Page 101 of Honeyfires

I'd walked into a different world. Everyone was discussing literary themes and symbolism while I mentally calculated fuel loads and wind patterns from muscle memory to occupy my thoughts and settle my anxiety. The crowd was exactly what I'd expected, consisting of cardigans and reading glasses, gentle voices and controlled laughter. Soft people who spent their days with books instead of fire.

I stood out like a torch in a library full of candles.

Several pairs of eyes tracked my entrance, and I caught fragments of whispered observations:

"Is that Vera's girlfriend?"

"My god, look at her..."

"Those tattoos..."

"That suit..."

Vera's hand found mine, squeezing gently, and when I looked down at her, she was smirking. "Told you that you looked incredible."

"You failed to mention I'd cause a scene."

"Oh, I knew exactly what I was doing." Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "I wanted everyone to see exactly who I'm going home with tonight."

Before I could respond, a woman approached, about sixty-something, with steel-gray hair styled in a neat bob and shrewd eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. She carried herself with the silent authority of someone who'd been running this library since before I was born.

"So, you're Petra." Her voice was measured, assessing, though I caught the way her gaze briefly dropped to my exposed chest before returning to my face. "Vera talks about you constantly."

"Good things, I hope." I extended my hand, and she took it with a surprisingly firm grip.

"We'll see." Vera had mentioned her, Helen, the head librarian who'd mentored her since she started. Helen looked me over with the thoroughness of law enforcement conducting a background check. "Vera says you're a firefighter."

"Helitack crew forewoman, yes ma'am."

Something flickered in her expression. Not quite approval, but acknowledgment. "Dangerous work."

"Someone has to do it.”

"Oh my god, you're even hotter than Vera said!"

I turned to find a young woman bouncing toward us, dark curls wild around her face, her smile bright and unguarded. She couldn't have been more than twenty-five, wearing a dress covered in a book print that somehow worked on her.

"Becca," Vera said, half-laughing, half-mortified.

"Sorry, was that inappropriate?" Becca didn't look sorry at all. She extended her hand to me with enthusiasm. "I'm Becca. I work circulation and I loooove your tattoos. Very motorcycle gang chic. Also, that suit? Illegal. Should come with a warning label."

Despite myself, I laughed. "Thanks. Um, I think."

"She means it as a compliment," said a man joining our circle, his arm around another man's waist. "I'm James, reference desk. This is my husband, Marcus. And yes, Becca's right. That suit is a crime. Also, your whole…" he gestured vaguely at me, "energy. Very mysterious badass energy. The open shirt showing the tattoos? Chef's kiss."

"Stop flirting with Vera's girlfriend," Marcus said, swatting James's arm affectionately.

"I'm just appreciating! Aesthetically!" James protested. Then to me, "Firefighter, right? That's incredibly brave. And incredibly hot. Sorry, my husband thinks I have no filter."

"Because you don't," Marcus said, but he was smiling. He turned to me with more restraint. "Nice to meet you, Petra. Vera's told us a lot about you. And you do look very sharp tonight."

Another woman approached, and the temperature seemed to drop. She looked about Vera's age, maybe a little older, with sharp features and sharper eyes. Her dress was conservative, her posture rigid, and she looked at me like I was a problem she was trying to solve. Her gaze lingered on my exposed chest with clear disapproval.

"Sarah," Vera said carefully. "This is Petra."

"Hello." Sarah's greeting was polite but cold, her handshake perfunctory. She barely met my eyes before turning to Vera. "We should probably start soon. The author will be here any minute."

She walked away without another word, and I felt the weight of her judgment like a sandbag on my shoulders.