2. Lizzie
Chapter Two
Lizzie
I’m certain tonight is the first time I’ve ever seen him. He’s the beautiful boy—well, technically he’s a man—pacing in the stacks of our university library while talking to himself. He alternates between looking upward and walking with his eyes closed.
Both unwise.
It would be his business, and I could admire him from a distance, except I work here, and it’s time for me to close for the night.
So, I have two choices. Option one: The fastest way is to approach him now and let him know it’s time to pack up for the night.
Option two, which logic says is the safer option, is to call campus security and ask them to come hang out while I let the guy know it’s time to leave.
The problem with that is it’ll take them twenty minutes to get here, and that’s if there’s no emergency elsewhere on campus.
I’m too wiped out to wait.
Since I don’t know him and he’s acting atypically compared to most college students, it’s a little nerve-wracking.
Still, I’ve seen a lot of odd behavior here over the last few years, and I want to get back to my off-campus apartment and crawl into bed.
I want to forget this day and my run-in with Landon.
So, I force my feet to move. I head toward the man and approach gingerly as I draw near. I have time to really take him in. He’s tall, well over six feet, with a lean build and tousled brown hair with that slightly wild look many women find hard to resist.
I’ve always been a sucker for a messily attractive man who seems like he isn’t trying too hard. Give me that any day over a man who is well put-together. Maybe it’s because I feel pretty much anything but put-together most days.
Kindred spirits and all that.
When I’m ten feet away from him, he veers off his path.
I see what’s about to happen, but I can’t get the words out before he barrels into the display of romance books I set up yesterday.
The metal shelf topples over, crashing into another, taller aluminum shelving unit.
The air fills with the clash of metal against metal and the thuds of books hitting the ground.
I try not to laugh. I really do. But I fail spectacularly.
“Dang it!”
The words sound like a mixture of frustration and pain, and I finally process that he fell and may have injured himself. God, I’m a jerk for laughing. I rush the rest of the way to him and kneel.
“Shit, sorry. Are you okay? I didn’t mean to laugh. I’m awkward, and I crack up at the most inappropriate times. Probably nerves—”
He pops his head up and looks at me with huge, intense green eyes. Something inside me wants to pause and take a few moments to look deep into them, but I force myself to focus on the situation at hand.
“I’m okay. Shoot, you saw me talking to myself, didn’t you?” He drops his head onto the floor for a minute, then mumbles, “I figured no one would see me back here.”
Before I can respond, he springs off the ground and rights the metal shelves. He must be okay based on how nimbly he rises, though I see him wince for a second as he presses his palm against his hip.
“So, you were aware you were talking to yourself?” I offer him a smile.
I should probably remain cautious, but something about his eyes and his relaxed posture, now that he isn’t wearing a hole in the carpet, increases my comfort level more than it should with a stranger.
He covers his eyes and shakes his head as he releases an exaggerated groan. When he lowers his hands, the sheepish expression he wears is disarming.
“Uh, yeah. God, this is humiliating. I’m sorry. I have a big test tomorrow, and I prepare best by closing my eyes and seeing the material in my head, then repeating it to myself. It’s how I study, but it’s hard to do that at the house.”
His words register in my brain, and alarm bells warn me to distance myself. He lives in the house. I should ask for clarification regarding what he means by “house.” Does he rent a house with a few buddies, or is he talking about a frat house like the one Landon lives in? Because it matters.
My experience in school so far has been that men who live in frat houses, at least the ones I’ve been around, tend to be a bit wilder and freer, less focused on the intellectual side of college.
I know that’s probably not fair. But when I was dating Landon, I got my fill of frat life.
Landon’s one of the wild ones. I shake my head as if it can make thoughts of him go away.
“Are you okay?”
I peer at him and find him staring at me, concern etched on his face. I have to get better at guarding my facial expressions. I suck at it.
“Yeah, um, I’m sorry. How about your leg? You rubbed your hip when you stood.”
“It’s fine.” He grins at me, and it’s one of those grins that warns of trouble but promises fun. “Just hurt my pride.”
I kneel and pick up the book he landed on top of, biting my lip to hold back a laugh. I glance up at him, holding the book where he can see it.
“Is it that you fell, or because you face-planted onto this magnificent man chest?”
He squats next to me and takes the book from my hand.
“Hmm, I wondered what the photographers were going to do with all those photos they took of me. Glad to know they’re using them in academia.”
Now there’s no stopping my laughter.
He peeks in my direction and smiles.
Holy hell, this guy has a killer smile.
He shrugs and picks up a few more books, then rises and starts arranging them on the display.
I’m about to tell him not to worry about putting them back when a corner of his mouth pulls up. He steps back, places an index finger over his lips, then rearranges a few.
Amused, I gather a couple more and hand them to him.
After he spends another few seconds positioning them, I move to adjust one, and he playfully taps the top of my hand in reprimand.
“Oh, you have a system, do you?” I tease.
“Uh, most definitely. You’ve got to put the hottest cover right”—he points to the cover he landed on top of—”here.”
I smirk at him, cross my arms, and shake my head. “Okay. Sure.”
A throaty laugh escapes him. “It’s true. Your vision naturally focuses just left of center. Hence, my cover belongs there. That’s how you hook ’em and make them curious enough to do exactly what you want.”
“Yeah? And what’s it you want them to do?”
“Well, if I were a bookstore owner, I’d want them to buy my book. Or at least look at the others and maybe buy one of those. But since this is a library, I’d—”
An alarm blaring from his phone interrupts us, and he pulls it from his pocket. His eyes bulge as he fumbles to turn it off.
“Shoot! That’s my bedtime alarm. It’s ten p.m.” He glances at me. “I’ve made you late closing for the night, haven’t I?”
I’m surprised to find I forgot all about the time and that my practically nonexistent energy level from half an hour ago has fully recharged. I’m unsure why, but I feel my cheeks heat, and I’m betting I’ve turned red.
His gaze drifts to just below my eyes, so he must notice. A sweet half-smile forms on his lips, and he lifts his eyes back to meet mine.
“It’s okay. But I should close up now, and we need to get you in bed.” I instantly realize what I said. “I mean, not in bed in bed, and not we. But you. You need to go to bed. So, uh, why don’t you pack your things, and I’ll get mine and meet you at the door. Yeah, okay. That’ll work.”
My words come out rapid-fire and, flustered by my verbal clumsiness, I don’t give him a chance to respond. Instead, I spin and speed-walk to the circulation desk.
His deep laugh follows behind me, but it isn’t mocking.
It’s charming, as if this were one of the romance novels he so thoughtfully restaged on the display, and I hadn’t sped away.
If it were, he would have smiled and cupped my face in his hands.
He, of course, would find me adorable, and he would place a thumb over my lips to silence me.
Then he’d gaze into my eyes and lower his lips to—
“Jesus, stop it. You’re behaving like a raving lunatic,” I mutter to myself.
A minute or two later, we meet at the front door of the library.
I stretch to get as good a view of the outside surroundings as I can. I feel his eyes on me as I search to make sure Landon isn’t lurking out there somewhere. I pretend it’s nothing, and, satisfied he’s not there, step outside.
He waits with me while I lock up, then he stops at the bike rack near the entrance. When he offers to walk me to my car, I decline.
“Hank’s just right there.” I point to my beat-up hatchback sitting by its lonesome in the parking lot.
“Hank? Aren’t cars supposed to be female? I’m not sure I’ve ever heard someone give their car a traditionally male name.”
“Well, now you have.” I tilt my head toward my vehicle and kick at the ground with the toe of my beat-up sneaker. “I really should go.”
“Okay. I should, too. Hopefully I’ll see you again soon.”
I nod at him and walk toward my car.
“Hey,” he calls out.
I stop and look over my shoulder.
“I just realized, I know your car’s name, but I never got yours. I’m Holden Aron.” He’s watching me, expectant.
“My name is Lizette, but most people call me Lizzie. It was really nice to meet you. And thank you for making me laugh tonight. I needed it. Maybe I’ll see you around sometime, Holden Aron.”