I sigh and for a moment, I let myselffeel his arms around me. Strong arms. Safe arms.
“So can we do that again?” I ask over my shoulder.
“Definitely.”
“No strings?” I need to hear him say it.
He laughs, pulling me closer. “Nope, no strings.”
Chapter one
Kate
Present Day
The Cedar Falls Library is quiet the way I like it best—late afternoon sun spilling through the front windows, dust motes drifting lazily in the light, and that familiar blend of old paper and hand sanitizer hanging in the air. The kids’ corner is tidied, the returns stacked neatly at the end of the circulation desk, and I’m halfway through labeling boxes from the high school baseball team’s book drive.
The donation window closed last week, but he texted earlier to say he had “a few stragglers” left to drop off. I told him to leavethem by the back door. Naturally, he took that as an invitation to walk right in.
The door creaks open just as I’m balancing two boxes on my knee.
“You really shouldn’t lift those alone,” Cam’s voice calls, smooth and teasing.
I don’t look up. “You say that every time I carry something heavier than a coffee cup, Wells.”
He laughs. “Just trying to keep you from filing an injury report, Katie.”
That nickname still gets me. Every time.
I turn toward him, doing my best to look unimpressed. “If you’re going to scold me, at least bring coffee next time.”
He steps further inside, sunlight catching the edge of his grin. His Cedar Falls Baseball T-shirt is soft and worn, sleeves snug around his biceps, jeans faded on his thighs in a way that should honestly be illegal.
“Wasn’t planning on scolding,” he says. “Just supervising.”
“Uh-huh.” He takes the boxes from me and winks.Winks. I shake it off, trying to stay composed. “How’d practice go today?”
“Off-season drills ended early.” He sets the boxes on the table by the circulation desk. “Organized the field house, then got everything ready for T-ball. Normal day.”
He walks back out the door and returns with a box bigger than the rest. My heart betrays me with a small kick when his forearm flexes under the weight.
“These are the last few from the team,” he says. “Didn’t want your shelves missing out on Baseball Digest, 2009 edition.”
“Truly a rare treasure.” I slice through the tape with a smile. “Was this part of your good-deed quota or just an excuse to leave the field early?”
“Both,” he admits, eyes glinting.
I try to ignore the warmth that always seems to follow him. We’re supposed to be casual, simple. The kind of thing without expectations or emotional landmines. But every time he looks at me like that—with easy affection and bright eyes—I start to think we both misunderstood the assignment.
“You could’ve just texted,” I say. “I’d have picked these up from the school.”
“Yeah, but then I’d miss this.” He gestures to the quiet library. “You. Here. Looking like a scene out of a romance novel.”
“Dangerous thing to say to a librarian.”
He smirks, and I hate how much I love that look on him.
He crouches down to grab another box, and my breath stutters when his arm brushes mine. It’s nothing.
