I stared at him. “You want me to dress up?”
“As a frog, ideally.”
I closed my eyes. Counted to three. “Right. Of course.”
He nodded, satisfied, then his attention drifted to the books in my arms. “Any progress?”
I hesitated. “Maybe. Potentially. I’ll let you know.”
“In other words: no.”
“In other words: I’m getting there.”
He made a noise somewhere between skepticism and approval, which was his entire emotional range. “If you find any currency-related texts, set them aside for me. My collection is still missing a medieval Flemish trade token.”
“Noted.”
“And remember, we have a frog-themed summer reading kickoff in two weeks.”
“Of course we do.”
He left with the purposeful stride of a man overseeing empires, though one of those empires was decorated exclusively in amphibians.
I exhaled.
I never knew whether interactions like that were meant to motivate or correct me. Historically, it hadn’t mattered. I always worked harder either way.
I turned back to my shelves.
Hyper-focus re-engaged.
The world narrowed again until it was just me, the books, and the faint hum of something in the back of my mind that tightened whenever I thought of him.
Tall stranger. Warm smile. That odd electric awareness in my chest.
I pressed a hand over my sternum, swallowing hard.
“No,” I whispered to myself. “You are not getting distracted by a man today.”
I reached for the next book, then the next. I ducked down to pick up a book I’d accidentally knocked over, and that’s when I saw it—tucked behind a row of medieval cheese-making manuals, of all things—the exact crimson binding I’d been hunting for. Almost like it was hidden there.
Which meant someone had decided it didn’t belong where it could be found.
My heart beat a little faster.
Not because of him. Obviously.
I just really, really liked finding things.
That was all.
Probably.
I cradled the book, heart pounding with triumph so sharp it felt unreal. I did it. Me. Artemis Ripley, professional stew of anxiety and hyperfocus, had solved a mystery before ninein the morning.
Something warm and fizzy bloomed in my chest. Victory. And, annoyingly, the immediate urge to tellhim.
I pulled out my phone, into which I’d already programmed his number before I fell asleep the night before, and hesitated for half a second.
