Chapter Two #2
I picked up what was supposed to be a lasso—silk rope with decorative tassels and metal attachments that made no damn sense for actual ranch work.
"This is all wrong. You can't rope anything with silk, those knots are purely decorative, and those metal pieces would spook every horse in the county.
That's not how you use a lasso, darlin'. "
"What about this?" She held up what might charitably be called a vest.
I examined it, amusement building. "Well, the leather work isn't bad. But it's got more holes than fabric. Wouldn't keep you warm, wouldn't protect you from brush, and it sure wouldn't stay closed if you had to do any actual work."
"So what's it for?"
"Decorative cowboys. The kind who never leave the bedroom."
She snorted with laughter, and I was damn pleased to be the cause of it. "Indoor cowboys?"
"Very specialized profession. Requires custom equipment." I held up another item—spurs with rhinestones that would last about five seconds in a real stirrup. "These are purely ornamental. And that rope..." I shook my head. "Only good for extremely cooperative livestock."
We continued working our way through the Western-themed items. I provided commentary on their intended use—"ceremonial chaps," "boots designed for carpet riding," and "bandanas that definitely shouldn't go anywhere near your face."
Our hands brushed when she passed me a box, and she pulled back quickly, adjusting those glasses. The gesture was becoming familiar, endearing even.
After another half hour of inventory comedy, she said, "That covers the cowboy stuff. Just need to finish the regular inventory."
"How much more?"
"Maybe another hour. But..." She hesitated, then looked up at me.
"This might sound crazy, but I haven't eaten dinner.
I know this is a very awkward situation, but I've got some frozen meals in the break room—they're not great, but at least it's something I can do to thank you until the weather clears and we can get out of here. "
My stomach answered with a rumble loud enough to make Vixen look over from her perch.
"Sounds good to me."
She led me through a doorway behind the counter to a break room. Vixen followed, apparently curious about the proceedings. Card table, two chairs, a mini-fridge, and a microwave that had seen better days.
"So here are tonight's dinner options," Flannery said, opening the freezer. "Salisbury steak that promises 'real meat flavor,' chicken alfredo that might actually have some chicken, or a southwest bowl that's probably more optimistic than accurate."
I couldn't help but grin at her honesty. "You make them sound appetizing."
"Hey, I'm just being realistic about what we're working with here. They were cheap and hopefully edible."
"I'll take the Salisbury steak."
She pulled out two boxes and read the instructions like she was following a recipe. "Five minutes in the microwave. Fair warning—I got these on clearance."
While we waited for the microwave, I looked around.
Two jobs, clearance frozen dinners, that comment about the candles costing more than her groceries—Flannery was scraping by, maybe saving for something.
Had to be. Nobody worked a second job in a place that made them this uncomfortable unless they needed every penny.
The microwave hummed. Wind howled outside, rattling the windows. Inside, the heating system kicked on with a low rumble, filling the silence.
When she handed me the plastic container and fork, I studied her. The way she tucked her hair behind her ear. How she pushed those glasses up when she was nervous, leaving a smudge on the lens. The curves that red velvet costume couldn't hide, though she kept trying to tug it into submission.
We sat across from each other at the card table. The fluorescent light hummed overhead.
"This is weird, right?" she said finally, poking at her soggy patty. "Eating questionable frozen dinners in the back room of an adult boutique during a blizzard?"
"I've had stranger Thursdays."
She laughed—a real one this time, not the nervous kind. "Really? Because this is definitely top five weird for me."
"Well, there was the time a bull got loose at the county fair and ended up in the Piggly Wiggly. That was a whole situation."
"I remember that! Mrs. Yates still talks about it."
"She would. It ate half her produce display."
We talked about the bull incident, then Mistletoe Ridge gossip, the upcoming Christmas Eve celebration at the library, whether the Piggly Wiggly would ever stop playing "Jingle Bell Rock" on loop. She relaxed bit by bit, her shoulders loosening, that nervous edge fading from her laugh.
I couldn't figure her out.
She worked at the library reading to preschoolers, then came here at night.
She wore buttoned-up sweaters and sensible skirts by day, but right now sat across from me in an elf costume that would give Santa a heart attack.
She handled the merchandise with the same earnest professionalism she probably used explaining the Dewey Decimal System, but blushed every single time she had to read a product label.
She was doing this—working here, wearing that outfit, surrounded by things that clearly made her uncomfortable—because she had to. That couldn't be easy.
What did she need money for? What dreams required working two jobs and eating clearance frozen dinners?
She caught me staring and ducked her head, pushing those glasses up again. "What?"
"Just thinking."
"About?"
"How you handle all those products like you're cataloging library books. Very professional."
Her cheeks went pink. "Well, inventory is inventory, right? Same basic principle whether it's... romance novels or massage oil."
The way she said "romance novels" made me wonder. Did shy librarian Flannery Green have a whole secret world I didn't know about?
"You read romance novels?" I asked.
"I work at a library. I've read everything." She stabbed at her food. "The good ones, anyway. The ones where people actually talk to each other and there's, you know, a proper plot."
"And the bad ones?"
"Too much telling, not enough showing. Characters who make stupid decisions just to create drama. Instant attraction with no build-up." She stopped, her cheeks going pink. "Sorry. Occupational hazard. I have opinions about books."
"Don't apologize. It's nice hearing you talk about something you actually like instead of trying not to die of embarrassment."
She laughed, and the sound made my chest tighten.
I found myself noticing details. How she was careful not to spill on that ridiculous costume.
The way she kept tucking her hair back even though it just fell forward again.
The storm raged outside—wind howling, snow pelting the windows in waves—but in here it was warm.
Quiet except for the heating system's steady hum and the distant Christmas music still playing out in the shop.
She'd probably never done any of this, I realized. Never tried the merchandise, never been with someone who made her feel the way those romance novels described.
The way she blushed handling the products—that wasn't just embarrassment at the awkward situation.
It was genuine unfamiliarity. The way she read every label like she was encountering the items for the first time.
The nervous energy that surrounded her wasn't the confidence of someone comfortable with sexuality wearing a provocative costume.
It was someone trying very hard to be professional about something completely outside her experience.
She was untouched. Innocent.
How was that even possible? She was beautiful—especially now with her hair down and those glasses slightly crooked. Funny, smart, kind. The kids at Story Time adored her. Dash talked about her constantly.
But maybe in Mistletoe Ridge, everyone saw her as "Miss Flannery" the librarian, the sweet girl who read to kids and baked cookies with her grandmother. Nobody looked past the cardigans and sensible skirts to see the woman underneath.
Nobody except me, apparently, sitting here in a break room that smelled like questionable Salisbury steak.
Hit me harder than expected—wanting to protect her. And the heat that surprised me too, the knowledge that she'd never been touched, never been wanted the way she deserved.
"We should probably get back to work," she said finally, her voice soft.
"Yeah." I didn't move. Neither did she, not right away.
The moment held. Warm. Strange.
When she finally stood, gathering the empty containers, I noticed the way she moved—careful, graceful despite those ridiculous heels. Her costume bells chimed softly.
All night I'd been telling myself I was just being neighborly. Helping out someone in an awkward spot. The right thing to do.
But sitting across from Flannery Green in that break room, seeing all the contradictions she didn't even know she was showing me—the shy librarian in the sexy elf costume, the woman who read romance novels but probably didn't know what it felt like to be kissed like she mattered—
This wasn't about being neighborly anymore.
My chest tightened, like someone had cinched a rope around my ribs. I hadn't felt this way in a long time. Maybe never. This heady mix of wanting to know someone, protect them, show them they were worth more than they realized.
We still had inventory to finish. A storm to wait out. Hours left before reality returned.
But I'd stopped fooling myself about why I wanted to stay.