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It would be a Christmas miracle, sure. But frankly, I think I deserve one.
Chapter Two
Thankfully, I don’t catch so much as a glimpse of Carter Sheppard over the next few days. It feels like, overnight, Reindeer Falls has kicked it into overdrive with the Christmas preparation. From Ginger’s Bake Shop, where Sutton, Maggie, and I meet to discuss Maggie’s latest book club pick, to the décor going up along Main Street at the River Place Shops, it’s like Santa’s magic has descended in a flurry of Christmas magic. And look, as one of Maggie’s best friends, I’m more than used to extra festivity. After all, I’ve been reading her Christmas book picks monthly and listening to her talk about “the art of the twinkle light” for years now.
But I also care because, as the head librarian at Reindeer Falls Public Library, it’s my job to make sure that our library is an extra-special winter wonderland for our patrons. That means not just decorations but craft hours, winter-themed book readings, Santa letter-writing, and ugly sweater competitions.
Suffice it to say, even Maggie would have little to criticize if she came into the library right now. I’ve made approximately a million white daisy chains that are strung from the rafters, along with puffs of fake snow dusted in glitter squeezed into every book display. There are tiny trees with sparkling ornaments scattered throughout, plus the full-size tree near the Read Aloud corner. I’ve still got to add a little bit more tinsel to that one, but it’s all up to Christmas code. It has to be. Maggie would ticket the library if it wasn’t, friend or not.
I’ve also pulled a few books that I’m considering for tomorrow’s read-aloud. Of course, we do the classics, but this year, I want to find some hidden Christmas gems. Something that the kids haven’t heard a thousand times before but that still captures the magic of the season.
Because there’s nothing better than seeing someone connect with the right book, especially kids. When they find the story that speaks to their little souls, they light up brighter than Rudolph’s nose. And that, as Reindeer Falls’s head librarian, is a joy that I am forever in pursuit of.
It’s a slow morning, so I take my stack of potential reads over to the big Christmas tree. I plop down on the carpet and cross my legs beneath me, letting today’s knee-length, cherry-red skirt fan out to cover my legs. I’m in black tights and a black sweater, along with thick boots. Basically, I’m in what Sutton likes to call my “librarian” uniform, a.k.a. the sweater/skirt/tights combo. But there’s a reason why librarians dress this way. It’s stylish and cute as hell, and it’s the perfect outfit for reading by a warm fire.
Which, okay, we don’t have a fireplace in the library. That would be a major fire hazard, what with all the old book paper around. But we do have a cutout of a fireplace next to the Christmas tree, and that will have to do.
I nudge the glasses that have slid down my nose back into place as I open the first book, a story about a penguin who gets lost in Miami for Christmas. I flip through the pages, letting myself get lost a little in the artwork. I’m focused on a penguin making a “sand angel” when, suddenly, I hear someone clear their throat.
Shit. This is one of the hazards of being a bookworm working in a library. It’s so easy to get lost in a book, considering there are basically endless options, which translates to being an easy target for patrons to sneak up on.
Still, I’m not sure why this particular patron needs me. There’s someone running the front desk. I adjust my glasses and look up, trying to find the patron in question.
And oh, boy, do I find him all right.
“Carter?” I ask, blinking in confusion.
He’s standing over me, looking down as I’m reading. I’m suddenly very grateful that I’m wearing a crew neck, considering this view would give a peep show of my cleavage if I were wearing anything lower-cut. I dust myself off and stand up, clutching my penguin picture book in hand.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, immediately worrying that something’s happened to Rudy.
Carter stares at me, as if he’s contemplating the answer to what was a simple question. I try to avoid looking at him too closely, since I know from the other day that looking at him leaves me in danger of doing things like accidentally trying to hug him.
Unfortunately, though, this means I’m busy noticing the rest of Carter. It means eyeing his dark jeans and the way they hug him in all of the right places, along with a navy long-sleeved thermal clinging to his finely muscled chest.
