9. Brooke
Chapter 9
Brooke
I smooth down my navy pencil skirt for the hundredth time, my reflection in the staff bathroom mirror taunting me with its sharp lines and unflattering angles. My hair, usually so neatly styled, is a chaotic mess of frizz and fly-a-ways.
“Great,” I mutter under my breath. “Just great.”
The memory of the other night flashes through my mind—my graceless tumble at the kickball game, drinking way too much, and throwing myself at Trevor like some desperate floozy. The heat of embarrassment creeps up my neck, and I close my eyes, willing it away.
“Get it together, Brooke,” I say firmly to my reflection. “You have storytime to host.”
I step out of the bathroom, only to be met with a tidal wave of energy as a gaggle of excited children rushes past me, their laughter ringing through the hallway.
“Miss Edwards! Miss Edwards!” a familiar voice calls out. I turn to see little Aiden, his blue eyes wide with excitement, bouncing on his toes.
“Hey, Aiden,” I say, crouching down to meet his gaze. “Are you ready for storytime? ”
He nods furiously, a grin splitting his face. “What story are we reading today?”
“It’s a surprise,” I whisper, winking. “But I think you’re going to love it.”
His eyes go round, and he races back to his friends, shouting, “It’s a surprise!”
I chuckle, standing and smoothing my skirt once more before stepping into the library. Plush pillows, a rainbow of colors and textures, cover the floor, inviting the kids to sink in and get lost in a story. The scent of old books mingles with the faint sweetness of crayons and glue. It’s my favorite scent, and it wraps around me like a hug, pushing the embarrassing memories to the back of my mind.
The children settle in quickly, their excited whispers dying down as I take my seat at the front. My gaze sweeps the back of the room, where a handful of parents have gathered, some standing, others sitting with younger siblings. My breath catches for a moment—is that dark hair Trevor’s? No, just Mr. Henderson, the father of twins.
I exhale, a little disappointed but shaking it off. Why would Trevor even be here anyway? He doesn’t have kids.
“Once upon a time,” I begin, slipping into the lilting cadence of a storyteller, “in a land not so different from our own...”
The children lean in, their eyes wide with anticipation, and I fall into the rhythm of the story. The room fades away as I bring the characters to life with voices and gestures, painting a world for them where magic and bravery reign supreme. Their expressions are full of awe, and I feel a familiar swell of happiness. Here, in this moment, I’m more than just Brooke, the awkward woman nursing a crush on a doctor—I’m the guide to their adventure.
“And they all lived happily ever after,” I finish, closing the book with a flourish. A chorus of “Again! Again!” fills the room.
“Maybe next time,” I say, laughing as the children groan in disappointment but begin to gather their things.
As I start to tidy up, I catch snippets of conversation from two mothers chatting nearby.
“Wasn’t that wonderful?” one gushes, her eyes bright. “She has such a way with words.”
My cheeks warm at the unexpected praise. I turn slightly, pretending to straighten a stack of books, but leaning just close enough to hear. Who doesn’t want to hear how wonderful you are, right?
“Oh, absolutely,” the second mother replies. “Hey, have you read that new Sophie Quinn novel? I just finished it and absolutely loved every word. The way she describes emotions... it’s like I’m living every moment with the characters.”
My pulse quickens, a mix of pride and anxiety churning in my stomach.
“I know exactly what you mean,” the first mother says with a dreamy sigh. “There’s something so raw and honest about her writing. I wonder what she’s like in real life. I bet she’s amazing. I’m sure we’d be instant best friends if we ever met.”
I bite my lip, resisting the urge to step forward and say, Actually, you already know her. Instead, I clear my throat and move into their view.
“Ladies, I hate to interrupt, but we’re closing up now.”
Both women turn to me, their smiles warm and genuine. “Thank you, Miss Edwards,” one says, gathering her purse and gesturing for her child to come over. “Your storytimes are the highlight of our week.”
“Yes, thank you so much,” the other mother chimes in. “And if you ever decide to write a children’s book yourself, I’d be first in line to buy it.”
My heart stutters, and I muster a smile that I hope doesn’t betray the storm of emotions swirling inside me. “That’s very kind of you,” I manage, my voice steady even as a flush rises to my cheeks. I write books, but they’re definitely not children’s books.
They smile at me, genuine and warm. “Thank you, Miss Edwards,” one of them says as they go to leave.
“You’re welcome,” I reply, trying not to let my voice waver.
I lean against the nearest shelf, my heart still racing. Pride swells in my chest, warring with the constant fear of being discovered. The thrill of being appreciated as Sophie Quinn wars with the constant fear of being found out. It can be exhausting.
“Get it together, Brooke,” I whisper, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
I finish tidying up, the library now silent and peaceful. By the time I step out into the parking lot, the sun is setting, casting the evening sky in brilliant hues of orange and pink. The sight calms me until I notice something unusual on my windshield — a bouquet of hibiscus flowers, their many colors vibrant even in the fading light.
“What on earth?” I murmur, approaching cautiously.
Tucked between the stems is a small note. My breath catches as I unfold it, my eyes scanning the unfamiliar handwriting:
Coffee raincheck? – Trevor
Below is his phone number, even though I already have it saved in my phone. A smile tugs at my lips, warmth spreading through my chest. Maybe he finds klutzes attractive after all.
I take a deep breath and dial his number, my fingers trembling ever so slightly. The line rings twice before his voice, warm and familiar, comes through.
“Hello?”
“Trevor? It’s Brooke,” I say, trying to sound composed. “I found your flowers. They’re beautiful. Thank you.”
“I’m glad you like them,” he replies, and I can almost hear the smile in his voice. “I was hoping you’d call. I’m sorry about missing coffee yesterday.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, twirling a strand of hair like a teenager. “Saving lives trumps coffee, every time.”
He chuckles, a low, warm sound that makes my heart flutter. “I was thinking I owe you something better than just coffee. How about dinner? I’ve got a boat in the marina. You don't get seasick, do you?”
A dinner date on a boat? It’s like something out of one of my novels. “That sounds... perfect,” I manage, my mind racing. “And, no, I don’t get seasick. Couldn't rightfully call myself a true Floridian if I did, now could I?” I laugh.
“Good,” Trevor says, relief and excitement lacing his voice. “How about tomorrow at seven?”
“I’d love to,” I say, but then pause, a playful glint sparking within me. “Only on one condition, though.”
“Oh?” His tone is teasing, intrigued. “What’s that?”
“Promise me you won’t be quite so chivalrous this time,” I say, surprising myself with the boldness, letting out my inner Sophie Quinn. “I appreciate it, but... well, a girl likes to know where she stands with a guy.”
His laughter is rich and genuine. “Alright. I promise to dial it back. But just a little. My mother raised a gentleman.”
“Deal,” I say, grinning.
"Oh, and Brooke?" His voice drops an octave lower .
"Yes?" I ask on trembling breath at the sound of his voice going straight to my core.
"You don't have to wonder where you stand with me... ever . You have no idea how hard that was to walk away the other night. But next time..." he pauses, "I won't. Promise."
I hesitate and then like I did making the run the other day at the game, I tumble all over myself trying to find the right words to say. "Oh...um...okay."
His laughter is deep and does something to me I'm not sure I've ever felt before. "See you tomorrow at seven, Brooke." He hangs up and I just stand there in the school parking lot, holding a bouquet of hibiscus flowers looking around to see if anyone else notices how completely idiotic my last sentence - if you can call it that – was – or how hot and bothered I am.
Really, Brooke. You're a bestselling author and the best you could come up with is 'Oh. Um. Okay ’.
Girl, you're gonna need to up your game by tomorrow night.
The soft glow of candlelight dances across Trevor's face as he pours the wine, highlighting the strong line of his jaw. My breath catches as our fingers brush when he hands me the glass.
"This is incredible," I say, gesturing to the elegant table set for two on the deck of his boat. The gentle rocking of the waves and twinkling lights of the harbor create a dreamlike ambiance.
Trevor's eyes crinkle as he smiles. "I'm glad you like it. I wanted tonight to be special."
My heart flutters at his words. As we sit down to eat, I can't help but marvel at how different this Trevor is from the guarded doctor I first met. There was boyish charm to him then, a hint of vulnerability, but tonight… he’s all man.
"So, Dr. Jacobs," I say, leaning in conspiratorially. "Were you always destined for medicine, or did you have any other secret aspirations?"
He chuckles, a rich sound that sends a shiver down my spine. "Actually, I originally planned to be a jazz saxophonist."
"No way!" I exclaim, genuinely surprised. "I never would have guessed." The thought of his fingers caressing the instrument, his lips tasting the mouthpiece…suddenly my cheeks are blushing and I’m a bit uncomfortable sitting in this chair. Discreetly, I try to adjust myself to relieve some of the pressure in my core. I imagine Trevor's strong hands coaxing sultry notes from a gleaming saxophone. The image is unexpectedly alluring. I take a large sip of wine to cool my suddenly flushed cheeks.
Who knew musicians turned me on? Or maybe it’s just one particular musician.
Trevor nods, a wistful look crossing his face. "Music was my first love. I spent every spare moment practicing, dreaming of smoky clubs and soulful melodies."
"What changed?" I ask softly, captivated by this glimpse into his past.
He takes a sip of wine before answering. "I realized I could help more people as a doctor. Don't get me wrong, music heals in its own way, but I wanted to make a tangible difference, you know?"
I nod, admiring his selflessness even as I wonder if he regrets his choice. "Do you still play?"
"Not as much as I'd like," he admits. "But sometimes, after a long shift, I'll dust off the old sax. It keeps me sane."
"I'd love to hear you play sometime," I say, surprised by my own boldness .
Trevor's gaze locks with mine, and the air between us crackles with electricity. "I'd like that," he murmurs.
In that moment, I want nothing more than to close the distance between us. But uncertainty holds me back. There's still a large part of my life Trevor doesn't know about, so many secrets I'm keeping. Can I really let myself fall for him? It may be too late for that, though. I’m pretty sure I’ve already fallen over that cliff.
As if sensing my inner turmoil, Trevor reaches across the table and takes my hand. His touch is gentle, grounding. "Hey," he says softly. "No pressure here. Let's just enjoy tonight, okay?"
I nod, grateful for his understanding. As we continue our meal, trading stories and laughter, I allow myself to relax into the moment.
I lean back in my chair, the gentle rocking of the boat mirroring the rhythm of the jazz playing softly in the background. My wine glass catches the moonlight as I raise it, gesturing emphatically.
"You shouldn't discount the healing power of music, Trevor. Especially jazz." I can feel my eyes lighting up as I speak, passion coloring my words. "There's something... transcendent about it. The way it can soothe your soul or set your heart racing."
Trevor's eyebrows raise, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Sounds like you're speaking from experience."
I nod, memories washing over me. "A few years back, I stumbled into this tiny jazz bar in New Orleans. It was this hidden gem, all exposed brick and dim lighting. And there was this indie artist playing... God, I'd never heard anything like it."
As I speak, I can almost hear the haunting melody, feel the vibrations of the music thrumming through my body. Trevor leans forward, his blue eyes intent on my face .
"What was so special about them?" he asks, genuinely curious.
I pause, trying to find the right words. "Him. It was raw, you know? Like he was pouring his entire soul into every note. I swear, the whole room was holding its breath."
Trevor's hand finds mine across the table, his thumb tracing circles on my skin. The touch sends shivers up my arm. "I can see why you'd remember that," he says softly.
His gaze is so intense, I have to look away. My eyes land on the bookshelves lining his cabin, and I'm reminded of my own love affair with literature. I go to look at the spines of the books, get an understanding of what makes Trevor tick by his choice in reading materials.
"What about you?" Trevor asks, breaking into my thoughts as he follows me to the bookshelf. "Did you always want to be a school librarian?"
I laugh, shaking my head. "Not exactly. But there was this librarian when I was a kid..." I trail off, lost in the memory of Mrs. Holloway's kind smile and endless patience.
"Tell me about it," Trevor prompts gently.
I take a deep breath, feeling suddenly vulnerable. "She saw something in me, I guess. Encouraged my love of reading, introduced me to worlds I never knew existed. In a lot of ways, she saved me."
Trevor's hand tightens on mine, and when I meet his eyes, I see understanding there. For a moment, I'm tempted to tell him everything – about Sophie Quinn, about my secret life as a novelist. But the words stick in my throat, held back by years of carefully guarded privacy.
Instead, I squeeze his hand back, offering a small smile. "So, in a way, I guess I'm just paying it forward."
Trevor's blue eyes search mine, a mix of curiosity and something deeper, more intense. "But was it your dream?" he asks softly, his thumb tracing circles on my palm .
My heart races, torn between the desire to open up and the need to protect my secret. I take a deep breath, the scent of saltwater and Trevor's cologne filling my lungs. "Well, not exactly," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "I've always wanted to be a full-time novelist."
His eyebrows raise, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Really? That's fascinating, Brooke. Have you written anything?"
I laugh nervously, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "Oh, you know, just some short stories here and there. Nothing published." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, but I push through. "It's more of a dream than a reality right now."
Trevor leans in closer, his breath warm on my cheek. "I think you'd be amazing at it. Your way with words... it's captivating."
My skin tingles where his lips nearly brush my ear. I turn to face him, our noses almost touching. "You're pretty captivating yourself, Dr. Jacobs," I murmur.
In an instant, the air between us charges with electricity. Trevor's hand slides to the nape of my neck, drawing me closer. Our lips meet, tentative at first, then with growing urgency as I melt into him, my fingers tangling in his dark hair.
We break apart, breathless. "Brooke," Trevor whispers, his voice husky with desire. "This is me not being chivalrous. Tell me to stop if you don’t want this."
“Trevor. I…I want this, but I’m scared of the afterwards.” I tell him honestly.
Drawing me close, he whispers in my ear making my skin tingle,"You're safe with me, Brooke. Always."
My response is to pull him closer to me, our bodies pressing together as we stumble onto the couch. Clothes start to fall away, hands exploring newly exposed skin. Every touch ignites a fire within me, burning away my doubts and fears.
As Trevor's lips trail down my neck, I arch into him, lost in the sensation. At this moment, I'm not Sophie Quinn or Brooke Edwards – I'm simply a woman giving in to passion, to the promise of a connection I've denied myself for too long.