“Clara,you’ve reorganized that shelf three times in the last hour,” Brenda called from the circulation desk. “Either you’ve developed sudden-onset OCD or something’s on your mind.”
I startled, nearly dropping the copy ofMythical Beasts of Ancient GreeceI’d been absently shuffling between sections.
“Just trying to decide the best arrangement for the display,” I replied, which wasn’t entirely a lie. The mythological creatures display did need organizing—alphabetically? By culture of origin? By likelihood of eating humans?—but my distraction stemmed more from the continued silence of my phone.
“Mmhmm,” Brenda hummed, clearly unconvinced. At sixty-two, with steel-grey hair and reading glasses perpetually perched on the end of her nose, Brenda had perfected the librarian’s knowing look long before I’d earned my MLIS. “And that’s why you’ve checked your phone seventeen times since lunch?”
“I have not,” I protested, feeling my cheeks warm. “Maybe five times. Seven, tops.”
“Seventeen,” she repeated, tapping a tally sheet beside her computer. “I’ve been keeping track.”
I gaped at her. “That’s… terrifyingly observant.”
“Forty years in public libraries, dear. I can spot a first date, a breakup, a job interview, and a pregnancy announcement just by how someone browses the stacks.” She pushed her glasses up. “So, who is he?”
“There is no ‘he,’” I insisted, shelving the Greek beasts with perhaps more force than necessary. “I’m just waiting to hear back about a ladder.”
Brenda’s left eyebrow rose so high it disappeared beneath her bangs. “A ladder,” she repeated flatly.
“Yes, a ladder. For the display. Remember how the old one nearly collapsed with me on it last week? I’m trying to find a replacement so I can retrieve the oversized books I need.”
“And this ladder replacement requires urgent text message updates?”
I sighed, already knowing I’d lose this battle of wits. “I texted Mark from next door, but I got the number wrong, and now I’m accidentally corresponding with a stranger about library ladders. That’s literally it.”
Brenda’s expression transformed from skepticism to delight in the span of a heartbeat. “Oh, that’s much better than what I was imagining! Tell me everything.”
Before I could respond, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I tried, and failed spectacularly, to appear casual as I pulled it out.
One new message from the unknown number.
I could assess the structural integrity of your current ladder and reinforce it. Alternatively, I could build you one that would never fail.
I blinked at the screen, rereading the message. The formality of it. The precision. Not “fix your ladder” but “assess the structural integrity.” Not “make you a new one” but “build you one that would never fail.” It read less like a text and more like a professional estimate.
“Oh my,” Brenda said, having materialized beside me with the silent stealth only veteran librarians possess. “He sounds very… thorough.”
“He sounds like he’s writing a business proposal,” I replied, but I couldn’t help the small smile forming. There was something oddly charming about his seriousness. “Maybe he’s a contractor or something?”
“Or an engineer,” Brenda suggested. “Or an exceptionally literate handyman.”
I typed back.That’s incredibly kind of you, especially considering we’re complete strangers and this started with a wrong number. Are you in construction?
The reply came faster this time:
Yes.
Just that. One word. No elaboration. No emoji. No indication of whether he was a general contractor, a carpenter, an architect, or someone who occasionally assembled IKEA furniture and was drastically overselling his skills.
“He’s not big on details, is he?” Brenda remarked, still shamelessly reading over my shoulder.
“Apparently not.” I pondered my response. “I guess I should be more specific about what I need?”
“Couldn’t hurt,” Brenda agreed. “Though I’m not sure the library budget will stretch to custom-built ladders, no matter how charming your mystery builder is.”
My cheeks warmed again. “He’s not my mystery builder. He’s just… a helpful wrong number.”
“Mmhmm,” Brenda hummed again, patting my shoulder as she returned to the circulation desk. “That’s how all the great lovestories begin. ‘Helpful wrong number builds woman ladder, they live happily ever after.’”
