Chapter 2
Two
ELLIS
Weston University boasts a total of twelve libraries and mine, Montgomery, is the largest. It’s a beautiful place, full of sweeping, finely carved mahogany and endless rows of leather-bound tomes. During my very first visit here, I’d drifted from the tour group of incoming freshmen, wandering deeper into the seemingly endless building, filled with a sense of rightness I’d never experienced before.
The hushed voices of study groups, the smell of dust and ink, the glow of computer screens and rustle of turning pages might have seemed mundane to some, but to me, it felt as though ancient magic lived within the very walls of Montgomery.
Through wars, political upheaval, technological advancements, and countless generations of Weston students, this place has been a sanctuary, standing steadfast against the sands of time and shifting memory. It thrilled and comforted me in equal measure. So much so, that I built my entire career around it.
Now, as a grown man with more than my fair share of cynicism, I see past the romantic facade. That’s what happens when you truly know a place. Not passing through, or using it to facilitate another purpose, but living and breathing it every single day.
I know the places where the ancient slate roof leaks during heavy storms, the stairs that creek and the shelves that slant. All those things are my responsibility now, but they’re not my only responsibility. There are other things in my life that come first. Things that mean more to me than an old building stuffed with books.
It was never supposed to be like this . That’s the line I’ve told myself whenever I had to take days off, or leave work early, or bring a cranky six-year-old to an academic library in a feeble attempt to do my job.
Unfortunately, what my life was supposed to look like doesn’t matter much to Weston University. This morning, when I opened my email, I had yet another email from campus administration reminding me that while they’re very understanding of my “circumstances” , my allotment of personal time has run out.
I’m not sure what I hoped to achieve by coming here tonight, perhaps to show my boss that I care about my job? Whatever the case, it didn’t make a difference. Any hope I had that attending this party would put me in favor with the formidable university president was proven woefully incorrect nearly the moment I walked through the door.
“Mr. Delvaux. Thank you so much for coming. Will you call my office Monday morning? We should schedule a sit down.”
Christ. My stomach dropped like a lead balloon. Losing my job… It’s not an option. For one, positions for academic librarians with decent pay, good healthcare and a flexible schedule, aren’t in high supply. Even if I did manage to find something, changing jobs would almost ce rtainly mean moving out of the state, uprooting my daughter, and trying to sell the overpriced house my ex-wife fell in love with.
I was fortunate to get this job, and the only reason I did was because my mentor was retiring. Not only that, but I like what I do and where I do it. In a life that’s been rife with stress the last few years, I’d like to keep one damn thing for myself.
Now, that desire is standing on shaky ground.
Without bothering to make small talk with my colleagues, I snatched a drink from the bar and strode blindly through the house. It was amusing, but not all that surprising, to end up in the president’s home library.
It’s a stately room, lined in deep wood shelves and row after row of books that are all likely worth more than my mortgage payment. The house is owned by the university, and given as a perk to the current president, so the room looks the same as it did when Sutton’s predecessor threw similarly stuffy “parties” in this house.
The plan was to lick my wounds, get a grip, and head back out to salvage the night as best I could. After all, what good would brooding do now? I’d already shelled out a small fortune for a babysitter and got my hair cut for the first time in about four months. I might as well make the best of the evening, do my best to ignore the ice cold dread seeping through my veins, and enjoy my first night off in god-knows how long.
None of the plan included meeting someone. I’ve been single for so long that celibacy has become something of a habit. Even if it had occurred to me to look out for a single, pretty coworker to flirt with, it never would have struck me as a possibility that I stood a chance with her .
If it weren’t for the few seconds in which she vented her frustration in made-up curse words, I would have embarrassed myself .
The woman is breathtaking. Literally, breathtaking —I think I forgot to breathe when I first laid eyes on her.
Everything from the elegant curve of her neck to the bow of her lips, hits me like a truck. Hers is the kind of face that would look at home in one of my daughter’s princess books, not gazing shyly up at me in my boss’s library with desire in her eyes.
My life is no fairytale. These things don’t happen to me, and it was downright disorienting when it became apparent I wasn’t the only one experiencing this attraction, try as I might to deny it. No matter which way I thought about it, I simply couldn’t wrap my head around her wanting me .
Josephine.
Even her name makes me throb.
I’m not the sort of man who pursues younger women, or any women at all. God knows I’m not in a place where I could even think of dating.
Her being attracted to me is more than I could possibly have hoped for and I barely recognize myself as we slip out the back door, my hand pressed firmly to the small of her back. This is the sort of thing that happens to other men. Not me. Not now, certainly, when I can hardly remember the last time I had sex.
Has it been three years? Four? Merde ? * , I think it may be closer to five.
Is it wrong to hope she’ll fuck me? Because I really, really hope she’ll fuck me. Just the thought of it is almost too much, and I have to drag my attention onto something else so I don’t do something ill advised—like pin her to the side of my boss’s home and make her come on my fingers.
I don’t take it for granted that her leaving with me like this is an act of trust, and I’m determined to ensure she doesn’t regret it.
My mouth is dry as we round the far corner of the house, making sure to give the door a wide birth as we head toward the street. People are still arriving, and cars are parked up and down the street. Across the road, the University campus is sparsely lit, though I can still make out the roofline of Montgomery Library rising above nearly every building in it’s vicinity.
“Will you let me buy you dinner?” I ask Josephine quietly, not removing my hand from her back. “One that isn’t composed of finger sandwiches or puffs with unpronounceable ingredients?”
“What do you have against charcuterie?” she teases, and there’s a breathy quality to her voice that suggests I’m not the only one reeling from this turn of events.
The sound of her heels clicking on the sidewalk seems to be in time with my heartbeat as I turn us toward my car. Thankfully, I took the booster seat out for the babysitter and used the opportunity to clean out the mounds of calcified fish-shaped crackers I discovered beneath it.
For once in my goddamn life, the stars seem to be aligning in my favor.
“I’ll admit, my ancestors would turn over in their graves if they saw what I consume on a daily basis. It’s embarrassing. I have no taste at all.”
Josephine giggles as we stop beside my car and I hurry to find the correct button to unlock it, as though the split second’s pause will cause her to rethink leaving with me. Her lips curve in a pleased little smile as I open the door for her and step back, watching as she moves gracefully into the darkened interior.
The heavy thud of the car door closing makes my pulse leap, and as I walk around the front to the driver’s side, conscious of her eyes on me, I still can’t quite believe this is happening. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen is sitting in my car, waiting for me to take her… As my hand finds the door handle, I falter.
Where the hell am I going to take her?
It’s 8 P.M. on Saturday in a college town. The only places open are bars and the twenty-four-hour diner which is notoriously lax with food safety, and mostly patronized by drunk students. Neither of those options are going to impress Josephine, and food poisoning is not how I want this night to end.
“So, I might not have thought this through entirely,” I admit as I sit down behind the wheel, peering at Josephine through the dim light. “Any ideas on where one can get dinner this late?”
Her eyes widen in alarm. “Oh…”
I wince. “Yeah.”
She lifts a shoulder sheepishly, and my eyes are drawn instantly to the slope of her collar bone. I clear my throat, struggling to keep a clear head when we’re suddenly alone in a small, confined space. “Would you think me terribly cheap if I suggested the grocery store? They have pre-made dinners I believe.”
I believe. Hah. As if I don’t eat meals from the prepared food section at the local market almost every night. Try as I might, my daughter’s food preferences don’t extend far beyond chicken nuggets, white bread and the occasional butter noodles if she’s feeling generous. I’m a decent cook, but a dinner for one is too grim, even for me.
“Not at all!” Josephine says hurriedly, offering a bright smile to show she means it. “That’s totally fine.”
Okay, then.
This is happening.
The cards are so stacked against me here, it’s fairly preposterous. If it were one of my friends describing this situation to me, I’d advise them to turn tail and run with some self-respect intact. I can’t do it, though, and not just because fucking her would be the highlight of my decade.
I like her. Already, I can tell she’s sweet and funny and clever. If my life weren’t… well, my life, Josephine is exactly the sort of woman I would pursue.
The unpleasant truth is that I have nothing to offer her beyond tonight. I cannot imagine a universe where a beautiful young woman would sign up for more with a single father librarian who hasn’t gone to the gym in a year and a half, has enough emotional baggage to fill the luggage claim at JFK and whose career is hanging by a thread.
For god’s sake, if I don’t like my life, I have no business dragging anyone else into it.
“So what department are you in?” Josephine asks, breaking through my self-pitying internal monologue as I pull out onto the street, leaving President Sutton’s party behind us.
I clear my throat. “I’m staff, actually. I run Montgomery.”
“You run the library?” Her voice drops in disbelief. “Seriously? That’s the coolest job ever.”
Fiddling with the thermostat for something to do other than preen at her approval, I keep my gaze on the dark street before us. “And you? What’s your department?”
“Physics, concentrating on theoretical if you want to get specific.” There isn’t enthusiasm in her tone, and when I hazard a glance over at her, Josephine looks a little embarrassed. “I’m probably going to be taking some time off.”
Theoretical physics? Shit. I should have guessed it would be something like that. There’s something quietly intelligent about her, as if she’s spent a good amount of time figuring out how to cover it up so as not to make people uncomfortable.
I wish she wouldn’t. There’s nothing I’d like more than to be wildly intimidated by this woman .
Turning into the brightly lit parking lot of the grocery store, I park as close as I can to the building out of concern for her feet in those shoes. Turning the keys in the ignition, the car falls silent, and we look at each other from our respective seats.
My heart flips. “If it makes you feel better. I have my dream job, and I still have to talk myself into the building most days.”
Her lips twitch. “Want to trade places?”
“The physics department would not be pleased to have me,” I inform her with a wry smile. “My last math class was a requirement for my undergraduate degree and I squeaked by with a C.”
“ Oof .” She giggles, her eyes sparkling in the light of the neon supermarket sign.
I know it’s not the moment but still, the urge to kiss her is almost overpowering.
What would she taste like?
Would she moan?
Are her lips as soft as they look?
“So. Grocery store,” I say to distract myself and gesture to the brick fronted building before us. “Would you like me to go in? Those shoes don’t look comfortable.”
Josephine waves me off, already unbuckling her seatbelt. “I’m fine.”
She’s not fine—that much is clear by the time we get through the sliding doors. I can hardly stop her, but I stay close as we move through the familiar produce section toward the more familiar prepared food stations.
It’s strange being here this late. Normally, I come midafternoon and try to get in and out as quickly as I can before Zoe gets overstimulated. I certainly don’t wear a vest, crisp white shirt and slacks, or have a beautiful woman at my side .
“So, what are we having?” Josephine asks mildly when we stop before a display of soggy fried chicken.
“Not this.” I poke at the cover on a rotisserie which appears to have melted into the bottom of its container. This might be a pretty feeble attempt at a date, but surely I can do better than that.
Beside me, Josephine bends to adjust the back strap of her heel, and I wince at the sight of the angry red line left there.
Without pausing to consider how bizarre a thing this is for me to do, I step in front of her and crouch down, looking back over my shoulder at her, I frown expectantly. “Get on.”
Josephine lets out a startled laugh. “Seriously? I’m heavy!”
I scoff. “If you’re actually heavy, I’ll dump you on the floor in the freezer section. Get on.”
She has the cutest trying not to smile face. Warm hands find my shoulders and I wrap my hands around the back of her knees. My pulse leaps at the feeling of soft, delicate skin, and the warm weight of Josephine’s body pressed against my back as I straighten up.
Merde ? * .
I didn’t think this through, but then again, none of tonight has been thought through so why start now? Maybe I’m reacting to the stress of my work situation, or maybe her effect on me is really this great, but the result is the same, regardless. I’ve never felt so outside my own head in the company of a new person, so unworried I’m being a bore, or that something, somewhere is going wrong.
Tonight, I’m doing what I want. It’s thrilling, and as I begin to move again, Josephine’s not heavy weight on my back, I feel damn near invincible.
An elderly woman pushes her cart past us, scowling straight ahead, and Josephine has to stifle her giggles against my shoulder. Adjusting my grip on her legs, I move toward the nearest cooler. “Do you like sushi?” At this time of night, there’s a lackluster selection, and even I wouldn’t consume what remains. Without waiting for her decision, I move on.
“Maybe I like graying supermarket mystery-fish sushi.” Her breath tickles my ear, and I hear it hitch when I give the back of her knees a little squeeze.
I feel myself grin as I stop dead in the middle of the aisle. “I can get it for you, if you’d like. It’s not too late.”
Her arms tighten around me. “Oh no, we’ve already come this far. We should leave it.”
“Are you sure?” I begin to turn back, but the arms around me squeeze tighter.
“I don’t know what I was thinking with that one.” Josephine giggles. “Such an easy way to lose a game of chicken.”
As we move forward again, I frown, wracking my mind for an American game called chicken and coming up blank. I’ve lived in the United States since college, nearly twenty years now. The occasions where I’ve felt out of my depth or unsure about some cultural or linguistic subtlety have grown less frequent as time passed. Still, it happens, and I find myself a bit embarrassed as we near a display of pre-made salads and sandwiches. “What is that game? Chicken?” I ask the woman clinging to my back.
“Oh!” She sounds surprised. “It’s not an actual game. Or, I guess it is. Anyway, it’s basically like calling someone’s bluff, seeing how far you can push a situation before they admit defeat.”
I lean down to get a better look at the selection of goods in the cooler, my heart stalls as lips brush against my neck. My hands slip an inch higher on her thighs.
Chicken, indeed .
“That?” I point to a sandwich sampler at random, too busy reeling at the feeling of her soft, bare skin in my hands to think about anything else.
Josephine nods, her warm cheek brushing my jaw. “Looks probably edible.”
“Unfortunately, home-cooked meals aren’t something I come by often, so I’m quite familiar with the selection. Probably edible is the best we’re going to manage.” I sigh, keeping my voice low so the kid behind the counter doesn’t hear us.
I lean forward and Josephine reaches over my shoulder to grab it. The few other customers stare at us as we pass them on our way to the front, and we make a scene trying to coordinate use of the self-checkout. By the time we make it outside, mediocre dinner secure, Josephine is stifling her laughter in my neck and I can’t stop smiling.
Her body is pressed snugly against mine, and we seem to be far more comfortable touching each other than two near-strangers ought to be. As we cross the dark parking lot, something sharp and panicky lodges in my chest.
I don’t want to take my hands off her. What if this is it? What if we eat, I drop her at home, and then we never see each other again? A reckless daring is expanding inside me with each step closer to the car.
What would happen if I kissed her? Should I wait for her to make the first move? It’s been years since I had to think about these things, and now the most beautiful woman I’ve ever encountered is within reach and I have no idea how to reach out and take her.
Though, admittedly, I have no shortage of ideas on what I would do to her if I managed it.
Experimentally, I drag my thumb over the skin just above her knee. The quiet gasp she makes in response goes right to my cock.
My heart is pounding when we stop beside the car and I crouch down, allowing her safely back onto the ground. Immediately, I miss having my hands on her.
“Thank you for saving me from blisters,” Josephine tells me shyly, tucking her curls behind her ears when I turn to face her.
My mouth is dry. We’re standing less than three feet apart. Why is this so difficult? Her signals suggest that my advances wouldn’t be poorly received, yet still, I don’t move. “Promise me you’ll throw those shoes away when you get home,” I joke weakly.
She nods. “Probably a good idea.”
Silence falls between us. This is the part where we should be getting back in our respective seats to eat the dinner I promised her, and yet we aren’t moving.
Is she wondering whether I want her? Is she hoping I’ll touch her?
The possibility of her feeling unwanted is what does it. If one night is all we’ll have, I know I would never forgive myself if I allowed nerves and feelings of inadequacy to stand in our way
To hell with it.
* ? Shit
* ? Shit