“This way,” she says, nodding toward the back. “That’s where the planning magic happens.”
She kneels by a closet full of assorted chaos and pulls out a plastic tub labeled “EVENT MATERIALS” in loopy purple Sharpie. I grab a second bin and pop the lid.
“Did you actually hand-letter these signs?” I ask, holding one up that saysWelcome Readers!
She glances over, sheepish. “Guilty. I got a little overexcited about fonts.”
I grin. “You really are my favorite nerd.”
She snorts, but her cheeks go pink. I like that I can still get to her like that. That under all her competence and sass and quiet confidence, there’s still a part of her that gets flustered by a compliment. Especially from me.
We settle in on the floor side by side, surrounded by stacks of signs, string lights, event maps, and a tub of what I’m pretty sure is every size zip tie known to man. She’s cross-checking a list on her clipboard while I sort extension cords and rig up a test section of lights. The mood is… cozy. Domestic. Weirdly intimate, in a way I wasn’t expecting.
“Do I want to know why you have six different banner sizes?” I ask after a while.
She doesn’t even look up. “Because I couldn’t decide which would look best draped over the entrance. And I had coupons.”
“Of course you did.” I shake my head, amused. “Do you secretly run this entire city?”
“Only the literary parts.” She bites her lip, fighting a smile. “But don’t tell the mayor.”
A little while later, we settle into a rhythm. I cut lengths of twine for the program bundles while she folds event programs with practiced ease; I pack them into labeled boxes, ready for transport.
We don’t talk much now, but the silence between us isn’t awkward—it’s easy. Familiar. Like we’ve done this a hundredtimes before.
She’s standing on a footstool, reaching for the top shelf to pull down a roll of decorative ribbon, when I step behind her and steady her waist—just to help.
That’s the story I tell myself, anyway.
But her dress rides up slightly, revealing a glimpse of bare thigh—warm and smooth. My hand lingers.
She pauses mid-motion, her breath hitching just enough to give her away.
And when she looks over her shoulder at me, there’s nothing innocent in her eyes.
My grip tightens, and she steps down slowly, turning to face me. The room around us blurs. All the paper signs and donation bins, all the polite intentions we walked in here with—they dissolve the second I back her up against the shelf of large-print romances.
“You’re dangerous,” she breathes, eyes wide but wanting.
I smirk. “You’re the one who wore that dress just to torture me.”
She lets out a breathless laugh—just before I kiss her.
It’s instant combustion. No soft, testing brush this time. No hesitation. Just heat.
My hands fist in the soft fabric of her dress, pulling her closer. Her fingers dive under my shirt, nails dragging lightly across my skin as she gasps into my mouth. We don’t bother finding somewhere more private—no one’s here, and even if they were, I don’t think I could stop. Not now.
Her back hits the shelf with a quiet thud. Books rattle slightly in their places, and she makes a little noise that’s half moan, half warning.
“At least we don’t have to be quiet in here,” I murmur against her neck.
She laughs, then bites her lip—and it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. “Well, it’s still a library,so…”
I slide my hands beneath the hem of her dress, tracing up her waist to the curve of her ribs. She arches into me, pulling me closer like she’s starving for it—like I’m the only thing that can satisfy the ache.
And fuck, I feel the same way.
We crash together again, mouths hungry and messy and hot.
