Firefly Nights (The Alphabet Sweethearts #6)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Grace

"' I t is a truth universally acknowledged,'" I whisper to the empty library, "'that a single man in possession of a tool belt must be in want of something to fix.'"

Jane Austen would probably haunt me for that adaptation, but it's been hard to focus on anything else since last week's encounter at the visitor center. Nathan Cole. Licensed contractor. Apparently competent and charming, according to him.

The garbage can beneath the worst leak offers a steady percussion: drip-drip-drip. Three more have joined it overnight, creating an archipelago of plastic islands between the Biography and Travel sections. At this rate, I'll need to build an ark before the morning rush.

"This is what you get," I mutter, shelving books with more force than necessary, "for letting Ben recommend a contractor because he has nice forearms." My face heats at the admission. "Not that I noticed his forearms. Or his smile. Or the way he—" I stop myself, horrified. "This is not turning into one of those stories."

The library has always been my sanctuary, a place where reality and fiction blend into something manageable. Safe. Here, even the most dramatic tales stay contained within their covers, and happy endings are guaranteed if you just turn enough pages.

I retreat to the circulation desk, pulling out my worn copy of Pride and Prejudice . Gran gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday, saying every woman should have at least one book that feels like coming home. The familiar pages fall open to my favorite part—Elizabeth finally seeing Pemberley, finally understanding there's more to Mr. Darcy than her first impressions suggested.

"Not helping," I tell the book, closing it firmly.

Movement outside the front windows catches my eye. A familiar figure approaches the entrance, coffee cups in hand. My heart does a strange little skip as I glance at my watch. 7:05 a.m., nearly two hours before opening.

I hurry to the door, already composing a polite but firm speech about library hours. But when I reach the entrance, Nathan Cole's smile through the glass makes the words dissolve before they reach my tongue.

He holds up the coffee cups and mouths, "Early bird special?"

I shouldn't. The library doesn't officially open until nine, and I have a very specific morning routine that doesn't include contractors bearing caffeine. But another drip echoes from the travel section, and really, this is about protecting the books. Nothing more.

My reflection in the glass door catches my eye as I unlock it. The woman staring back looks exactly like what she is—a librarian who spends more time with fictional characters than real people. The kind who categorizes her personal library by genre and author and size scheme. Who talks to books more easily than she talks to people.

"You're early," I say, opening the door just wide enough to be polite.

"Figured you might need caffeine before I start talking about support beams and shingles." He offers one of the cups. "Unless you're more of a tea person? You seem like you might be a tea person."

"I'm a 'the library doesn't open for another two hours' person." But I accept the coffee anyway, stepping back to let him in.

Nathan fills the doorway in a way that seems impossible, morning light catching in his tousled hair and yes, fine, those unfairly nice forearms exposed by rolled-up sleeves. He's wearing a smile that belongs in the kind of romance novels I pretend not to keep in my bedside drawer.

"Should I be worried about angry card catalog spirits this early in the morning?" he asks, glancing around. "Or maybe the ghost of dissertations past?"

"The air conditioning," I reply, closing the door behind him. "It's been temperamental lately."

"Add it to my list." He steps further into the library, and I catch a hint of sawdust and coffee and something else. Something that makes me think of summer nights and possibility. "I'm starting to think this place needs more than a new roof."

"It needs someone who understands it," I say before I can stop myself. "Someone who sees more than just an old building with problems to fix."

Nathan turns, and something in his expression shifts. Softens. "Show me," he says quietly. "Help me see it through your eyes."

And maybe it's the earnestness in his voice, or the way early sunshine turns the library into something out of a story, or simply that I'm tired of being the cautious heroine who never takes chances, but I hear myself say, "Okay. Where would you like to start?"

He grins, and oh, this is definitely turning into one of those stories. "Wherever you think this story begins."

The Tuesday morning story time crowd spills out of the children's section in a wave of excited chatter and construction paper. I'm shelving nearby, allegedly organizing the middle-grade novels but actually watching Nathan patch a small crack in the ceiling. He's been working steadily all morning, pausing occasionally to ask questions about the library's history or comment on my "creative" organization system.

"Miss Grace!" Charlie Carter tugs at my cardigan. "Can you help us reach the dinosaur books? We're doing reports."

"Of course, but—" I start to set down my stack of returns.

"I got it!" Nathan's already climbing down from his ladder. "T-Rex or Triceratops? Or are we more interested in the flying ones? Pterodactyls were always my favorite."

Charlie's whole face lights up. "You know about dinosaurs?"

"Know about them? I wanted to be one when I grew up." Nathan crouches down to his level, completely at ease. "Turns out contractor was the next best thing. "

Within minutes, he's surrounded by the entire story time group, perched on the carpet as he helps them find books while keeping up a steady stream of dinosaur facts and terrible prehistoric puns.

"Hey, hey, who has a dinosaur joke?" he asks, passing a book to Charlie.

"Me!" Sophie bounces on her knees. "Why did the dinosaur cross the road?"

"To get to the other side!" several kids chorus.

"Better than mine," Nathan laughs. "Want to hear why you can't hear a pterodactyl going to the bathroom?" He pauses dramatically. "Because the 'p' is silent!"

The kids dissolve into giggles, and even I have to bite back a smile. The children are captivated. Even Mrs. Reynolds, our most particular patron, smiles as she passes with her weekly romance novel selection.

I turn back to my shelving, trying to ignore the warm feeling in my chest. So he's good with kids. And knows about dinosaurs. And looks unfairly attractive while sitting cross-legged on a rainbow reading carpet. It doesn't change anything.

"Hey, Book Whisperer." His voice startles me out of my thoughts. The kids have dispersed with their dinosaur books, and Nathan's leaning against the nearby shelf. "You've been organizing the same set of books for twenty minutes. Must be a fascinating system."

Heat creeps up my neck. "I was thinking."

"About your books?" His tone is gently teasing. "Or let me guess—mentally redesigning the Dewey Decimal System?"

"Not everyone considers that boring," I say stiffly, sliding The Mysterious Benedict Society into place with more force than necessary.

"Never said boring." He steps closer, reaching past me to straighten a book I missed. His arm brushes mine, and I nearly drop the entire stack I'm holding. "Just wondering what stories you get lost in up there."

"I don't get lost." But even I can hear the defensive note in my voice. "I simply appreciate the value of a well-ordered library and?—"

"And you're doing it again." He taps the spine of the book in my hands. "Living so much in these worlds that you're missing the one right in front of you."

"That's not—" I stop, flustered by his proximity and the hint of concern beneath his teasing. "Don't you have a ceiling to fix?"

"Worried I'll figure you out?" His smile is softer now, almost wistful. "Too late, Grace. You're not nearly as mysterious as you think you are."

"You don't know anything about me."

"I know you whisper to your books when you think no one's watching." He starts ticking off points on his fingers. "I know you organize the children's section by reading level and theme because you want kids to find exactly the right story when they need it. I know you keep a secret stash of chocolate in the bottom drawer of your desk for emergency reshelving fuel. And I know you're terrified of letting anyone past those carefully organized walls you've built."

I stare at him, heart pounding. "How did you?—"

"I pay attention." He shrugs, but his eyes never leave mine. "Maybe if you looked up from your books more often, you'd notice people."

Before I can respond, a crash echoes from the front desk, followed by a small voice saying, "Oops."

Nathan grins. "Duty calls, Book Whisperer. Try not to get lost in any fictional worlds while I'm gone." He heads toward the commotion, calling out, "Everyone okay over there? You know, this reminds me of the time a stegosaurus tried to check out a library book..."