Chapter 2 #2
“Thank you. But bringing treats doesn’t make up for you being late. I know that trick,” I say.
“Who are you, my boss? Lighten up.” She wraps her lips around the monstrosity within the foil, and moans.
“What in the world are you eating?” I ask, kicking away the inappropriate thoughts about her mouth.
“Breakfast burrito. Hangover cure.”
“That looks atrocious.”
She nods. “The key to recovering from atrocious behavior the night before is to eat atrocious food the next morning.”
It’s better if I keep my trap shut for a while. Eat my scone and drink my tea.
Tabitha may be hungover, but she looks fresh and pretty as always. She wears a warm, burnt-orange poncho with a delicate fringe, tall leather boots, and jeans that hug her shapely thighs. Her hair is parted down the center and hangs around her face in gentle waves.
“So, who do I have to kill for messing with the books?”
I don’t know how to answer that.
She laughs.
“What?”
“I’ve never seen you smile before. You should do it more often,” she says.
I’m smiling because she guessed my favorite scone. I’m smiling because, even with my favorite breakfast before me, I can still smell the subtle fruit of her shampoo. I’m smiling because when our eyes meet, her cheeks glow a deeper shade of pink.
Softer. Everything feels softer with Tabitha around.
“Most people don’t amuse me very much. You might be an exception.” My gaze lands on her mouth, and I can’t even stand myself right now because of the thoughts that dance through my head.
“Amusing, huh? High praise from the man who gets his jollies from sitting around a pile of dusty old books.”
“I’ll have you know they are not dusty.”
“Fine. Not dusty. Just crusty and old.”
“The books and I have something in common.”
She stares at me over her burrito. “Don’t be self-deprecating, James. I don’t buy it for a second.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Tabitha scoffs. “Okay.”
What could she mean? That I’m not old and crusty? In comparison to her, I am. And why would she scold me for making fun of myself? Surely she still hates me for what I wrote in that email that she was never supposed to see.
A group of children comes by and makes a mess of the stickers, picking out half a dozen or more before their mother hurries them along. Several of the stickers fall on the ground.
“I’ll get that,” Tabitha says.
“No, finish your breakfast,” I say as we both stand up at the same time.
“They really set these tables up close to each other, didn’t they?” Tabitha remarks. Her small breasts brush against my back as we squeeze awkwardly through the one foot of space between the tables.
I go about my method of doing things, once again stacking the stickers neatly and organizing them by type.
“No, no. Just fan them out like this,” she says, sweeping her hand over the stacks of stickers and creating something that’s definitely not fanned out.
“This is chaos,” I say, scratching my head.
“It’s fun and inviting,” she says.
“People won’t know what they’re looking at.”
“Which is why they’ll come closer to look at the stickers. It lures them in.”
“Lure them for what purpose?” I ask.
She smirks. “So you can throw the net over their heads and I’ll tranquilize them.”
My prolonged stare gets a sigh. “So the people will buy the books, James. You really don’t understand how capitalism works.”
“Hence why I became a public librarian.”
A slow smile spreads across her face. “Interesting that you use the word ‘public.’ We are public employees.”
“Yes?” I reply, wondering where this is going.
“So,” she says, “If you write something in an email, it’s public.”
Oh. That’s where this is going.
“Tabitha, you are correct on all counts,” I say. “And I’m sorry. I never should have written that email. I was in the wrong headspace when I wrote it, and I should have taken a walk instead of writing a pissy email.”
She blinks in surprise, clearly baffled that I apologized so quickly.
Before I can stop myself, I reach over and move a strand of hair that’s gotten stuck in her lip gloss.
Her eyes dart away furtively.
“It was a pissy email,” she says.
“And I apologize.”
She gives a small harrumph that makes me smile.
“And you’re right,” I continue. “I do deserve to retire to my father’s musty old mansion, alone, after spending the next two decades sabotaging your every move.”
Her jaw drops.
“You said you hadn’t heard us talking about anything until right when you walked up.”
“I lied.”
She takes a beat, clearly mystified by my admission. “My mom always said that when you write something down in anger, those are inside thoughts and they’re for you. You should read them and then throw them away.”
I nod. “Your mom is a wise woman.”
Tabitha lifts a shoulder. “Was a wise woman.”
In the silence that follows, I have the answer to my next question. “She left you too early, didn’t she?”
She nods.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” I say.
Tabitha looks down and back up at me. “You’re much nicer one-on-one than you are behind a keyboard,” she says.
“Oh no. I’m mean all the time. You just bring out the nice in me.”
“I couldn’t tell,” she says.
“Only sometimes.”
She laughs, and I vow to make her laugh again. Somehow.
With the customers, Tabitha is far less awkward than I am. She charms everyone who walks by, talking to them about the importance of the library and how we’re looking for new board members.
One man comes by and says, “You run the children’s library, don’t you?”
“I do! Have you been by?”
“Absolutely. My son Archer never misses a story hour. We’re all big fans of yours.”
She laughs and twirls her hair, and I feel my hands curling tightly around my tea.
I look at my watch. Two more hours and forty-five minutes of having to watch people fawn all over her, admiring her. Watching men stare at her pretty face.
I watch in horror as the man exchanges contact with her.
Surely my eyes are deceiving me. No way she is exchanging contact information with a patron.
This is torture.