Which was inconvenient, because I was failing much more openly.
“When you said ‘helper,’ I was picturing Dylan from the community college,” Brenda whispered later that morning as we watched Rion carry a stack of encyclopedias that should have required a cart. “Not a seven-foot mythological fantasy.”
“Shh.” I elbowed her and glanced towards the front desk. “His name is Rion.”
“Oh, I know his name. You’ve said it enough times.”
“I have not.”
Brenda gave me a look. “Honey, if you say ‘he’s just being nice’ I’m going to start shelving all your romance novels under horror.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it again, because that had in fact been the next sentence lined up in my brain.
Brenda’s grin softened. “I’m teasing. Mostly. But the man hauled himself in here at nine in the morning to help you move books, and he looks at you like you’re the most important thing in the room.”
That was not a sentence I was emotionally equipped to deal with before coffee.
“I have work to do,” I said.
“Yes, you do,” she said cheerfully. “Preferably near the large handsome minotaur in reference.”
I found him in the aisle between Ancient History and Classical Studies, unpacking a box of books on Greek architecture. The aisle was narrow under normal circumstances. With Rion in it, it had become intimate by force.
“You’re a lifesaver,” I said, slipping in beside him. “We would’ve been unpacking these until lunch.”
“It’s not difficult.” He slid another book onto the shelf with absurd care. “The weight distribution is manageable.”
“Of course it is. Why think in pounds when you can think in structural load?”
He glanced down at me. “Exactly.”
I smiled and reached for the next book at the same moment he turned. My arm brushed his.
The contact sent that familiar jolt through me, sharp and immediate. Warm fur with hard muscle underneath. Instead of stepping back, I stayed where I was. So did he.
“Sorry,” he said quietly.
“It’s a tight aisle,” I replied, and hoped he could not hear how unconvincing I sounded.
We kept working, passing books back and forth. Our fingers brushed once, then again. His elbow nudged mine. My shouldergrazed his arm. None of it was exactly accidental, which was the problem.
Or maybe the best part.
From this close, I could see the base of his horns clearly. He was not wearing the hat in the library, and the fluorescent lights picked out every detail: the subtle ridges near the base, the smooth dark curve rising from his forehead, the strength of them.
I looked too long.
“You’re staring,” he said without turning.
I jerked my attention back to the box. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be weird.”
He turned then, and his expression was unreadable in that frustrating way of his.
“It is all right,” he said. “Most people do.”
“That isn’t why I’m staring.”
His gaze sharpened.
