Written in the Margins (Library Love Notes)

Chapter One

Adelaide

There is no reason I should be late to the Festival of Local Authors today. But I am. Which is embarrassing when you’re the only “local” author who actually lives in town.

If I ever make it inside the library.

The sad part is I was here early. I laid out my patchwork tablecloth, unpacked bookmarks and stickers, set up my table with my first two historical fiction novels—One Train in December and Last Dance At Sea—and then realized I had to go back home.

My publisher gave me a box of advanced reader copies for my third book, releasing at the end of July, specifically for this event.

And I forgot them at home in my front foyer.

My house is only a five-minute drive from the library so the ten minutes back and forth shouldn’t be groundbreaking, day-wrecking stuff.

But I’m currently slouched against the steering wheel because there’s a literal beaver in the middle of the road.

Yes, a literal beaver. It’s taken twenty-nine years for me to see a beaver in the flesh and it’s both mesmerizing and wholly annoying.

You would think that living in a town named Beaver Creek would mean the beavers invade as much as the Canada geese do every spring, but Bev, the bronze statue in Beaver Creek Park has been the lone beaver here for years.

She’d probably be pleased someone else is finally getting some attention.

Though, I hope no one attempts to rub this real-life beaver’s tail for good luck.

I cringe thinking of it, but it seems like people are more curious than touchy. The phones are out and snapping. I’m sure we’re going to make internet waves. Look, a beaver in Beaver Creek.

“Come on,” I mutter under my breath. “Move.”

But, of course, the beaver doesn’t understand the telepathic signals I’m sending.

It just sits in the middle of the road with what I think is a chunk of firewood from Mr. Larkin’s yard.

Mr. Larkin, father of my best friend Tabitha, hosts campfires every Friday all throughout the summer.

He’s been doing this since we were kids and has kept the tradition alive even after Tabitha moved out.

Their house is directly across from Beaver Creek Park where I assume this real-life beaver lives.

My gaze slides toward my car’s clock. The white, digital numbers mock me.

You’re late, Adelaide. You’re a mess, Adelaide.

Crap.

I fidget around on the dash until I find the call icon.

But who am I going to call? I don’t know the number for the library and I can’t look it up without breaking some distracted driving law, even though I am very firmly parked in place due to this stupid beaver.

Who, I’m sure, is actually very lovely. But, seriously?

Right now? Do you have to be here right now?

Eventually, I find the Larkins’ home number and hear the dial tone ring out through the interior of my Nissan Sentra. I drum my fingers against the steering wheel as I wait for someone to pick up.

“Hello? Adelaide?” Mr. Larkin answers.

“Oh thank goodness,” I say with a sigh that’s a little too dramatic for the circumstances. “I’m outside your house.”

“Oh? Okay.”

I hear him shift, as if he’s already on his feet. No questions asked. I laugh.

“I’m fine. I’m on my way to an event at the library and I’m late because there’s a beaver in the middle of the road.”

“Oh, Ben!”

“Ben?”

“Yeah, like Bev. I figure he should have a name to match his counterpart in the park. He’s got one ear darker than the other, right?”

I peek over my steering wheel. I will admit he’s cute. He’s chocolate brown, save for one ear that’s almost black.

“That’s him. How do you know it’s a him?”

“I don’t,” Mr. Larkin says. His front door opens and he lowers his phone as he walks toward my car. I end the call as he steps up to my passenger side window. “I couldn’t name him Bev, could I?”

I nod, flawed logic and all. “Could you maybe move him, somehow? Like, obviously don’t touch him or hurt him or anything. But he trusts you, right? I assume, if he’s been around for a while.”

“I don’t know if I’d say trust. But he has been stealing my firewood for years. I’ll try.”

Mr. Larkin walks to the firepit about ten feet back from the road.

Their house is deep-set on their property, with a winding pathway up to their front door.

There’s more front yard than backyard, which luckily works well for campfires.

He picks up a larger chunk of wood and calls out to Ben the Beaver.

I don’t expect him to react, much like he hasn’t with anyone else filming and marvelling over how cute he is, but Ben turns his head toward Mr. Larkin.

His nose twitches and he drops the original piece, before scampering over to the Larkins’ yard.

“Thank you!” I yell through the window and put my car in drive.

I speed through the sleepy streets of Beaver Creek.

The only thing going on this Sunday afternoon is the Festival of Local Authors.

The library parking lot was packed when I left earlier.

I don’t want to imagine it now. Not that I need to.

I can already see the cars parked on the street in front of it.

I groan and give up before even trying. I park in the first spot I see next to the café, directly behind a Ford SUV.

I barely turn off my car before hopping out.

I jog over to the parking metre, even though I know parking is free on Sundays.

But I need to check just in case those rules have changed.

Satisfied I won't get ticketed, I open the passenger side door and grab the cardboard box out of the front seat.

It's heavier than I expect, knocking me off kilter.

I nudge the door shut with my hip and fish around in the pocket of my magenta floral sundress for my keys.

I press the button several times and my car chimes like it's offended I needed to triple check it was locked. But it is locked.

Some na?ve part of my brain hopes the event hasn't started yet.

I know it has. I know I'm late. I know this is the worst possible impression I could make on everyone who thinks I'm a professional.

So I pick up my pace and try to stay as steady as possible in my ill-advised wedge heel sandals.

Which turns out to be an even bigger mistake than forgetting the books in the first place, because I come crashing face first into a solid wall.

That solid wall being a man’s chest.

Already speeding and a little off balance, I flip my ankle, lose grip on the cardboard box, and find myself falling onto uneven sidewalk. Suddenly there are five of my ten books scattered on the ground, plus one extremely frazzled author.

“Oh, shit,” the mystery man says. He has three black books with bold red font in his hands. Zander Browning is scrawled in white letters on the spine. So, this is definitely not how I wanted to introduce myself today. “Are you okay? I’m so sorry.”

“No, it was my fault. Wasn’t watching where I was going.”

He ducks into his car, drops his books, then bends to grab my slightly banged up ARCs. He pauses on the name. “Adelaide?” he asks, one eyebrow raised. I nod. “I’m Zander. Here for the same event, I guess.”

“I guess so,” I say. “We’re both late.”

“That we are.” He adds the last of my scattered books back into the box, straightens, and offers me a hand. “Can you get up?”

“Oh,” I say. I rotate my ankles. There’s a dull sting in my right one, but nothing unmanageable. I take his hand. “Yeah, I’m good.”

He smiles at me and it is the most charming thing I have ever witnessed.

Simple, and he probably doesn’t even realize it, but so disarming.

He doesn’t have perfect teeth, one front tooth is slightly shorter than the other, but his dimples…

I’m a sucker for dimples. I’m also, apparently, a sucker for that extremely 90s curtain haircut.

He has Prince Charming bangs. Messy, like he’s run a hand through his hair but every piece knows exactly where to fall in place.

Maybe I also whacked my head against the sidewalk, because, excuse me, Adelaide, it is simply not the time to feel this way about someone.

He pulls me to my feet, then slides his hand along my forearm, up to my elbow to steady me.

I know he’s not trying to be sexy. I know it isn’t a sexy moment.

But I have no way of convincing myself that when the goosebumps rise on my skin and my whole body shudders.

Luckily for me, the goosebumps are not visible under my cardigan.

Unluckily for me, I am too much of a redhead to not have the colour show on my face.

Zander crouches and grabs my box of books. He turns and grabs the three books from his car. On closer inspection, his books are also advance copies.

“How’d you get so many ARCs?” he asks.

He bumps his car door shut with his hip, like I’d done moments before, then starts walking.

I stand and stare at his back for a moment.

Catching my mind up to the events of the last several minutes…

and admiring how he fills out a pair of grey jeans.

He glances over his shoulder, then turns, one corner of his lips ticked up in question.

I tentatively take a step, then speed walk over to him.

“It’s my third release. My publisher seems to think this one will perform well after how my second did. So, miraculously, more ARCs. I didn’t have any physical with my first.”

“Congratulations!” Zander says, and the pride in his voice tells me he means it. “This is my fifth. And these,” he points his strong jaw toward the three books he has balanced on top of my box, “are my trophies.”

I let out an undignified snort and note the dimple in his cheek. “They really feel like that, don’t they?”

“Most of the time. Then I go back home and stare at the shelf of books I have no idea what to do with. It feels very self-centred to have a shrine dedicated to myself.”

“If you don’t hype yourself, who will?”

We come up to the library and I awkwardly jog up the front steps, below the ionic columns, and prop open a heavy wooden door for him. He climbs the stairs with ease, like he’s not carrying approximately thirteen pounds of books.

“Thank you.” He winks as he passes me and through the open door.

I swallow and watch as he heads further into the library. Before I left, I took note of the table layout. His is right next to mine. I’m so going to make a fool of myself today.