“Only the pretty ones who look like they might secretly alphabetize their sock drawers,” he says.
I snort before I can stop myself. He catches it, eyes lighting up like he’s won a round. “I knew it. Color-coded too, aren’t they?”
“You don’t know me,” I shoot back, heart hammering stupidly.
“Not yet,” he says, all calm confidence, like he’s got all the time in the world. “But I’m working on it.” His voice dips. “Let me guess.You’re the type who reads romance under the covers and dog-ears all the dirty scenes.”
I narrow my eyes. “I wouldneverdog-ear a book.”
“That’s the part that offended you?” He chuckles, head tilting. “Not the dirty scenes?”
I should walk away. I should shut him down. I should definitely not be imagining the kind of things he’s suggesting in any reading nook, fictional or otherwise.
“For the record,” I say, aiming for cool detachment, “nooks are for reading. Quiet contemplation. Perhaps a cozy beverage.”
He nods solemnly. “Naturally. And when the lights go out and the library closes, I’m sure all those innocent beverages never lead to anything.” His voice is pure sin. “C’mon. You’re telling me you’ve never imagined something a little scandalous in one of those tucked-away corners?”
I open my mouth to lie and then shut it again.
His brows lift. “Oh my god. Youhave.”
“It was purely hypothetical,” I say quickly.
“You imagined a hot fictional hero cornering you between the shelves, didn’t you?”
“That’s enough,” I mutter, face burning.
“Was it Mr. Darcy? Or are you more of a ‘professor with a dark secret’ type?”
“I’m not telling you anything.”
He leans in even closer. His thigh brushes mine, just barely. “Tell me, and I’ll confess mine. I’ve got at least three steamy librarian fantasies filed under ‘things I probably shouldn’t say out loud in polite company.’”
My mouth falls open. “You arenotpolite company.”
He laughs again, unrepentant and devastating. “Nope. You’re right. But I do love making you blush.”
I do blush, of course—cheeks going traitorously warm as I press my clipboards against my chest like a shield. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re adorable when you’re flustered,” he counters.
From across the plaza a stagehand yells, “Donovan, power specs by noon!”
Matt’s shoulders twitch like he’s resisting the urge to salute. “I need the old power diagrams from Records. Care to continue our conversation?”
I shouldn’t. IknowI shouldn’t. His flirting has me way out of my depth.
But of course, I say, “I’m headed up for occupancy counts.” I lift my clipboards. “I can show you the shortcut.”
He tilts his cap. “Lead the way. I’ll carry those before you,”
He takes the clipboards, knuckles brushing mine. Static crackles; or maybe that’s just my pulse.
As we cross the courtyard he falls into step beside me, effortless and slightly cocky. “So if you had to hook a teenager on reading with one book, what’s your secret weapon?”
“Only one? Cruel.” I think. “ProbablyThe Book Thief—big feelings, no preaching. Yours?”
“Ready Player One.Nerd bait plus nostalgia.” He glances sideways. “But if you wanted to convince a tour-logistics guy in his thirties to spend a night in your reading nook, what would you recommend?”
