Page 9 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

The door swings open as a few people exit, and before I can overthink it, I step inside.

Lucy lifts a ceramic mug, takes a slow sip, then sets it back down without looking up. She doesn’t notice the laughter from the table beside her. Doesn’t flinch when the waitress brushes past.

She’s completely lost in that book, and I find myself crossing the room before I’ve made the decision to move.

By the time I stop, I’m standing right in front of her table.

She finally looks up, her gaze lifting through a curtain of crimson hair. Her eyes are sharp and curious, honey-colored, and entirely unimpressed.

“Library Girl.” The name slips out before I can decide whether using it is a good idea.

She frowns, just slightly.

“Boy Who Fixed My Car.”

Chapter Three

Lucy

My knees press into the dragon’s hardened scales as the wind lashes against my face, whipping my hair into my eyes. My heart pounds wildly, the sound of it drowning out everything else. I dare a glance over my shoulder, searching the sky for the dark figure that’s been chasing me, but there’s nothing there. Just endless blue stretching in every direction.

He’s still out there. I know he is.

“Higher!” I shout, my voice barely cutting through the roar of the wind.

The dragon surges upward, wings beating furiously as the ground disappears below us. I cling tighter, burying my face against the warm ridges of its neck, willing myself not to panic. How much longer before everything comes crashing down?

I need—

A shadow falls across the table.

I suck in a sharp breath, my body jolting as the world snaps back into place. The dragon vanishes. The sky dissolves. In its place is a café, the low hum of conversation, and a pair of piercing blue eyes staring directly at me.

“Library Girl.”

For one disorienting second, I’m still halfway in the sky.

“Boy Who Fixed My Car.”

His grin is slow and unapologetic, as if he knew I’d call him that.

He taps his knuckles lightly against the table, entirely too relaxed for someone who just interrupted a life-or-death dragon chase.

“I’m waiting for someone.” I lift an eyebrow, hoping he understands the dismissal.

“Does this someone have a name?”

“Dylan,” I answer, glancing around.

This table is usually mine, or as close to mine as a public table can be. It sits far enough from the counter that no one expects conversation but close enough for Gretchen to refill my mug without asking. The chair across from me is almost always empty. I use it for my bag, a stack of books, or the imaginary company of whichever character has followed me out of a chapter.

Instead, his gaze flicks down to the cover. “What’re you reading?”

“A fantasy.”

“What kind?”

“Dragons.”