The door behind me opens and I jump, turning to see Matilda and Nina coming into the hall. They stop in their tracks at the sight of me with Thad, and only then do I realize we’re still holding hands. I pull back, embarrassed.
Matilda and Nina stare. Nina’s eyes are even bigger than usual, and Matilda is actually gaping, open-mouthed, for a full three seconds (which might not sound all that long, butfeelsLONG).
Nina is the first to recover, smiling brightly at us. “Well, have a good night, Helen. We’ll see you later.”
Matilda blinks in confusion. “I thought we were supposed to get drinks.”
For such a smart woman, she can be so incredibly oblivious sometimes. I feel Thad’s eyes on me as a blush rises up the back of my neck, and I wonder what I can possibly say to make it not completely obvious that I was supposed to leave with my friends but now they’re trying to leave me behind so I can talk to Thad longer—only one of the friends clearly hasn’t gotten the memo and is making everything super awkward.
“That’s tomorrow night,” Nina says quickly, her quiet voice brooking no argument. She links her arm through Matilda’s, half dragging her toward the door, which is impressive both because Matilda is not one to be draggedanywhereand also because Nina is basically half her size.
“But tomorrow’s puzzle night!” Matilda’s loud voice rings out through the empty hallway before Nina pulls the door shut behind them.
Awkward silence hangs in the air. I dare a glance at Thad, whose face I can only half make out in the shadows of the corridor. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you didn’t hear that?” I ask him.
He laughs.
Somehow, and I’m still not entirely sure how, I’m walking out to my car, and Thad—nee the Red Unicorn—is at my side. The two of us are doing that sort of dawdling, deliberately slow walk that people do when they want to linger and spend more time together. At least, that’s what I think we’re doing? It’s possible Thad just thinks I’m a slow walker and is trying to be polite.
But for once, I actually don’t think so. The air between us is charged with an intense electric current, making everything sharper and brighter. It’s the sort of thing I’ve read about hundreds of times in my favorite novels but have never experienced for myself until now. I feel hyper-aware of everything around me, every detail that might otherwise fade into the background standing out in sharp relief. The crinkles around his eyes when he smiles, the faint red stubble on his cheeks, the freckle just below his chin. The purple-black of the night sky and the cold, biting air, and the city lights reflecting on the building windows. The way my body moves and the sound of my breath and the weight of my hands and the overwhelming awareness of my lips, heightened by the little leap my heart gives every time his eyes dart down to them.
Is he going to kiss me? The thought seems entirely possible, when only a few hours before it wouldn’t have even been plausible. I mentally run over everything I’ve eaten today, wonder when I last put on Chapstick, worry over what I should do with my hands.
And while all of this is racing through my mind, somehow I’m managing to keep up a conversation. I couldn’t for the life of me recall what I said in those few minutes, not even under oath, not even if my life depended on it. Maybe something about writing, probably something about the library, possibly something about quiche, although I can’t imagine why but it seems to ring familiar.
When we reach my car, I turn to face him with an attempt at a smile. “This is me.”
“Ah.” He puts his hands into his back pockets, rocking back a bit. Nervous, maybe? The thought is endearing, even if it feels implausible. “I’m just over there.”
He doesn’t move, though, and neither do I. We just look at each other, caught in that strange, invisible current. “It was nice to finally get to meet you, properly, I mean. I know all the other regulars by name but you’ve been holding out on me.”
“Huh,” he says.
I wait a moment for something more, but Thad stays silent, and now he’s looking vaguely embarrassed. Oh, shoot. Ididread the situation wrong, and he’s trying to figure out a way to leave, and I’m making things weird.
I back up a step. “Well, I should?—”
His voice catches me before I can retreat. “Do you like working at the library?”
I blink at him in surprise, then feel a surge of nervous pleasure as I realizehe’snow the one trying to extend the conversation, keep me here. “Um. Yeah. I do. I mean, I love books and I like helping people find the right books for them.”
“You’re the best one there. Sometimes I just turn around and leave if I see you aren’t working.”
It is, I realize, the most I’ve heard him say. He isn’t a particularly verbose man—it doesn’t come across right away, because his eyes are so expressive, and his face can change so much with just the slightest shift. But he’s a mostly one- or two-word-answer kind of guy, until he goes and says something so unexpectedly sweet it floors me.
I blush. “That’s really nice of you to say.” Loyally, I can’t help but add, “We all have our own strengths?—”
Thad scoffs. “Carlos always wants to chat and Marsha is way too slow and Nadia hides in the stacks with her phone. And don’t get me started on Erica.”
I almost laugh at the very accurate picture he’s painted of all my coworkers, until it registers just how clear of a picture it is. “Wow, you’ve really been paying attention.”
Something shifts in Thad’s eyes—hard to identify, but almost like a little light has been snuffed out. He sobers visibly, his lips thinning out. “It’s my job, noticing the details.”
“Your job?” I echo. Something else is shifting, too, although I can’t entirely figure out what, and a part of me doesn’t want to. I just want to hold on to this exciting pre-kiss moment where anything seems possible.
“I should’ve mentioned.” He sounds almost regretful, like he doesn’t want to say it. “I’m a bounty hunter.”
“Wow, I’ve never met a bounty hunter before.” I smile, still a little worried by that sudden shift in his tone but trying to tell myself I’ve imagined it. “So. A bounty hunter who reads crime novels—isn’t that a little on the nose?”
