That was stupid. Weather wasn’t energizing. Men withknight-in-ancient-myth vibes were energizing. Not that I was energizing myself about him. Obviously.
I stepped outside?—
—and immediately landed ankle-deep in the world’s coldest motherfucking puddle.
I hissed a breath through my teeth. Then, because being miserable seemed like a waste of energy, I laughed. “Good morning to you too.”
I went back in and up to my apartment to change into dry shoes and socks. Then, I attempted a slightly humbler exit.
This time, I hopped over the puddle like someone competing for gold in the Avoiding Minor Inconveniences Olympics. Not graceful, but effective.
I walked to the library with my coffee warming my hands, rain misting around me, and my brain absolutely refusing to stop replaying the moment the tall, wet patron had smiled. That soft, earnest smile, like he was… grateful.
For me.
Ugh.
I cursed at the sky. “Stop it.”
The sky paid no attention to me.
I picked up my pace, needing the familiar walls of the library—the order, the shelves, the catalogs, the illusion that I had my life together.
But even as I walked, even as I grumbled at myself for being ridiculous, I felt a warm, strangely persistentpull in my chest.
I pressed a hand to my sternum, confused. “What are you doing?”
My heart gave one unhelpful thump.
I shook myself. “No. We are not doing feelings today.”
But the truth—the embarrassing, inconvenient truth—was that today didn’t feel like an ordinary day.
It felt like the start of something.
Something I absolutely was not prepared for—and maybe didn’t want to be prepared for.
I squared my shoulders and took a steadying breath as the library doors came into view.
“Okay,” I whispered. “Let’s go find that book.”
I pushed open the front doors of the library and shook the rain from my jacket, taking a deep exhale. The place smelled just right: that perfect balance of paper, dust, coffee, and a hint of old carpet I decided was charming instead of concerning.
My mother would have called it musty and asked if I planned to “do something about that.” No, I did not.
I hung my bag on the hook behind the desk and mentally tracked the storm patterns with the focus of someone assembling a thesis paper.
“Average rainfall seems to double whenever I have evening shift,” I muttered. “Possible correlation: me.”
Fartie Artie, patron saint of unmet expectations, reporting for duty.
I took a slow breath and let my gaze move across the room. The library always settled me. The building was old enough to feel important, with high ceilings, warm lighting, and dark wood shelves that had been polished by decades of hands.
No one here expected me to be prettier or smaller or quieter. The books didn’t care what I looked like. They only cared where I put them, and Inevermisplaced a book.
Thick window frames held the gray outside, and the tall arched windows faced the Hudson River. The glass carried the outline of every storm that passed through town.
The circulation desk sat beneath a carved oak archway that had been part of the original structure. The floors were a patchwork of worn tile and soft carpet squares that absorbed most sound.
