Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
PENELOPE
Some girls watched Beauty and the Beast while growing up and dreamed of marrying their prince. I watched it and dreamed of having my own two-story library, complete with a rolling ladder.
Still did, to be honest.
Libraries were my favorite kind of magic. A portal to everywhere all at once? A place where a thousand adventures waited at my fingertips? Where everything was orderly and predictable?
Heaven, basically.
To me, books had always made more sense than people did. I found comfort in worn pages and cracked spines. Stories didn’t lie or abandon or betray. And when the world felt too loud or overwhelming or impossible to control, I could fall into a book and escape.
Except lately, even books hadn’t felt safe.
Yesterday, my laptop had glared at me until well past midnight, cursor blinking at the blank page of chapter one like it was daring me to admit I had no idea what the hell I was doing.
Three books in and I still felt like an impostor.
Like someone was waiting around the corner to tap me on the shoulder and politely inform me there’d been a mistake.
That I had no business writing what I did, and just who did I think I was?
Fortunately, I’d learned to compartmentalize. The blinking cursor and looming blank page stayed at home along with my impostor syndrome.
At least here, on the rainbow rug in the children’s corner while holding court over a gaggle of hyper preschoolers and their very tired parents, I knew exactly what came next.
“Book buddies,” I said, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Are we ready to meet a new book friend?”
A chorus of hushed squeals and bouncing bodies rippled through the circle of children in front of me.
Glitter, cracker crumbs, and chaotic energy clung to the kids, each of them inching forward like they might physically climb inside the book if I let them.
Excitement bubbled through the space, and the little boy to my left raised his hand so aggressively he nearly toppled over.
“Yes, Mateo?”
“Is this book friend a firefighter?” he asked, puffing out his chest and pointing at the fire badge sticker on his shirt.
I smiled. “Not this one. But if you stick around after story time, I can help you find a new firefighter friend, okay?”
With a grin and an emphatic nod, he sat back on his heels, ready for me to dive into the book.
I opened Bear Snores On and launched into the story, changing my voice for each character and adding dramatic sound effects. The kids’ attention was rapt as I read, their giggles and shrieks of laughter my favorite sounds of the day.
Story time always felt like this—warm, frenzied, and somehow grounding all at once.
The kids sprawled out on the rug, their parents leaning against the walls or perched on chairs, the quiet hum of connection filling the space…
This was the kind of noise I liked—laughter, curiosity, and the soft rustle of turning pages.
When I closed the book, applause broke out from the kids—more enthusiastic than coordinated. All the children had been coming to my story time long enough that they knew the drill and lined up to go fishing for a surprise sticker in my cardigan pocket.
The ritual to end story time had become so popular, I’d started filling my pockets with stickers even when I wasn’t working. After witnessing sad eyes and a heartbreaking pout the one time I’d been unprepared, I vowed to never again run into a child at Mahone’s Market and be without one.
Laughter and chatter bubbled up as the kids crowded in for their stickers, offering quick hugs and breathless goodbyes.
“Same time next week?” I asked as parents gathered their things.
A chorus of yeses answered me, and more than one adult thanked me on their way out, eyes soft with gratitude.
After I’d helped Mateo find a firefighter book friend and the kids’ corner had emptied, I straightened the cushions and carefully stacked the books before heading back to the circulation desk.
I had about fifteen minutes left in my shift, and I planned to spend every one of them basking in the peaceful glow of a lovely day.
Because once I got home, there’d be a blinking cursor waiting for me, and all that peace I’d curated would evaporate like smoke.
Naturally, as I was trying to enjoy my last few minutes of serenity, that was when the front door opened and the sound of unmistakable boots hitting the floor met my ears.
I didn’t need to look up. Those heavy, deliberate steps had become an unfortunate intrusion into my life since my first day at the Starlight Cove Public Library.
I absolutely hated that I’d become so accustomed to the sound, I could recognize it without thought. God knew he was the absolute last thing I needed to be focused on.
But I couldn’t seem to stop, no matter how badly I wanted to.
Without a word, Declan Steele strolled in and approached the desk the same as he always did—like he had every right to suck up all the oxygen in the room. To exist in silence and let the void do all the talking for him.
Three books landed on the counter in front of me. No greeting. No acknowledgment. Just thud-thud-thud.
Without sparing him a glance, I adjusted my glasses and scanned the first book into the computer. Two weeks late. Figured.
The second? Dog-eared.
The third? A smudge of something I refused to speculate on marred the front cover.
I pressed my mouth into a thin line. Inhaled deeply through my nose. Smoothed a hand down my perfectly pressed cardigan like I could so easily order the mess that was Declan Steele. None of it worked.
Neither did lifting my gaze to him, but I never could seem to help myself.
He stood on the other side of the desk, looking the same as always.
Dark hair, darker scowl, those interwoven black tattoos starting on both hands and traveling up his thick, sculpted forearms before disappearing beneath the short sleeves of his T-shirt.
His jaw was sharp, his body hard. The only softness to this man was the pale blue of his eyes and those full lips nestled in a short, cropped beard.
Not that I was paying attention to any of those things.
“This is overdue,” I said in a clipped tone, refocusing on his books.
“Yeah.” His voice was pure gravel, and I could almost hear the shrug in that single syllable. Like he was indifferent to that fact. To the rules everyone else was expected to follow but he flicked away like gnats.
I held up the copy of The Housemaid, recalling the woman who’d been by several times looking for it. “Someone’s been waiting on this for over a week.”
“Then I guess it’s their lucky day.”
I snapped my mouth shut, trying not to grind my molars together. Not because of the late book. Okay, partly because of that. But mostly because Declan somehow made his complete disregard sound generous. Like returning a book two entire weeks late was a public service.
Silently, I took out my frustration on the mouse, clicking through the return screen with more force than necessary and adding his fines to the tab he paid at the end of every month. Then I pushed the scanned books to the side, ready to be done with this encounter. And him.
“Well, if that’s everything…”
“It’s not.”
“What do you need now?” I asked, having reached my Declan quota for the day. Give me an hour with two dozen wriggling toddlers over five minutes in this man’s presence.
“That’s a loaded question,” he murmured.
I jerked my gaze to his, only to find him already staring at me.
That, paired with the low, almost sultry way he’d spoken made my cheeks flame—something he definitely noticed, given his smirk.
Though it was there and gone so fast, I might’ve imagined it.
I was definitely imagining the suggestive undertone of his words.
“I’ve got holds.” His voice was even, his expression blank once again.
I blew out a shaky breath and shook my head to clear it. What the hell was going on with me? The sooner I could check out his books, the sooner he’d be out of my hair.
I strode to the hold shelf, all the while pretending I couldn’t feel the heat of his gaze along my back.
After grabbing his holds, I quickly scanned the titles out of habit.
Remarkably Bright Creatures, The Road, and Heavy.
Not exactly what I expected from a man who handed out scowls and taunts like candy.
I set the stack on the counter and scanned them. “Should I go ahead and pencil in your overdue notice now?”
“Schedule the lecture too. I know you live for scolding me.”
I exhaled through my nose, reminding myself that he thrived on reactions, and I was not going to give him one.
“There,” I said, handing over his books. “Unless you’d like me to read them to you, you’re free to go.”
He didn’t move. Just lifted one brow, slow as sin. “Trying to get rid of me, rebel?”
The nickname he’d given me shortly after I’d moved here was nothing but a joke to him. Probably because, in his mind, I was a rule-follower. Just a prim librarian who loved cardigans and order and her quiet, controlled life.
If he only knew what I did after the library closed. But I’d kept the author side of my life secret for too long just to spill it now—and definitely not to someone like him.
“Is it that obvious?”
He didn’t say anything in response. Just stared at me in that disarming way of his—the kind that made me feel both naked and seen. That should’ve been impossible since ninety percent of my skin was covered, thanks to my cardigan and knee-high boots, but Declan had a certain way about him.
A certain way I hated, obviously.
The squeaky wheels of the library’s return cart sounded to my left, and just like that, the tension between Declan and me popped like a balloon.
“Well, if it isn’t two of my favorite people!” Holly—lead librarian, my boss, and mother to the pain in the ass across from me—squeezed my hand once before stepping out from behind the desk.
She enveloped her son in a hug. “Hi, honey.”