Chapter 3
Warm fingers circle my wrists and gently tug downward.
I think about resisting for half a second, but continuing to attempt to hide my mortification isn’t going to do any good whatsoever.
My fingers slide down my face, and once my eyes are uncovered, I can see Julien’s probing blue gaze.
His direct eye contact is searching, most likely trying to figure out where my outburst for a hundred grand had come from.
From the roundness of his eyes and the energy buzzing off him, it seems he’s jumped straight to catastrophizing.
A person from his past suddenly bursts back on the scene in need of a large sum of money.
Wrong genre, my friend.
“There isn’t some sort of ransom situation going on,” I say to the mountain of concern staring back at me.
What shows has he been watching or books has he been reading to jump to that conclusion first?
Probably some sort of Jack Reacher/Lee Child thriller.
Part of me wants to laugh at the rate of escalation of his inferences, and the other part is a little touched that he seems so worried that something bad might be happening to me.
“Neither my parents nor I are in any sort of danger.” See? If I’d just gone with my prepared speech, we could have spared everyone this melodrama. Too bad I can’t ever seem to do anything the easy way.
He relaxes his grip on my wrists, his fingers sliding along the tender underside and flipping a switch on the pulse point there as he releases his hold. My breath hitches as he sits back in the chair, his brows furrowing as he continues to stare at me.
“How did you just do that?” He’s looking at me like he’s trying to figure out a trigonometry problem.
“Do what?”
“Know what I was thinking.”
I shrug and avert my gaze. What can I say? That my voracious reading has made me more receptive and observant of context clues among people in real life? True, but my observations have never led to mind reading before. “I guess you just have an expressive face.”
He doesn’t look like he agrees, but he doesn’t argue either.
“So, one hundred thousand dollars and the money isn’t needed to save anyone in danger,” he finally says, giving me the opening to explain why I’m coming to him for money the way I should have to begin with.
I tell him about the storm that blew through and the roof needing to be replaced and the grants that we didn’t get and the reallocation of funds that wipes out the children’s programs and my wages.
“That’s why I’m here. Little Creek Library is in desperate need of the generosity King Publishing annually bestows through tax-deductible donations. Without your support, the programs that have served so many of the community’s children are going to be canceled.”
He considers me, deep in thought, his index finger idly running over the silver stubble along his chin. “That’s what you grew up to become? A children’s librarian?”
Technically, no. I never went to college, never got a degree.
We didn’t have the money, and I didn’t feel like being in debt for the rest of my life.
Besides, I got the job at the library and the Andersons offered me rent-free housing, so while I knew I’d never be rich, I was settled.
But he doesn’t need all those details. “Yep.”
He continues to run his finger thoughtlessly across his jaw. “So you know a lot about children’s literature?”
“Yes . . .” I draw out slowly.
I don’t require any sort of mind-reading abilities to see a plan forming behind the brightness of his blue eyes. Things are clicking into place. Problems being solved. I’m not sure what sort of problems Julien has or how I fit into them, but I have a sneaking suspicion I’m about to find out.
His lips curl the tiniest bit at the corners, and I’m reminded yet again of his business acumen because I think I’m seeing what he looks like when he’s about to seal a deal after the deck was stacked against him.
I swallow back the flash flood of saliva my mouth just produced.
There’s always a special place in a girl’s heart for her first crush, but that’s no reason to revert to acting like that girl again.
Severe businessmen in stuffy suits aren’t even my type, which is how I know this reaction I’m having to seeing Julien again is based on nostalgia.
I’m much more into the glasses-wearing intellectual vibe.
I clear my throat. “About the donation . . . ?”
His gaze refocuses, pinning on me. I resist the urge to squirm in my chair, and I can’t believe I’m even entertaining the thought, but I think I would’ve rather faced dream-shattering John King than this grown-up version of Julien. At least with Senior, I know what I’m up against.
“Unfortunately, all of King Publishing’s donations are set for the year.” Despite the unfortunately, he doesn’t sound sorry of that fact in the slightest.
My body deflates. “Oh.”
There goes plan A. I still don’t think the usual fundraising activities in Little Creek will raise enough money, especially not in the short amount of time Ryan gave me. I suppose I could start cold-calling other companies. Some big corporation has to be in need of a tax write-off.
“However . . .” Julien continues.
I try not to let the balloon of hope inflate too much in my chest, but however is good. However is something.
“I’d like to hire you.”
I blink against the sudden, unsuspecting turn this conversation just took. A job? I have a job. One with an end date, sure, but that’s what I’m doing. Trying to save my job, not get offered a new one.
“I appreciate the offer,” I begin, “but—”
“You haven’t even heard my offer.” His business demeanor is back. Complete, this time, with a determined set to his jaw. I can’t imagine many people tell him no when he looks at them like this.
“Fair enough,” I concede, my gaze sliding down to my lap. There’s nothing he can say that’ll get me to turn my back on Derrick and Amara, May and Sam, and all my other kids, but I can afford him the same courtesy he showed me and hear him out. “What’s your offer?”
“You work for me temporarily as a freelance consultant, and at the completion of our agreement, you’ll get the hundred thousand dollars you need to fix the library’s roof from me personally.”
My head snaps up to attention as my eyes widen. “But that’s . . .” Insane is what that is. What in the world could he possibly need me to consult on that would be worth such a high payout? And from his own pocket, no less. I’m not educated or qualified to act in such a capacity.
“You’re a children’s librarian?” he’d asked.
Shoot. I’d said yes and led him to believe something not true. “Look, Julien, I’m not—”
“Take the job, Martha. I hate to say it, but you won’t be able to come up with that kind of money otherwise. You don’t have a lot of other options.”
He’s right, but I don’t like that he’s pointing it out, nor the supercilious way he’s commanding me, like he’s already the boss and I have to do his bidding.
My eyes narrow, and that’s when I see it.
The light tapping of his fingernail against the side of his leg.
A nervous tic. I remember he used to do the same thing whenever Ginger Sullivan came over to study when they were in high school.
She was his crush way back when, and I’d climb up a magnolia tree between our houses to spy on them while they quizzed each other on the periodic table.
I settle back in my chair and cross my legs. “Would you like to try that again? This time with less bluster and more sincerity?”
He blinks at me, incredulous. Then his shoulders relax, and he flushes slightly at getting caught. His lips quirk. “I bet all the kids know to toe the line around you at the library.”
I give him my best matronly expression—pinched lips with a single raised brow. When his grin widens, I can’t hold the look any longer and break into a smile of my own.
“Julien, I need to clear something up. I’m not technically a children’s librarian. My job title is librarian’s assistant.”
He considers that. “But you’re still well versed and knowledgeable in children’s literature?” At my nod, he says, “Then the offer still stands.”
I huff. “There’s nothing that I know that’s worth that kind of money.”
“Don’t be so sure.” He closes his eyes and leans back in his chair, his legs spreading in front of him.
With a deep sigh, he opens his eyes, and a frankness is there that was hidden behind the honed boardroom sharpness.
He looks more like the Julien of my memories.
The kind, open-faced boy who carried me to my mom after I fell off my bike and bloodied my knee when I was five.
“The thing is, I need your help just as much as you need mine. My father,” he starts, then shakes his head ruefully. “Well, you know Dad.”
I keep my mouth shut because, yes, I do know his dad, and that knowledge means any number of things could come out of Julien’s mouth next.
“He’s so stubborn.” There’s an edge to his voice now. “His doctors have all told him he needs to retire, but he’s a workaholic who’d rather put his health at risk than hand over the reins of the publishing house to me.”
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.
He flashes me a sad sort of smile that’s here and gone before I blink. “He finally said he would, though. He assured both Mom and me that he would step down and appoint me head of the company if I could prove to him that I can handle the position.”
Dread begins to pool in my stomach. We’re getting to the crux of how I fit into his equation, and I’m almost afraid to hear his answer. “How are you supposed to prove that?”