The words land with a dull thud in my chest. Asset. Liability. She’s more than a bullet point on a threat assessment sheet. She’s Cybil.
The meeting ends. I tell myself I need some air. But five minutes later, I’m in my car, punching the address into my GPS. I’m just going to drive by. I’m not stalking her. I’m protecting her. And—minor technicality—I can’t stay away.
Twenty minutes later, I walk past the bookstore. For the third time. I’m not here because I’ve missed her. Her smile. Her sass. The way she glares at me like she’s already planning where to bury the body. I’m here because Cybil Langford might be compromised.
And—fine—because I care. A lot.
I push open the bookstore door and step inside. All right. Just in and out. Quick visual confirmation. Zero interaction. Nobody has to know.
It takes me a minute, but I spot her—tucked into a corner chair near the Reference section, sipping something iced with a thick book resting on her lap.
From a perfectly normal spot behind a rotating wire rack of greeting cards, I watch her. She taps a highlighter on the corner of the book, completely focused, her forehead creased just slightly in thought. Her fingers twitch on the page when she reads. She marks things with her highlighter. And I don’t know what it is about girls who read, but it’s incredibly attractive. And dangerous to my heart. I want a closer look.
I skirt around the perimeter of the store, keeping shelves and tables stacked with books between us. I’m trying to see what she’s reading—because apparently, now I want to be a part of the thing that has her so locked in.
I lean just a little too far to the left... and knock over a carefully balanced tower of “Staff Picks for Sensitive Souls.” The pastel paperbacksgo down like a literary Jenga game. I freeze. Cybil looks up. I duck behind the nearest bookshelf.
And immediately regret it.
“Why are you hiding?”
I freeze.
Slowly, I turn my head. A toddler—small, sticky, and deeply suspicious—stares at me. His eyes narrow. He’s got jelly smeared across one cheek,Dragons Love Tacosin one hand, and a half-eaten graham cracker in the other.
I’m surrounded by picture books and plush dragons wearing tiny sweaters. I grab the closest book—something about a pigeon who doesn’t want to share his sandwich—and whisper, “I’m not hiding. I’m reading.”
Before I can shoo him away, he plops down directly on my foot and shoves the taco book into my hands.
“Read it.”
“Not today, buddy.”
His blue eyes well up. Chin trembles. And I’m one wrong word away from detonation.
“No, no, no—don’t cry,” I whisper in a panic. “I’ll, uh...”
I look around. I spot a stuffed dragon and grab it.
“Here. Why don’t you read the story to the dragon?”
He accepts it solemnly, like we struck a truce. I silently pat myself on the back for a successful toddler negotiation.
And then... she appears. Stylish. Flustered. Latte in one hand, diaper bag in the other. Her eyes lock onto me.
“Charlie, did you make a friend?” she asks brightly, smiling in a way that makes me suspect this is what a rat feels like right before a cat pounces. “What’s your friend’s name?”
Friend?
I try to shake Charlie off my foot. No luck. Kid’s got the grip of a barnacle. “I was just, uh”—I rise slowly—“looking for a book.”
“In the children’s section?” Her tone lifts like I’ve just proposed. “You have kids?”
“No.” Too fast. Too loud.
So loud that Cybil’s head lifts across the store. She turns. Sees me. I duck. Hard. In the process, I knock Charlie over.
“Whoops, buddy, you okay?”
