Chapter 14 Penny
14
PENNY
Unknown Number: I can’t stop thinking about you
Penny: Thanks… but who is this?
Unknown Number: Mac…
Penny: Ah, yes. I deleted your number
Unknown Number: Fairrr does this mean you’ll add it back?
Penny: Oh no way it’s a privilege to be saved in my phone.
Unknown Number: One day, you’ll save my number again… mark my words.
Penny: We’ll see about that
One of our employees called out sick this morning, which meant one thing—I was on front desk duty.
Not that I minded. It shook up my routine, gave me time to tackle tasks I didn’t get to often, and, best of all, put me in the perfect position to mingle.
Working the circ desk was where I got my start. My very first job was right here, checking books in and out, helping patrons find their way, and shelving returns when things were slow. The library wasn’t just a job to me; it was a calling. A place where stories lived, where knowledge was free, and where anyone could walk in and leave a little richer than when they arrived.
Sure, libraries housed books, but that was just the beginning. We had computers, programs, resources—but beyond the physical, we were a community. Faircloud’s library wasn’t just a building; it was a safe space.
Hell, it had been my safe space, too. Even on my worst days, even when I was drowning in stress, the library was the kind of stress that distracted me from the deeper, heavier things pressing down on me. The things I didn’t want to think about.
And today? I needed that distraction. More than ever.
It had been two days since Mac barged into my apartment and basically put us on lockdown. Like a soldier on a mission, he planted himself in my space and held his ground.
I had to give him credit—sitting at my table, barely speaking, just existing in my orbit for hours. That was dedication. It was a sliver of proof that maybe he really did regret what happened.
If I were being honest with myself, I knew Mac was sorry. My whole attitude after that night had shifted into something else entirely. Something more about proving a point than genuinely believing he didn’t care.
I was still hurt. That wasn’t going to change overnight. But it didn’t mean I couldn’t see how hard he was willing to try.
Before then, I was sure I’d never let him back in. His lack of effort had been abysmal, and I knew my worth. I wasn’t some girl who would sit around waiting for a man to figure out I was worth the work.
But clearly, Mac had gotten sick of waiting for me to come back around.
He wasn’t used to having to chase—he was always the one being chased. Women practically threw themselves at him, mesmerized by that cocky smirk and those unfairly good looks. One flash of that dimpled grin and poof—panties vanished like a damn magic trick.
That was where Mac and I had always been alike. We were both the ones people wanted.
Our relationship had been a game for us—push, pull, tease, retreat—until one of us would run out of energy to keep playing and either left or wanted something serious.
Unfortunately, we hadn’t gotten to that point.
But now? Oh, Mac was in for it.
I wasn’t about to make this easy on him.
Did I forgive him? Not entirely.
Was I going to drag this out, have a little fun while he worked to win me back?
Oh, hell yeah.
I smiled to myself as I crouched down, reaching for the books stacked at the bottom of the rolling cart. My fingers brushed over the worn spines, my mind still lingering on Mac. I was eager—maybe too eager—to see what he’d come up with next.
Then, a throat cleared behind me.
The sound wasn’t just a polite little cough. No, it was the kind that demanded attention.
I shot up quickly, books clutched to my chest, my dress billowing around my legs as I spun to greet whoever was waiting.
“Hi! How can I help—”
My words died in my throat.
Mac.
The same Mac who had been haunting my thoughts, standing right in front of the desk like he belonged there.
He was dressed in all black—a fitted tee to show off those tattooed arms, each one a patchwork of mismatched ink that I knew far too well.
My gaze dipped, memories rushing back of tracing those very designs with my fingertips, lying beside him in the dark, whispering about each of their meanings.
Spoiler alert: none of them meant a damn thing. Just random choices, impulsive decisions, and things he thought looked cool at the time.
I inhaled sharply. Get a grip, Penny.
“You,” I finished my sentence, forcing a bright, pleasant smile as I shifted my weight, popping a hip and tilting my head for effect.
Mac responded with that damn grin, the one that made my knees threaten to give out. And now, with the addition of the mustache he’d grown?
I was in trouble.
Deep, deep trouble.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was still trying to play it cool, trying not to let my thoughts spiral into places they had no business going.
“Well, hello there, Penelope,” he said smoothly, setting a stack of books on the counter.
Penelope.
At the start of our relationship, Mac and I had been flipping through an old yearbook, laughing over bad haircuts and cringeworthy memories.
He saw my full name underneath a shockingly good middle school picture and had decided, right then and there, that he loved it.
Since then, I was either Pen, Penelope, or—on his most charming days—Trouble.
That one was my favorite.
“I’m checking out some books,” Mac said casually, drumming his fingers on the top of the pile.
I tilted my head, scanning the titles.
Then I froze.
There sat a rather large stack of romance.
Not just any romance books—my favorites. Everything from The Notebook to the newer releases that were on my need-to-reread list.
I lifted my gaze, skepticism all over my face.
“What exactly are you doing with these?”
“It’s fine literature,” he replied, widening his stance and crossing his arms like he was taking up as much space as he could. Not that he had to because his presence was already all-consuming enough.
“Yes, I know that,” I shot back. “But why are you suddenly so eager to expose yourself to such fine literature?”
Mac bit down on his bottom lip—his tell. A sign that he was scheming something.
Then, he leaned down, resting his elbows on the counter, putting him just below my eye level. His gaze lifted, dark and hooded, as his voice dropped into a low, gravelly register.
“Now, what would be the fun in telling you all my secrets?” he murmured. “Don’t you like a little mystery?”
I scoffed, shaking my head—but I couldn’t stop the smirk that curved my lips.
This was him. The Mac I knew. The unapologetic flirt who had never met a challenge he couldn’t charm his way out of.
So, being me, I leaned down, too, closing the space between us.
Our lips hovered close.
The warmth of his breath brushed against my skin, a slow exhale that sent heat skimming down my spine.
Mac’s hand lay flat on the desk, his fingers twitching slightly.
I let mine drift forward, tracing the tattooed ink on the back of his hand with just the tip of my finger. Deliberate. Slow.
His breath hitched.
“I get my ideas from romance novels, too,” I whispered, my voice sweet and laced with something wicked. “That’s where I learned the thing with my tongue you liked oh so much… the one that had you begging me to do it again.”
I batted my lashes once. Then, before he could respond, I stood to my full height, stepping back just enough to regain the upper hand.
Mac straightened too, shaking his head slightly, his mouth ticking up at the corner.
“Well,” he replied, nodding toward the books. “Let’s hope you’ll allow yourself to benefit from all this research.”
Mac reached into his back pocket and took out his wallet. His fingers shifted through its contents and pulled out a white, plastic card, which he laid down on the top of his stack.
My gaze was locked on it and the picture in the top corner. I took that photo of him when he came to visit me at work. Somehow, I convinced him to get a library card, though he never used it… until now.
Clearing my throat with a nonchalant nod, I acted as unbothered as I possibly could and started scanning each book.
But I felt his eyes on me, which made keeping my composure that much harder.
His stare was unwavering. Intense.
By the time I ripped the receipt from the machine, my skin was warm and prickling like a live wire.
“Here,” I said, sticking the slip inside the top book. “Return date is on the receipt. You’re free to go.”
Mac took the books into his arms, lingering just a second too long before flashing me a slow, knowing grin.
“You look devastating today, Penelope.”
“Thanks,” I said as my voice cracked a little on the last syllable. I could kick myself for letting his effects show even in the smallest ways.
With a wink and one last shameless glance down my frame, he spun on his heel and strolled out the door.
I watched him through the glass, my pulse still unsteady as he strode toward his truck, tossing the books into the passenger seat before rounding the front and slipping behind the wheel.
The second he was gone, I let out the breath I’d been holding—then bit my lip to keep from smiling.
Because, damn it, things were already feeling charged and we were just getting started.