Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WILLA
Whoever decided library chairs should be made of wood clearly had a vendetta against bookworms. These things were about as comfortable as sitting on a pile of rocks, and my back had been screaming as much after only ten minutes.
Wincing, I shifted and glanced down at the grant paperwork spread across the table.
This was taking far longer than I’d anticipated.
It didn’t help that the Wi-Fi stuttered along at the speed of molasses, my laptop fan wheezed like a dying cow, and every time I tried to focus, all I saw was Lincoln Steele’s mouth.
Not the mouth that cracked jokes across the bar or the mouth that had been teasing and taunting me for decades. No. Instead, I saw the mouth that had kissed me last night like it had a lifetime of catching up to do.
Practice. It was supposed to be practice.
But somehow, my body hadn’t gotten that message. Worse, it had leaned into him like a greedy, reckless idiot. And look where that had gotten me—in the library, inching up on hour two, with not much to show for my time here except explicit fantasies about my fake husband’s tongue.
“Get it together, Willa,” I muttered, shifting in my seat and trying to alleviate some of the nerve pain running down my legs.
Since my once-quiet house was now also the home of the loudest man in existence who could scream without saying a word, I’d figured the library was the best escape. The peace, the quiet hum of turning pages and shifting papers, the order of it all, should’ve grounded me.
But the silence only pressed in until all I could hear was my own heartbeat and recall exactly how easily Lincoln had made it race with a simple kiss.
True, it was a kiss that had been better than even the best sex of my life, but still. It was just a kiss.
I huffed out a breath and rolled my eyes. I should’ve known just a kiss with Lincoln would’ve been the beginning of the end for my sanity.
Shaking off the memory, I shuffled through the papers spread out around me until a small paperback slid across the table toward me. Plowed by His Seeder, its cover featuring a well-built shirtless man wearing muddy jeans that accentuated his very large, um, seeder.
Brows raised, I glanced up to find Penelope shifting on her feet.
Her pale pink cardigan was buttoned all the way up, her matching glasses perfectly in place.
From the outside, she looked like your average prim, proper librarian.
But I’d officially met her in front of a display of ten-inch tentacle dildos at Wicked Little Things, and she’d just dropped a book so filthy, I didn’t think the library even carried that level of smut.
“Good morning to you too, Pen. New favorite?” I asked, tipping my head toward the book.
She cleared her throat and ran a hand down her skirt. “Lots of, um…readers seem to like this one. Thought it might help you relax at the end of the day. You look like you could use a bit of that.”
I huffed out a laugh and leaned back, wincing when fire shot down my leg. “That obvious?”
“Maybe not to most people.” She lifted a single shoulder in a shrug and smiled softly. “But I’m observant.”
Of course she was. The woman noticed everything—observation was practically her kink.
I flipped the book over and scanned the back, my brows lifting as several words stood out—fertile, harvest, and massive seeder, to name a few. “Thanks for this. Sounds like it’ll pair nicely with a huge tentacle peen.”
A soft squeak came from Penelope, and crimson stained her cheeks. “Oh, um…maybe.”
“Sorry, I have no filter. I know it’s a lot different to talk about alien dicks when we’re seated in front of a display at Wicked Little Things than it is chatting while you’re at work.”
“No, it’s okay.” Though the increased reddening of her cheeks, ears, and chest indicated it very much wasn’t. “But I should get back to it. I’ll see you later.”
“Sure. And, Pen? Thanks for this,” I said, holding up the book.
She gave me a subtle nod before scurrying off to the checkout counter. I opened the book and flipped through it, my brows lifting the more pages I scanned.
This wasn’t just any library book. This was a fully annotated Penelope original, complete with color-coded tabs and a heart-shaped sticky note marking one of the hottest scenes I’d ever read.
Well, damn. Apparently those buttoned-up cardigans and innocent blush were hiding something a little bit naughty under the surface.
I tucked the book into my bag because I was definitely going to be rereading that scene later. Just to really give it the time it deserved. For academic purposes, obviously.
Blowing out a deep sigh, I nudged my laptop back into place and tried to refocus.
The form in front of me stared back with silent judgment.
I glared at the line labeled Family Details and swallowed hard.
Shockingly, there wasn’t a checkbox for fake husband, real tension, zero clue what the fuck I’m doing.
This grant wasn’t only about saving the farm. It was about proving—to myself, to my brother, to my fake husband—that I could do this. That I was still the version of me who could carry every burden without flinching.
Except sitting here, my back screaming, my brain fried, and my skin still tingling from Lincoln’s touch, I felt less like a rock and more like a cracked pane of glass, one wrong move away from completely shattering.
“Fuel delivery,” a warm voice interrupted my spiral.
I glanced up to find Holly standing next to me, a paper bag in one hand and a coffee cup in the other.
“You’ve been buried back here so long, I thought you could use a little something,” she said, placing the items on the table with a smile.
I scanned the writing on the side of the to-go cup—extra cream, two sugars, dash of cinnamon, exactly how I liked it—and peeked inside the bag to find a blueberry Danish.
My favorite, from the bakery I limited myself to once a month because if I didn’t, I’d replace my entire food supply with flaky pastries.
Suddenly, my throat felt too thick and my chest felt too tight and I didn’t know where to put all this emotion. Which only felt stupid because what the hell was I getting all worked up about? It was coffee and a pastry, not a million dollars.
But it was my coffee and my pastry, and it was coming from someone who so easily exuded motherly comfort to someone who wasn’t even hers.
And considering my mom’s version of comfort was calling me a couple times a year from her perch in Florida to bitch about her latest woes, this was altogether new for me. And completely unexpected.
After clearing my throat several times, I murmured, “Thank you. You didn’t have to do this.”
Holly waved away my words. “I wanted to. And all it took was a quick text to your husband to find out your favorites.”
My fake husband… I’d been shocked to learn he knew my coffee order, but this? He also apparently knew which bakery was my favorite and the Danish I couldn’t get enough of?
When the hell had that happened, and why did it make me feel all warm and melty inside?
“Besides, I’m just so happy you’re family now.” She squeezed my shoulder, her sincerity bleeding through. “You and your brother have always felt like you were, but this just cements it as fact.”
Her words and the love shining in her eyes hit harder than I was prepared for. Guilt settled on my shoulders, heavy and unrelenting.
Because I wasn’t actually family.
This whole thing was all a ruse. Nothing more than a lie. And I hadn’t taken into consideration just how many others would be affected by our little farce.
Before I could spiral down the path of Nothing Good This Way Lane, Holly straightened and smiled at someone over my shoulder.
“Hi, honey!”
I glanced over to find Declan headed our way, looking pissed off at the world for existing. Tattoos ran up both of his arms, disappearing beneath the black T-shirt wrapped tightly around his biceps, and his scowl screamed Don’t talk to me. Don’t even look at me.
Holly obviously wasn’t deterred because she gave him a quick hug, and my brows flew up when he bent to press a kiss against her cheek. Apparently Declan Steele had a soft side for his mom. That wasn’t exactly how I remembered him in high school. Then again, neither was Lincoln.
The fact that the Steele brothers all seemed to have different sides than I recalled was kind of dangerous, actually.
“Hey,” he said. “Came by to grab your car keys.”
“I don’t really think all this is necessary,” Holly said, waving a hand through the air. “It’s only making that screechy-grinding noise once in a while.”
Declan pinned her with a stare that would’ve had most people wetting themselves, but not his mother. “Once is too often for anything you describe as ‘screechy-grinding,’ Mom. Once in a while is way too fucking often. Hand ’em over.”
Holly blew out an aggrieved sigh and glanced around, her smile brightening when she caught sight of something. “Ah! Penelope? Can you please grab my keys from behind the counter for Declan? I’m just in the middle of helping Willa over here.”
That was news to me, but I wasn’t about to interrupt to contradict her. Not when Penelope’s whole body jolted and Declan stiffened like he was headed to face a firing squad.
“Um, sure…” Penelope fumbled a stack of books onto the cart as she glanced at Declan, her brows furrowing all while crimson stained her cheeks. Then she spun on her heel and headed to the checkout counter, not waiting for Declan to follow.
But, to my surprise, he did.
Strode straight toward her, his gait all confident swagger and don’t fuck with me vibes.
They didn’t say a single word to each other—barely even looked at each other—but the tension between them was thick enough to bottle.
Even after Declan strolled out the way he’d come, that tension didn’t wane.
Just hung in the air like it was waiting for ignition.
“Okay…what was that?” I asked, brows raised as I stared at Penelope.