Chapter 2 #2
I mean . . . it was a man . . . a man with giant arms holding a box.
A heavy box. A heavy box that made his biceps press against his skin in ways that made my pants tight.
I couldn’t see the guy behind the box, but he looked tall, broad-shouldered, and his arms .
. . God . . . his arms bulged as he shifted the box in his grip.
Then he peered around the box.
The first thing I saw was unruly blond hair, like a surfer who’d just come in from the ocean, his hair having dried on the way but without the help of a comb or brush.
Then he blinked, eyes the color of the Mediterranean widened in recognition, and he smiled.
Right at me.
“Wow. Hi. You’re Noodle Dad, aren’t you?” he said in a voice that was deep and smooth and did devastating things to my already fragile composure.
“Noodle Dad?” I stammered.
His grin widened as his head bobbed. “You know, with the little girl and the, um, very aggressive pasta stirrer?”
My brain cells smashed together, and I remembered an even more horrifically embarrassing moment than any induced by Jessica.
“Oh, yes, that would be me. Noodle Dad.”
Why had I just surrendered to that nickname? Fuck my life.
“It’s been a few weeks. I’m Jeremiah. You can call me Jer. That’s what my friends call me. You know, short for Jeremiah.”
My brows bunched. Was he making fun of me, or was he . . . seriously explaining how nicknames worked?
“Uh, okay. Hi, Jer.”
His smile somehow widened further. My cheeks ached for him.
“Anyway, I’ve got a delivery for the library. This is the library, right? Not the . . . uh . . . the book gymnasium?”
I blinked. “The . . . what?”
“You know, where they keep all the books for exercising your brain?” He looked genuinely confused by his own words. “Wait, that doesn’t sound right. The intellectual fitness center?”
Oh my God, is he trying to be clever? It’s kind of adorable.
“This is definitely the library,” I managed.
“Oh, good!” His face lit up with relief. “Because this box is getting really . . . um . . . burdensome. That’s a big word you use in a place like this, right? Burdensome?”
Am I watching an overly muscled golden retriever perform a trick?
“It’s . . . yes, that is a word.”
He beamed like I’d just given him a gold star. “Great! I’ve been trying to use more . . . what do you call them . . . sesquipedalian words?”
Wait. Did he just use ‘sesquipedalian’ correctly? That’s . . . actually impressive.
“That’s . . .” I swallowed hard, trying not to focus on how his chest strained against his shirt as he adjusted the box. “That’s very . . . ambitious of you.”
“Thanks! I’m trying to be more eruditious. Wait, is that right?” He frowned slightly. “Erudite? No, that’s not fancy enough. Eruditionary?”
“Erudite is perfect,” I squeaked, jumping up from my chair so fast that I knocked over my coffee mug.
The coffee spread across my desk in a growing puddle, and I grabbed a handful of napkins, frantically trying to dab it up while stealing glances at the delivery god who was currently witnessing my breakdown.
“It’s . . . very scholarly of you . . . I’m not usually .
. . I don’t normally . . . this isn’t how I . . .”
“Oh no, did I cause some kind of . . . cerebral disturbance?” He looked genuinely concerned. “That’s when your brain gets all mixed up, right? I learned that from a medical show.”
I looked up at him, this beautiful, seemingly sweet, apparently clueless man who thought ‘cerebral disturbance’ was a real medical term, and felt my heart do something that was definitely not medically advisable.
“You have very nice . . . arms . . . I mean chest . . . damn it, eyes. You have nice eyes,” tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop it. “For carrying. Boxes. And other heavy things. Probably. I imagine you carry a lot of things. Heavy things . . . with your arms . . . not your eyes.”
Oh God, I’m babbling. Kill me. Please. One bullet. Let this be done.
He chuckled, a low rumble that somehow reached across the counter and gripped me. “Thanks! I work out a lot. Gotta stay in good physical conditionality.”
“Conditionality,” I repeated weakly.
“Yeah, you know, the state of being in condition? I made that up. Pretty smart, huh? I could be an author, you know.”
For the love of Walt Whitman . . .
“Very smart,” I lied, because his arms were definitely affecting my ability to think rationally.
“So where . . . where would you like this package?”
The what? Oh, package. The box he was holding, not his—
“Right over there, behind the reference section.”
He turned and headed toward where I’d pointed. I followed, mostly because my legs seemed to have developed a mind of their own. Also, because watching him walk was doing things to my blood pressure that I found most enjoyable.
“So what’s in the box?” he asked.
“Definitely not kitchen equipment,” I said, my brain immediately bitch-slapping my mouth for insubordination.
“Books,” I clarified. “We get new ones every week.”
We reached the processing area, and he set the box down with a soft grunt, then he straightened up and looked around with the expression of someone who’d just accomplished something monumentally important.
“I bet you’re like the smartest person in the whole school, surrounded by all these books every day. Do you just absorb it all?”
I was fairly certain he was teasing. It made my nerves relax a touch and a smile curl my lips.
“I don’t think it works that way, but I do all right.”
He leaned against the box, and his shirt pulled taut. I tried not to swoon.
Then he blurted, “You’re super cute.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but at that moment, I caught sight of books that had somehow scattered across the floor during our conversation. Had I knocked them over when I jumped up earlier? When had that happened? How had I not even noticed?
“Oh shit,” I muttered, looking at the pile of books in horror. “I need to . . . these need to be . . .”
“Hey, don’t worry about it,” he said, immediately dropping to his knees to start gathering them up. “I’ll help.”
I kneeled down beside him, trying to sort the books back into their proper categories as we gathered them into a pile, but he reached for the same book I had just grabbed, and his shoulder brushed against mine.
Oh God, oh God, he’s so warm and solid, and he smells like . . . like soap and something masculine, and I can’t think straight. This is bad. This is very bad. I don’t get flustered like this. I don’t . . . I don’t lose my shit over a freakin’ shoulder!
He didn’t seem to notice—just kept gathering books with the focused determination of someone completing an important mission; but I was frozen in place, hyperaware of his presence, his warmth, the scent of his cologne.
“There!” he said finally, standing up with an armload of books. “All done.”
I scrambled to my feet, my shoulder still tingling from where he’d touched me.
“Thank you,” I managed. “That was very . . . chivalrous.”
He beamed again. “Chivalrous. I like that. Dress me in armor and call me your knight.”
For the hundredth time that morning, I nearly died. I’d never had a knight, much less a man who looked like he just abandoned King Arthur’s table to help me gather wayward tomes.
“Well,” he said, straightening to his full height. “I have a full route to run. It was good seeing you again. I like your little world. It’s quiet and, um, smart.”
A chuckle flew out. I couldn’t help it. It just slipped.
His face crunched up, and for a moment, I thought I might’ve hurt some tender feelings.
“I like seeing you again, too,” I said, tossing my puppy a bone.
He caught it with a brilliant smile and pearly teeth . . . and my heart evaporated.