’d pay to livestream— drummer readsGoodnight Moon, crowd goes feral.”
The picture makes me snort-laugh, and he looks openly pleased, blue eyes glinting. Under the hoodie he folds muscular arms that the sweatshirt can’t quite disguise. “Seriously,” he adds, “books saved my sanity once. I’m all in on your nook.”
That confession nudges something tender in me, but he barrels on before I can ask more.
“And a nook,” he adds, voice dropping just enough to be dangerous, “lends itself to... other exciting possibilities. Got any suggestions for what the two of us could do in there after hours?”
I blink. My brain tries to load a response, but it’s apparently stuck buffering.
Did he just—?Is he seriously—?
Heat flares beneath my skin, rushing up my neck like my bloodstream’s been replaced with lava. “Excuse me?” I manage, aiming for prim and landing somewhere between flustered librarian and scandalized nun.
His grin spreads, slow and wicked. He leans in slightly, gaze flicking to my mouth and back again. “You heard me.”
I cross my arms in what I hope is a show of icy dignity. “Are you always this inappropriate with strangers?”
