Chapter 2
Theo
Istood behind my circulation desk, arms crossed, surveying my domain with the critical eye of a man who’d spent the last hour reorganizing books that were already in perfect order.
Every spine was aligned. Every shelf was dusted.
Every book was exactly where it belonged according to the Dewey Decimal System—a system I respected with religious devotion.
The library was perfect.
Absolutely, flawlessly, irritatingly perfect.
And yet.
Something was wrong. I could feel it.
I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was definitely something amiss in my meticulously ordered sanctuary.
Maybe it was the way the afternoon light hit the fiction section, casting shadows that made the shelves look slightly uneven.
Or perhaps it was the scuff mark on the floor that I’d scrubbed three times but still seemed to mock me from beside the biography section.
I pushed my glasses up my nose and let out a frustrated sigh.
They slipped down again.
This was ridiculous.
The library was pristine.
It was organized to a degree that would make most librarians weep with joy, but my brain—my stupid, anxious, perpetually unsatisfied brain—insisted that chaos lurked just beneath the surface.
I strolled over to the reference section, running my finger along the spines, checking for any books that might have shifted even a millimeter out of place. Every student in the school was in class. No one could’ve moved a thing, and yet . . .
Nothing.
Everything was exactly where it should be.
Of course, it was.
“Get a grip, Theo,” I muttered to myself, adjusting a book that didn’t need adjusting. “It’s a library, not a museum.”
But that was the problem, wasn’t it?
I treated this place like it was my personal museum.
Every book was a precious artifact. Every shelf was a sacred display. The thought of students—teenagers with their grubby hands and complete disregard for sacred pages—descending upon my perfectly ordered world made my left eye twitch.
I glanced at the clock.
There was still twenty minutes left in the period.
Maybe I could reorganize the young adult section—not because it needed it, but because the constant activity helped calm the anxious buzzing in my chest.
I was halfway across the floor when I heard the distinctive click-clack of heels on linoleum.
My blood ran cold.
Those weren’t just any heels.
They were the heels of doom.
The heels that announced the arrival of the most terrifying creature to ever walk the halls of Mount Vernon High School.
Jessica Martinez.
I turned slowly, like a zebra that had just spotted a lioness peering out from the brush, and sure enough, there she was.
Sixteen years old, five feet of pure chaos wrapped in what could generously be called a school-appropriate outfit—if you squinted and ignored the fact that her skirt was definitely shorter than regulation and her top was cut just low enough to make every male teacher in the building break into a cold sweat.
Yes, even the gay ones, though for very different reasons.
She sauntered up to my desk with the confidence of someone who’d never met a rule she couldn’t bend or a teacher she couldn’t fluster.
Her glossy blonde hair was pulled back in a high ponytail that swished with every step, and her lips—good God—her lips were painted a shade of red that should have been illegal on school grounds.
“Mr. Jamison,” she purred, sliding a book across the counter with one perfectly manicured finger. “I need to give you something . . . very, very badly.”
“Uh, Jessica. Hi,” I said, shoving my glasses up my nose again. “I, uh, what . . . do you want to give me?”
This was going south and she’d barely uttered a word. I was doomed. The school board would banish me to a back room where I would never see books or students again. I would wither and die without the kiss of the sun on my cheeks or the feel of—
I looked down at the book. Pride and Prejudice. A classic. Safe. Harmless.
A relieved breath whooshed out.
I looked up at Jessica, whose smile was anything but safe or harmless.
“Of course,” I managed, reaching for the book. “How did you . . . how did you like it?”
Her smile widened, and I immediately regretted asking.
“Oh, I loved it,” she said, leaning forward just enough to make me extremely uncomfortable. “All that romantic tension between Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy. The way he was so brooding and mysterious. So . . . manly.”
She dragged out the word “manly” in a way that made my face burn.
“Yes, well . . .” I cleared my throat, fumbling with the book scanner. “Austen was quite skilled at creating compelling romantic dynamics—”
“You know,” Jessica interrupted, twirling a strand of hair around her finger, “you remind me a lot of Mr. Darcy.”
I nearly dropped the scanner. “I’m sorry, I what?”
“The whole mysterious, intellectual thing you’ve got going on.” She waved a finger up and down as though measuring me for a tuxedo. “Plus, you’ve got that brooding look down pat. It’s very sexy. You know you’re nerdy hot, don’t you?”
“Jessica!” I squeaked, my voice climbing to a register only dogs could hear. “That’s—you can’t—this is highly inappropriate!”
She giggled, sounding somehow innocent and positively diabolical. “I’m just being honest, Mr. J. You’re like, the hottest teacher in school. I mean, except for Coach Ricci. He’s athletic hot, and that’s tough to beat. I bet the two of you could film a shower scene for the ages.”
My face was on fire. Literally on fire. I was about to spontaneously combust right there in the middle of the library.
They’d find nothing but ashes and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.
There was no way a student should ever speak this way to a teacher—or any adult—but my rational brain had lost any semblance of control.
My panicked, frazzled, completely shattered mind was unable to compute her pouty lips and overflowing bosom—and I didn’t even like girl boobies .
. . or woman boobies . . . or boobies of any kind.
“I need to check this in,” I mumbled, scanning the book with shaking hands. “And you need to . . . to go to class or . . . or somewhere that isn’t here.”
Jessica pouted, and somehow even her pooched-out lips were flirtatious. “Are you kicking me out of the library, Mr. J? That seems very un-librarian-like of you. Aren’t you supposed be the man who makes it last all night? Makes me want to stay . . . over and over?”
“I’m not—I wouldn’t—” I took a deep breath and tried to channel my inner authority figure. “I’m simply suggesting that you have more productive ways to spend your free period than . . . whatever this is.”
“This is me appreciating literature,” she said with mock innocence. “And appreciating the man who introduced me to it.”
“Oh, good God. Please . . . just go.”
She leaned even closer, and I caught a whiff of what smelled like expensive perfume mixed with the faint scent of rebellion. “You know, if you ever want to discuss the finer points of romantic literature over coffee . . .”
“No!” I practically shouted, then immediately looked around to make sure no students had witnessed my complete breakdown. “No,” I repeated, quieter but no less panicked. “Absolutely not. Never. Not in a million years. Go terrorize boys your age.”
Jessica’s brow peaked. “I love a challenge.”
She straightened, grabbed another book from the returns bin—Romeo and Juliet, because of course she did—and slid it across the counter.
“I’ll take this one next,” she said sweetly. “I’m very interested in tragic love. You know, the kind where two people are kept apart by circumstances beyond their control, like their stations in life. Sound familiar?”
I stared at her in horror.
She was sixteen.
She was a student.
And she was currently comparing our nonexistent relationship to the most famous doomed romance in literary history.
“It’s about teenagers who die,” I said desperately. “Horribly. Both of them. Very tragic. Very dead. You should read something more . . . age-appropriate.”
“Death doesn’t scare me, Mr. J,” she said, batting her eyelashes. “Neither does tragedy. Sometimes the most beautiful stories are the ones that end in heartbreak.”
I was going to need therapy after this conversation. Lots of therapy.
“Right,” I croaked, scanning the book and sliding it back to her. “Well, enjoy your . . . tragic teenagers.”
“Oh, I will.” She picked up the book and held it against her chest like it was something precious. “Especially since you recommended it.”
“I didn’t recommend—”
The bell rang, cutting off my protest with its shrill, merciful sound.
“See you later, Mr. J,” Jessica called over her shoulder, already sashaying toward the door. “Think about that coffee. I know this adorable little place downtown . . .”
Her voice trailed off as she disappeared into the hallway, leaving me standing behind the circulation desk like a shell-shocked veteran of some particularly brutal literary war.
I slumped back in my chair and buried my face in my hands.
This was my life.
This was what I’d signed up for when I decided to become a school librarian.
Kids who read romantic subtext into everything and sixteen-year-old girls who thought flirting with their teachers was an appropriate extracurricular activity.
I was still contemplating poor life choices when I heard footsteps approaching the desk. Heavy footsteps. Adult footsteps.
Please, I thought desperately, let it be another teacher. Let it be the principal or the custodian or the police coming to arrest me and steal me away. Let it be anyone over the age of eighteen who wasn’t going to proposition me in the middle of my workplace.
I looked up, prepared to greet whoever had come to save me from my Jessica-induced existential crisis.
And promptly forgot how to breathe.
Because standing in front of my desk was a giant box with massive arms.