At least I had a basic understanding of library mechanics to rely on from my work-study job. Hopefully it’d be enough for me to get the ball rolling. And if this turned into a permanent position, maybe I could take some official classes on managing a library!
But one step at a time.
I patted down my blond hair, which had been disheveled by the wind, and straightened the knot of my tie. I thought I looked pretty snazzy. I’d dressed professionally to meet Mr. Fields because I’d expected to be attending an actual interview. I hadn’t thought I’d be handed the keys to the castle then and there. I wore dark checkered slacks and a black sweater-vest over a white shirt. New black-framed glasses, which was pretty much what the last of my cash was spent on, gave me the scholarly appearance I’d always wanted.
I finished in the bathroom, found the storeroom Mr. Fields had mentioned, and the boxes and boxes andboxesof books Beatrice had left in there. After a short time of surveying the mess, I realized there was no system in place for what was packed where. Children’s books were mixed in with romance, mixed in with biographies. I ended up on the floor, sifting through boxes and making piles for at least a half an hour, before I heard the heavy door open and close downstairs.
“Hello?” someone called, his muffled voice drifting upstairs.
“Crap.” I hastily got to my feet, my back protesting after being hunched over. “Coming! I’ll be right there!” I called, shutting the door and running to the staircase. I sounded like a stampede of kindergarteners coming down the old steps.
A man stood in the middle of the front room, looking toward the staircase. He was holding a heavy-looking toolbox in one hand while absently unbuttoning his coat with the other.
Miles Sakasai, I presumed.
And then I took him in for an extra second, because even though I hadn’t moved here with the intention of settling down with a handsome country boy—well, not right away, at least—there was no way to deny he was anextremelynice-looking man. Miles was a good head taller than me, and was probably a few years older. He had dark hair that was a little messy, like he’d just removed a winter hat prior to coming inside. He had the strong, wiry build of a man comfortable with and accustomed to manual labor.
Miles smiled and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Mr. Hughes?” he asked, his tone soft but voice so deep, it seemed to vibrate the very walls.
“Christopher,” I corrected, reaching a hand out.
“You can call me Miles,” he said, shaking.
“It’s nice to meet you. Thank you for being able to come out right away.”
He nodded, set his tool kit down, slid the backpack from his shoulder, and removed his coat. He had on a black T-shirt that showed off toned arms and a built chest. A number of bold and brightly colored tattoos on Miles’s arms caught my gaze.
I had to admit, I totally crushed on guys with ink.
When Miles spoke, he said, “I’m a professional, I promise.”
My head snapped up. “What? Sorry.”
“The tattoos.”
“Oh, I—”
“They make some folks uncomfortable. Older generation, usually.”
Good job. You’ve offended the guy.
I felt heat rise from my neck and up to my cheeks. “N-no, I’m sorry. It’s—they’re fine, really.”
Don’t creep on him!
Not until after the bookshelves are fixed.
Miles relaxed, if only slightly. “Okay.”
Before I could avoid not listening to my own advice, I bolted to the closed door and opened it for him. “So here’s what the room looks like.”
Miles cocked his head to glance through the doorway before walking to the checkout desk first. He set his coat and backpack neatly on top and took his tool kit to the room with him. He waved a hand in front of his face.
“I can open a window, if you don’t mind being a bit cold,” I offered.
“Please.”
I sidestepped some collapsed shelving and went across the decent-sized room. I unlocked a big window, pushed and shoved, but the window didn’t budge. “The hell? Is this nailed shut?”
