“What ifIsaid we were going to the library?”
“You got some books you need to return?”
His hand slid out from around my shoulders and settled on my bare thigh. “Yousaid it was a manuscript, right?”Hecocked his head toward the letters. “Whoknows more about books than a librarian?”
He had a point.Whilesome people saw librarians as shrew-like shushers of children,Isaw them as the keepers of knowledge.Theywere the scribes in fantasy novels who would fight to the death to protect the scrolls.Insteadof being armed with wands and cloaks, they wielded book scanners and cardigans.
TheCarteretCountyPublicLibrarylived in the same building as the parks and recreation department and board of elections, but sported a welcoming patio right outside the front doors.Jackkept a steady hand on the small of my back as he opened the door for me.
The comforting scent of books and printer paper wrapped around me like an embrace from a long-lost lover.Iresisted the urge to dash straight into the romance section and obediently followedJackto the help desk.
“Afternoon, ma’am,” he said with a charming smile.
The little old lady wore her hair in a tight silver bun.Readingglasses were perched on the tip of her nose, and her cardigan sported iron-on patches that said things like “Hotgirls read books” and “I’mwith the banned.”
I loved her immensely.Ifell even harder whenIspotted the title scrawled on the spine of the book she was reading.TheNatureofHopebyWhitneyWest.
She had good taste.
“Well, hey there, sugar.WhatcanIhelp you with?”
Jack glanced at me with a sheepish look. “Ihave a weird question.”
“I might have a weird answer,” she retorted. “Whatchagot?”
“My friend is renovating a house up onCedarIsland, and we found papers hidden in the floorboards and fireplace.Wethink they’re from a manuscript.Doyou know of any writers from the area?”
“What time period are we talking?We’vegot a few here now.”Shepointed to the shelf featuring local authors front and center. “And, of course, we get out-of-towners who come and stay for a season or two for inspiration.Thesea always draws in the artsy types.”
“That’s the thing,”Isaid. “Onepassage seems like it was written in or about the 1600s, the other one is about the 1700s.Onedoesn’t have any dates or clues at all.”
“Do you have them with you?” she asked. “Imight not have any information filed away, butIdo read a lot.”
I handed over the papers and waited while she gave them a cursory assessment. “Whydon’t you two give me a bit?Govisit the books.They’llbe happy to see you.”
With a flick of her hand, we were dismissed.
Jack andIroamed the library, looking at the end caps and tables with staff recommendations.Westood around the local authors’ tables and flipped through books full of lore about pirate tales and shipwrecks off the coast.
“Hey,”Isaid whenJacktook my hand and tugged me away from the display. “Whatare you doing?”
“I want to look at another section.”
“So?Youcan go by yourself.”Ipatted his shoulder. “You’rea big boy.Thebooks don’t bite.”
He hit me with a panty-melting smile. “Doesthe author?”
I rolled my eyes and swatted at his arm as he pulled me into the romance section. “Whatare you—oh . . .”Ifroze when he parked himself in front of theW’s.
He tugged on a book until it slid out from the shelf. “Thisone’s yours?”
PetrichorbyWanderWhitlock.Thetitle text felt like a slap in the face.Itwas so pretty, butIhated looking at it.
“Unfortunately,”Iclipped asIknelt to see ifWhitneyandWillow’sbooks were beside mine.Itwas a fun little game we played with each other—visiting our books in whatever library, shop, or airport we were passing through.
They were right beside me, just like always.
“Which one shouldIstart with?” he asked.
