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She’d landed flat on her back. She kicked her legs and tried to roll over, with no success. Based on the rhythmic tugging, at least one set of canine jaws had locked on to the costume. The gloomy world inside the book costume started swirling, caught in a mental eddy that spurred a wave of nausea.
She should have said no. Walked away. Let the library find someone else to advertise the summer reading program.
But an hour earlier, and on paper, this had seemed like such a bright idea—and far better than playing the part of a corpse on the community theater floor. She loved kids. She loved books. What could possibly go wrong?
If only the wordnowere part of her vocabulary.
Well, she’d have to say no after Tuesday, when she was living at the camp full-time.
But Joyce had handed her the costume she’d said she’d spent three months making—although, in examining the ghastly ensemble, it had looked more like three days. Maybe three hours.
Crafting wasn’t Joyce’s jam.
But Beth had committed to three hours of dancing around on the sidewalk outside the library. Dressed as a book. A book—complete with a bound spine on one side and a cover that said Venture into Adventure!
The vibration in her head took on a staccato pulse.
Tugging. Growling. They’d probably bury her in the yard when they were done.
“No!” Her shout came out hollow, tinny to her own ears and likely never reaching beyond the costume fabric. She tried again. “Bad…dog!”
She was pulled one direction, then the other, as if they’d started a game of tug-of-war. Weight smashed into her. Nails—two pawfuls, by the feel of it—skidded across her exposed sleeves.
She clamped her eyes against the sting of sweat rivulets searing her vision. She was dressed as a book, for goodness’ sake. Locked inside a tropical casket.
“No!” A deep voice commanded. “Quit.” The pressure released from her right arm, followed by the left. “Go home.” A hand wrapped around hers, slightly rough, manly, strong. “Go on.” He softened his tone. “You go on home,” he finished.
Whoever this man was, she’d buy him every last pastry in Robin Fox’s display case.
Not Casper Christiansen, Boone Buckam, or Cole B…Ba… What was his last name?
She discontinued her Deep Haven roster, her thoughts foggy and incomplete.
“They’re gone now.” The hand gave her a little tug. “Let’s get you up. Are you okay, Beth?”
“I—I think so? Thank you.” He knew her name, which was kind of nice. She tried to pull herself up with the hand holding her own, but wobbled. Her body was plucked off the ground, costume and all, and she was set back down onto her feet. Then he released her hand.
Oh. Okay. So, her hero was strong too.
The earth swayed. Or it was her?
Hands steadied her.
Why were a million cicadas buzzing in her ears?
“Whoa, let’s get you out of that. It’s got to be a hundred and twenty degrees in there.” A pause. “How do I get you out of there?”
“Zipper. Starts at the bottom…goes up…side.” Goosebumps prickled her skin.
“You’re…uh…dressed?”
Movement. Pressure. Dizziness.
“Of course I’m dressed.” They weren’t pretty, but she had clothes on.
Queasy?
“Oh my goodness!” Joyce, the librarian. Beth could hear her thick high heels clogging nearer. Like a jackhammer through Beth’s skull. “Are you okay?”
