The Library Garden – Ella Braeme #3
Marcus wasted no time pulling up his findings on the tablet. "The sight lines here are completely blocked," he said, gesturing to an overgrown corner. "And we absolutely need perimeter fencing. The open arcade is too dangerous."
"But that's what makes it magical," Claire protested. "Children need space to explore, to imagine?—"
"To run into the parking lot?" Marcus shook his head. "Not to mention any stranger could walk right in. The children's safety has to come first."
Claire heaved a sigh, her shoulders dropping. "You might have a point there."
Marcus winced. "There's more. I'm afraid the foundation beneath the fountain is compromised. The whole thing needs to be removed."
"Removed?" Claire stared at the condemned fountain, her voice rising. "But that's meant to be the centerpiece. I was going to add mosaic tiles, make it interactive?—"
"It's a liability." Marcus's voice was gentle but firm. "And honestly? It's a 1970s addition that doesn't match the building's Spanish Colonial style. We're better off starting fresh."
"You're stripping away all the magic!" Claire's hands clenched at her sides.
Marcus stepped onto one of the sloping tiles. "These are all at different angles. One wrong step and?—"
As if to prove his point, Claire's heel caught on the uneven edge.
She stumbled backward, the muffin container flying from her hands.
Marcus caught her automatically, one arm wrapping around her waist while the other grabbed for the falling muffins.
For a heartbeat, they stayed frozen—her back pressed against his chest, his breath warm against her hair.
Claire turned in his hold, intending to thank him, to step away, to maintain some semblance of professional distance.
Instead, she found herself staring up into dark eyes that had haunted her midnight thoughts. His hand was still on her waist, burning through the thin fabric of her dress. She should move. She should definitely move.
She kissed him instead.
For one terrible moment, he went completely still.
Then his free hand came up to cradle her face, and he was kissing her back with an intensity that made her knees weak.
He tasted like coffee and possibility, and Claire found herself clutching his shoulders, wanting to climb inside this moment and live there forever.
"Are you going to be my new mommy?"
They jumped apart at Zara's voice. She stood in the arcade doorway, head tilted curiously, Mr. Whiskers dangling from one hand. "When Jose saw his mommy kiss her friend, he got a new daddy." She clutched Mr. Whiskers closer to her chest. "And my mommy is away now, so..."
Claire's face burned. "Zara, sweetheart, it's not?—"
"Time for us to head home," Marcus cut in smoothly, though his voice was slightly hoarse. "Say goodbye to Ms. Claire and Mr. Whiskers."
After they left, Claire sank onto the fountain's edge, pressing cool fingers to her burning lips. What had she done? She'd crossed every professional line, complicated an already delicate project, and worst of all, confused a child who'd already been through so much change.
Her phone buzzed with a text from Marcus: Dinner tomorrow? To discuss the project. 7 p.m. at Luna Verde?
Claire stared at the message, her heart racing. The restaurant was intimate, candlelit—definitely not the kind of place you'd take a business meeting. But he'd said "discuss the project." Maybe he just wanted to let her down gently, explain why they needed to keep things professional. Or maybe...
She pressed her fingers to her lips again, remembering the way he'd held her, like she was something precious and precarious all at once. The way he'd saved both her and the muffins, because of course he had. The engineer in him probably couldn't help catching falling things.
Yes, she typed back before she could overthink it further. Her finger hovered over the send button for a long moment before she hit it.
His response came immediately: Perfect. See you then.
Perfect. Such a precise, Marcus-like word. But what exactly had she just agreed to?
Marcus checked his watch for the fourth time, trying to quiet the doubt gnawing at his stomach.
After long hours of careful planning—analyzing every interaction, considering every variable—he still wasn't sure if choosing Luna Verde’s had been brilliant or terrible.
The restaurant met all his carefully researched criteria: walking distance from the library but far enough to avoid running into patrons, sophisticated without being intimidating, and ambiguous enough in atmosphere to serve as either a romantic dinner or a professional meeting, depending on.
.. well, depending on whether he'd completely misread everything between them.
He tugged at his chambray shirt, second-guessing the choice. He'd spent an embarrassing amount of time selecting an outfit that could work for either scenario, but now the shirt felt both too casual and too studied. Like he was trying too hard to look like he wasn't trying at all.
The corner table had seemed perfect when he'd scouted the restaurant last week—private enough for conversation but public enough to maintain professional boundaries if he'd been imagining the way Claire's eyes lingered on him sometimes.
But now the Edison bulbs felt too intimate, the exposed brick walls too romantic.
The server had already asked twice if he wanted to order, probably wondering why he kept obsessively adjusting the table settings.
He couldn't help it; if he focused on the perfect angle of the water glasses, he didn't have to think about all the ways this evening could go wrong.
What if he'd miscalculated? What if those moments in the library—the shared laughs, the lingering touches, the way she looked at him when he explained load-bearing structures to Zara, the kiss!
—what if they meant something entirely different to her?
Claire was kind to everyone. That's what made her such a wonderful children's librarian.
Maybe he'd built an entire hypothesis on faulty data.
When she walked in, all his carefully constructed contingency plans scattered like dropped papers.
She wore another of her vintage dresses, this one a deep green that made her eyes look like sea glass.
Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, wisps escaping around her face, and she'd forgone makeup—was that a sign she saw this as strictly professional?
He'd created three different spreadsheets analyzing Claire's work versus casual wardrobes, and he still couldn't be sure.
"Sorry I'm late," she said, sliding into the seat across from him. "Storytime ran over. We had a heated debate about whether dragons prefer tacos or pizza."
"And the verdict?"
"Turns out they like both, but only if served with plenty of sprinkles." She smiled, but there was a nervous energy in the way she immediately reached for the menu, using it as a shield between them.
Marcus recognized the deflection tactic—he'd employed it himself often enough. "Claire?—"
"The garden plans!" She pulled a slightly crumpled set of drawings from her bag. "I've been thinking about your safety concerns, and maybe if we adjusted the reading nook placement..."
He let her ramble about sight lines and accessibility requirements, watching how her hands moved as she sketched quick modifications in the margins.
Even now, trying so hard to keep things professional, she couldn't help adding little flourishes to the designs—trailing vines around the support beams, whimsical details that somehow made his precise engineering look more inviting, not less.
Without thinking, he reached across the table and covered her hand with his, stilling her restless sketching. "Claire."
She stared at their joined hands. "We shouldn't," she whispered, but didn't pull away. "It's unprofessional. You're a library patron, and I'm?—"
"We've already crossed that line." His thumb traced the small book tattoo on her wrist, feeling her pulse jump beneath the inked pages. "I'm not supposed to do pro bono consulting either, but here we are."
"Here we are," she echoed, finally meeting his eyes. "Marcus, I need to tell you something, and it's going to sound ridiculous."
He waited, still holding her hand.
"My sister and mother, they're always pushing me about starting a family. And I want that, someday. But now I can't stop wondering—these feelings I have for you, are they real? Or am I just..." She bit her lip. "Am I just in love with the idea of having what they want me to have?"
The vulnerability in her voice made his chest ache. "I understand," he said quietly. "After Maya left, I was terrified of letting anyone else in. Still am if I'm honest. The thought of another person walking away, of letting Zara down again..."
"You could never let her down." Claire's free hand covered his. "You're an amazing father."
"And you're nothing like Maya." He needed her to understand this. "You're... God, Claire, you're extraordinary. You're brilliant, beautiful, and so incredibly stubborn?—"
"Tenacious," she corrected with a watery smile.
"Tenacious," he agreed. "You have these wild dreams about making the world better, and somehow you make everyone around you believe they're possible too.
You've got the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen, and when you smile.
.." He shook his head. "I could stare at you all day and still find new things to marvel at. "
Claire's breath caught. "Marcus..."
He leaned across the table, cupping her face with his free hand. "I'm scared too," he admitted. "But I think some things are worth being scared for."
When he kissed her, she tasted like mint, hope, and possibilities. It was softer than their first kiss in the garden, but somehow more certain. When they finally broke apart, several nearby diners were pretending very hard not to stare.
Claire laughed softly, pressing her forehead against his. "So much for keeping things professional."