I frowned at the strange requests. Dim lighting? Minimal exposure? It sounded like he was planning a covert intelligence drop, not a discussion about library furniture.
“Would a quiet cafe work?” I suggested. “There’s one near the library called The Night Owl. It’s open late, and they have those high-backed booths in the back corner that are pretty private.”
Another long pause before his reply:
“Acceptable. Tomorrow. 9 PM.”
Tomorrow? My pulse quickened. This was happening so fast suddenly, after days of stalling.
“Tomorrow works,”I replied, trying to keep my tone casual despite the butterflies taking flight in my stomach.“I’ll bring the measurements and photos of the space.”
“Bring the broken pieces as well. I need to assess the material quality.”
Practical as always. That was Rion—focused on the technical aspects, the concrete details.
“Will do. And… thank you. I really appreciate this.”
His response was characteristically brief:
“Until tomorrow.”
I set my phone down carefully, as if it might explode if handled too roughly, and then promptly let out a most undignified squeal that would have earned me a severe shushing had I made such a noise in the library.
I was going to meet Rion. Actually, physically meet the mysterious person who had been occupying my thoughts for days.
And I had less than 24 hours to prepare.
Oh God. What am I going to wear?
The thought ambushed me from nowhere, followed immediately by a cascade of other anxieties. What if he was nothing like I’d imagined? What if the easy back-and-forth we’d established via text didn’t translate to in-person conversation? What if he took one look at me and decided I wasn’t worth the trouble?
Stop it,I told myself firmly.This is a professional consultation about a ladder, not a blind date.
But the butterflies in my stomach disagreed, fluttering with a mixture of excitement and apprehension that felt decidedly un-professional.
I spent the next hour pacing my small apartment, alternating between bursts of nervous energy and moments of paralyzing doubt. Should I prepare specific questions about ladder construction? Should I bring samples of wood for him to assess? Should I wear my hair up or down?
Focus, Clara,I scolded myself.Focus on the practical aspects. The ladder. The measurements. The structural requirements.
But my mind kept sliding sideways into speculation about Rion himself. What did he look like? Why was he so self-conscious about his appearance? Would he be as tersely direct in person as he was via text?
I’d built up a mental image over our days of communication: tall, serious, perhaps with intense eyes and capable hands. The kind of person who measured twice and cut once, who valued precision and efficiency.
But what if he was completely different? What if my mental image bore no resemblance to reality?
And what was I so worried about anyway? This wasn’t a date. It was a meeting about a ladder. A ladder, for heaven’s sake.
Yet I couldn’t shake the fluttery feeling in my chest, the sense that tomorrow night’s meeting represented something more significant than a simple discussion about library furniture.
I finally managed to settle down enough to finish my tea and return to my novel, though I found myself reading the same paragraph three times without absorbing a word.
Tomorrow. 9 PM. The Night Owl Cafe.
I was going to meet the mysterious Rion.
CHAPTER SIX
Nine o’clock had never seemed so threatening before.
