I’d never have to wonder again.
I stand up swiftly and march to the mirror to fix my makeup before I can lose my nerve. I ransack my clothing piles for jeans and a tank and my favorite oversized blazer. I shove the essentials in my pockets, not bothering with my bag or a proper coat, not letting myself think anymore, and walk out the door.
• • •
I HALF EXPECTthe library steps to be empty when I arrive. There I’ll be, stupid and alone, mortified by my own gullibility. And then Jack and the so-called Gifter and probably a camera crew will pop out laughing hysterically at what an idiot I am.
But when I turn the corner, there he is, just like he said he’d be. He’s leaning against one of the statues out front, his breath clouding in the air. He catches sight of me and waves, and that’s it. My last shred of doubt evaporates and a simmering giddiness takes over.
“Well, well, well,” he says as I approach. “If it isn’t Book Girl.”
A surprised laugh escapes me. If only he knew.
He pulls me into a casual greeting hug, and I’m certainly not trying to smell him, but I can’t really help it. He smells like … well, I have absolutely no idea, but it’s good. Kind of spicy? A little earthy? I’m suddenly eager to find out how Anna Matthewswill describe it. Her leading men always seem to be enveloped by scents likesmoked cedarandsandalwoodandwarm flannel.
I break my train of thought and pull back from Jack before I start actively sniffing him. I need to be cool. I imagine this is a little like going out with your celebrity crush while pretending you’ve never had their poster on your wall.
“Where to?” I ask as breezily as I can. “Sushi? Indian? Weird artisan corndog place?”
There’s a glimmer of mischief in his eye as he reaches behind the statue for something. “Tempting,” he says. “But I had a better idea.”
“There’s a better idea than an artisan corndog?”
He grins that dopey grin at me and pulls out an old-fashioned picnic basket. Wicker and red gingham and all. “Up for a little adventure?”
Oh, he’s good. “Always,” I say.
He angles his head in invitation and turns up the steps, toward the dark library. The dark, closed, after-hours library. I’m beginning to wonder ifheis the delusional one here when he pulls the facade’s iron grate door easily open, then knocks out a pattern on the glass of the inner door.
“I know a guy,” he says, flashing me a sly look. And the door groans open, pulled by a wiry, gray-haired man with a knowing smile and a BPL badge on a lanyard.
“Thanks, man.” Jack claps the guy on the shoulder. I wonder how much of a library regular you have to be to have an inside guy. Or is he a secret zillionaire? Is this one ofthosebooks?
As the library guy locks up behind us, I stare in awe at the grand entryway, shadowy and silent as a tomb. I’ve never seen it quite like this before. Jack comes to stand beside me.
“I love it here,” I sigh. “It’s like church for book people.”
“Mm.” I can feel his little hum of agreement like a balmybreeze over my skin. “Except I never had much chemistry with the people at church.”
“I can’t relate. Tween Roxie never met an altar boy she didn’t like.”
He smiles and bumps my shoulder with his, then directs me down the hall.
If I were under any illusions that this is real life, the sight awaiting us in the courtyard would scatter them to the wind. A bistro table and chairs have been set up, a candle flickering in the center, a minimalist space heater off to the side. With the upstairs lights off, the night sky seems to be rushing in to meet us.
Even for a romance novel, this is too perfect. They never start out with a perfect date and continue seamlessly into a perfect relationship; there’s always a catch. We’ll have a magical night and then I’ll start my next job and find out he’s the boss. Or he might be a method-acting movie star, wooing me to prepare for a role but accidentally falling in love in the process. One way or another, it all has to fall apart a little before it comes back together.
But damn, is it off to a spectacular start.
“We can go inside if it’s too cold,” Jack says. “We’ve got the whole place. But I thought this might be fun. I brought blankets, too.”
The air may be cold, but it can’t compete with the warm, glowy feeling settling over me.
“This is insane,” I breathe. There’s still a part of me that feels like I can’t accept this. Like it’s too costly a gift, and I should opt out now. But even if I wanted to, I don’t know if I could.
And also, I decide as he offers me his hand, I don’t want to.
“Shall we?”
