Chapter Four
“Who are you today?”
“A-a-a thief,” Rom says, peeking up from his book.
“Jaromar Elond Perchaz.” I gasp in mock outrage.
His stutter has gotten better in the last year. He goes to speech therapy, and it’s been over a year since the accident. His scars have mostly healed too, going from dark to light pink, but his hair is always hanging down in his face, so I don’t see them that often.
“A thief for a good cause.” A smile tugs up the left side of his face. “She-She’s stealing from the evil empire.”
“Hmmph.” I grab the book from him and flip through. It has pretty chapter headings. I need to check this one out when he leaves today. It’s always fun to read the book he’s reading after he leaves and chat about it together the next day. “We’ll see.”
I pick up the book I was reading. Since I’m trying to grow my hair out, it’s a how-to on braiding. I balance the book on my legs and tip my head to the side, grabbing my hair at the temple to separate it into three sections. Thirty seconds of fumbling later, I realize it’s not gonna happen. My hair just isn’t long enough yet.
I sigh, and Rom glances up from where he was quietly reading beside me. His hair is super long! And I could actually see what I’m doing.
“Hey, can I braid your hair?” I poke his leg.
“Uhhh.” Dark, silky strands fall in front of his face. He jerks his head to the side, and it swishes in a long drape, creating a perfectly straight side part.
“Unfair.” I pout.
“Huh?”
“Why does a boy get such pretty, shiny hair when he does nothing with it? And I have to live with this frizzy, tangled mess?”
“Your hair is nice,” he whispers.
“Your hair is wayyyyy nicer, jerk.” I giggle and push his shoulder. “So anyway, can I braid it?”
He shrugs but turns his body on the window bench so his back is to me and starts reading again. We were the same height last year, but he’s taller now. Ever since Aunt Flo started visiting me monthly, the doctor told my mom I won’t get much taller.
Again, unfair. Such is a girl’s lot in life, I guess.
I page through my book while finger-combing his hair. A classic French braid seems simple enough.
Well, getting around a demon’s big, looping horns is not. At all. After five minutes with my fingers in knots, I give up and forget the French part, just focusing on the basic three-strand technique. Okay, that’s not so bad. I braid, undo, and re-do it three times before I’m happy with the final product, taking the tie out of my hair to use on his.
I stand up and pull his shoulders around, inspecting my work from the front and sides. He fidgets, glancing up at me then down again.
“You have such nice hair.” I pull the long plait over his right shoulder. “I’m jealous.”
Rom looks at his feet, but I see the hidden smile. His eyelashes flutter, also way darker and longer than mine. Unfair! His hair is so silky, even that small movement has the strands coming loose at the top. I need to keep practicing, clearly, and maybe try a Dutch braid instead of a French braid next time.
A few strands fall over his right eye, so I push them back behind his torn ear, seeing the healing skin and the scars up close for the first time in a while.
“Do they still hurt?” I ask, wanting to trace the longest of the lines. It’s pretty, in a way.
He coughs and pulls back, rearranging the hair at the top to cover his ear, patting it down. “No, n-not anymore.”
“Oh. Well, good. And the braid looks nice on you.” I cock my head to the side and lean down, not letting up until he looks at me. “You should wear it like that more often.”
He smiles, a little crooked and to the left. “Thanks.”
“Oh. It’s you,” I say to the demon from the corner store I was thinking about all day.
“It’s me,” he says on a quiet exhale.
I can barely see half of his face, hidden under the shadow of his hair, but there’s a scar marring his upper lip that looks so familiar. I study him, rubbing my own lips together, a little chapped from the drive up on my moped. The wind nearly knocked me over on one stretch. They don’t call it Last Hour Road for nothing, but I’ve made the trek before and knew how to manage myself.
Ding. My phone chimes. Service is terrible on this mountain. We’re close to the top, so it’s a little better up here.
I look down and click on it, reading the first few lines of his library card application.
Wait, seriously?
My eyes blink several times, unbelieving. Still stunned, I catalog this guy’s clothing and face, trying to match the large demon before me with the skinny kid I used to know. He wears fancy metal covers over the horn I remember being broken, and his hair must hide the scars I would have recognized right away.
His eyes are the same, though, a piercing red-orange hazel. And a long braid hangs over his right shoulder with the same silky black hair.
“It’s you.”
I fly at him, banding my arms tight around his middle, noting that my fingertips barely reach across how wide he is.
“Rom, it’s really you!”
He exhales and softens, strong arms hugging me back. His palms coast up and down my back, and gosh, it feels so good. So right. I inhale his clean, piney scent and stop myself from rubbing my cheek against his chest like a cat.
“Oh geez!” I pull back, suddenly realizing just because I remember him doesn’t mean he remembers me. “I’m sorry. Do you even . . .? It’s Noelle. Do you remember? I don’t make a habit of tackling every new person I meet, but we knew each other as kids. You stopped by the library every day, and we used to be friends and—”
“Best friends,” he says while angling his face slightly away, though his gaze drifts back. “I remember. Hi, Noelle.”
I smile and lean toward the side of his face he’s hiding, trying to put him at ease. I never cared about his scars. Why would he hide from me? Well, I guess it has been a while.
“It’s so good to see you again. I didn’t recognize you at first. You’re very, ahem, different,” I say, clearing my throat. He looks nervous. Okay, stop ogling him, geez. Be cool. ”How are you? What”ve you been up to? How is your family?”
Where did you go? I purse my lips together and grab my strawberry lip gloss to put on, an emergency attempt to shut the heck up. Was your new town bigger than Winter Bliss? Better? Questions ping through my mind, but I manage to hold them in. Why didn”t you find a way to contact me? Why didn”t I?
Did you miss me?
“Fine. I’m g-good.” He fidgets with the end of his braid, barely making eye contact. “Live in Austin, just working and keeping my head down. Family’s alright. We see each other all the time, too much probably, seeing as how we work together.” He chuckles and when we make eye contact again, he stops talking, just blinks at me like he can’t believe it’s me.
Well, buddy, the feeling is mutual.
”That”s great.” I say, nearly breathless. I can”t believe he”s really here. My mind is a beehive of conflicting thoughts, unable to place the burly man before me with the boy I used to know. His shyness seems the same, as charming as ever, making me just want to hug and reassure him at every turn. His eyes dart around the room, determined not to look at me. I cringe, realizing I made him nervous somehow. I probably pried too much, overloaded him with a bunch of questions, then didn’t pick up the conversation because I was lost in my own head.
I”m too much sometimes, and I know it. Okay, Noelle. Stick to the script. You”re a librarian on a book delivery. I change the subject to safer topics. Books.
”Well, consider your library card application accepted.” I put out my hand.
He shakes it with an amused half-smile, and my heart pitter-patters at the contact. Oh dear heavens, his grip is solid. His hands are huge and veiny. My gaze travels slowly up his hairy forearms to his chest, then his face. And he’s staring at me. And we’re both saying nothing again.
I wiggle out of his grasp and straighten. “Your text mentioned that you’re in town for a couple weeks?”
“Yep.” He runs a hand over his horn cap and backs up against a side table, knocking something over that makes several thudding sounds.
They looked like books. “Are those . . .”
“Nothing. I’ll pick it up later.” He leans against the wall, blocking my view of whatever fell. “I’m a big reader, so I’ll probably keep you busy with book requests.”
I grin and step further into the cabin. “I brought six.”
“Child’s play.” He smirks and gestures me toward the couch. “I’ll be done with those quick enough.”
My eyebrows lift, amused. He was a speed reader as a kid too, took some kind of class at his school. I guess the habit stuck.
“If I even click with them.” He shrugs.
“Oh ho ho,” I crow. Now that’s a challenge I always win. “You will! At least one of the two trilogies.” I lob my bag onto the couch and bring out the first book, handing it to him.
As he looks over the cover, doubt colors his face. I get it, considering it’s a half-naked lady. He pulls out the laminated paper I stuck in the middle.
“The Least Deadly Hikes of Mount Winter Bliss?” he reads the title and gives me a curious look.
“Your text made it seem like you were new to town, but the address was so high up, I figured if you wanted to go hiking, it’s good to be informed. I have a few of those trifolds at the library. Better safe than sorry, you know?”
“I’m not much of a hiker.” He gestures at the scarred half of his face. “After all this.”
“Oh.” That’s right. The accident from when he was younger. I think the memory of him so injured as a kid is partly why I stock these maps in the library. “Oh no, I’m so sorry.” Gosh, I feel horrible. Not that I knew he was the person in the cabin, but still.
“It’s okay. Really thoughtful, actually. I’m sure a future guest will appreciate it.” He chuckles while setting the map to the side and waggles the book at me. “I’m more of a stay-inside-and-read-about-cool-heroes-who-hike kind of guy. Tell me about these.”
“Well, good news. They do hike!” I brighten. “So here’s the premise. It’s a fantasy world where only humans exist.”
“Pfft. Boring,” he says. “Humans love fantasies where they’re the only ones left alive on the earth.”
Well, he’s not wrong about that. Kinda depressing if you ask me. He turns the book over to read the summary on the back before peering up at me. I square my shoulders and take a deep breath, readying my monologue.
“Okay so . . .” I chop the air in front of us, using my hands to help illustrate the selling points. “The world is separated into the worship of a bunch of immortal beings who believe in different ways of expressing love. They’re humans but not like regular humans. The heroine is this magical pain slut chosen by her god to save the world. And her travel companion is this super celibate monk warrior. As you might have guessed, sparks fly, and sexy hijinks ensue.”
His eyes bug out of his head. Okay, maybe I sensationalized it with the magical pain slut bit.
“It sounds like a lot, but it’s really cool,” I say. Undeterred, I shake my head and bring out a different book. “And in case that doesn’t float your boat, I brought the second trilogy in the series. Same world, but a couple decades later. The hero is a younger guy in line for the throne, but his mother was an evil villain, and he worries he’ll become one too someday.” I smile brightly and waggle my eyebrows. “Less sado-masochistic sex scenes, if that’s a plus or a minus.”
Probably more his speed. He picks up the second book but keeps peeking at the first. I think I hooked him.
“Thanks. They sound like a wild ride.” He takes the stack of six and sets them on the kitchen table. “Though I’m surprised I haven’t heard about them on bookstagram.”
“Bookstagram?” My nose scrunches. “Is that like candy grams for books? A messenger does a little song and dance to sell you on a story’s premise? Hold on! That’s a great idea to spice up the fundraiser.” I pull up my phone and whisper a voice memo. My voice isn’t half bad. I bet people will find that charming.
He chuckles and pulls up his phone, turning it to me. “No, it’s a hashtag on Nymphstagram that readers and book lovers use to share their reviews, home libraries, and special editions.”
He scrolls through dozens of brightly colored images.
“Oh my goodness, that’s pretty.”
There are book covers with shiny foil, fairy lights in reading nooks, and barely dressed readers wearing lingerie. Whoa. Stacks and stacks of books in pretty rooms with bouquets and coffee. So much coffee.
“A book laying on a bunch of flowers. I never imagined reading could look so . . . magical.”
I make a mental note to try that. Photos can’t be too hard, right? I should really figure out social media one of these days.
“Yeah. It’s pretty neat.” He clicks on something else and pulls up a new page showing a well-coordinated set of photos all in a warm tones. “This is my account.”
I read the profile name and snort, glancing at him sideways. “BeastlyandBookish?”
“I love books, and I mean . . .” He gestures in a circle around his face.
“Ex-squeeze me?!” I wave a dramatic circle around my own face, horrified by what I think he’s implying. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You have eyes, Noelle.” His jaw tightens, then slides back and forth, something he used to do when he was upset, usually at himself. “While I’m sure everybody in town including me had a crush on you, I’ve always looked like this.”
“You’re far from beastly!” I scoff, offended on his behalf. He had a crush on me back then? I swallow, my heart racing, replaying our friendship from years ago and where I missed that.
“Thank you for saying that.” He angles his head away and finger-combs hair over the right side of his face. ”I’ve got an ugly mug. It’s fine. Facts are facts.” He sighs and pats his belly. “And I’ve kind of let myself go.”
I glare at him. There are few things that get me more riled up than people talking down on themselves. The world does enough of that to us already. Not to mention, it’s always lies!
“Jaromar Elond Perchaz,” I poke his chest to the beat of each name and push closer. “You are the gentle giant! The smart kid with glasses! The magic spark character that makes a book worth reading!”
He gulps, cheeks darkening all the way up to his horns. “You think so?”
“I know so! Ugly? Let yourself go? Ugh. That’s the kind of talk that sets everyone back. I mean, big guys are all the rage right now. Plenty of folks would love to climb you like a tree!”
As soon as I say it, I can’t help but imagine myself doing just that and my body flushes, head to toe. I can feel the warmth, a discoloring combination of embarrassment and arousal, the redhead’s bane.
“Oh, yeah?” His smile seems surprised.
“Yeah!” I’m really on fire now, in more ways than one, pushing my palms against his broad chest like I’m trying to pick a fight with him, even though he doesn’t budge an inch. I just seem to be getting closer and closer, and my goodness he’s warm. “I won’t have you talk about yourself like that!”
“Or what?” he asks, voice darker. Intimate.
“Or I’ll . . . I”ll . . . I’ll show you!”
And I kiss him. I grab two fistfuls of his white shirt and yank him down to my mouth.
Oh.
He kisses me back, mouth hungry and entreating, as he grabs my face, the pads of his fingers tracing my jaw, then the back of his knuckles down my neck.
Oh, that’s nice.
I sigh, sparks of pleasure flickering to life inside me. The kiss slows from its first frantic instincts and grows leisurely, even better somehow. His body, so big and wide, fits against me perfectly. He holds me so tenderly, pulling me closer. Demons run hot, I know this on a scientific level, but I really feel it now for the first time. How cozy and safe it is to be held by him. Each warm exhale is like a drug, dragging me deeper into this weightless haze.
When my hand finds his cheek, I feel the scar. The big one he’s always hiding. It’s a long branching mark that pulls at the corner of his lip and puckers the skin in a couple of places.
He pulls back, watching me carefully. This close, I really see him, the boy I used to know. The dark eyes, roiling red and orange like demons do when their emotions run hot. The same nose, crooked and off center, just a little bigger these days. Everything about him is bigger. His face turns to the side, and my hand slips free.
“So, anyway.” I touch my cheek, feeling flushed. My face must be a sight, no doubt red as a tomato. “There you have it.”
I made my point that he’s not ugly by attacking him with my mouth. Great job, Noelle. That should do it. It seemed an effective strategy until he pulled back when I touched his scars.
Rom’s gaze on me is curious though, not upset. “Is it okay if I text you my thoughts on the books?”
“Of course.” I exhale with relief. He’s polite enough not to tease me or make this into a super awkward thing. I smooth my hair, gone a little loose with the make out, and tuck some errant strands behind my ear. “I reread them just a couple months ago. It’s one of my favorite series.”
“Great.”
“Cool.”
“Awesome.”
Okay, that’s quite enough dilly-dallying. I clear my throat and straighten my posture. Back in librarian mode. “They’re due back in a week. I can drive back up here to—”
“No need,” he interrupts. “I’ll be done sooner than that. Can I drop them off at the library? I’d love to see the place again.”
“Oh, okay, sure.” A pang squeezes my heart because I know we’ll have to move soon, and he seems so eager to see the building we spent every afternoon in as kids. I pick up my mostly empty bag and throw it over my shoulder. “We’re open daily from 10 to 7. What are you, um. . .” My curiosity is getting the better of me now that I can think straight. “Why are you in town?”
“I’m opening a coffee shop.” He straightens and fists his hands at his hips, transformed into a more confident version of himself, the guy I noticed in the corner store, the one I thought was a stranger. “It’s the family business. Our chain of stores is called Perkatory.”
“That’s so clever.” I beam, catching the triple play on words. “Good for you guys. And good for Winter Bliss. We could use a coffee shop. Miss Ethel’s drip isn’t cutting it.”
With an easy laugh, he follows me to the door, holding it open as I trek down the snowy steps.
“Yeah, and the library is right next door to our new location,” he says.
Time slows. That can’t be right. There’s only one building adjoining the library, and I’m going to rent it. My mind races as he leans against the doorjamb, looking so happy and at ease.
“Where is it?” My voice comes out with a squeak. I must have misheard. “Right . . . right next to the library?”
“The old antique store that’s been sitting empty. Big windows in the front.”
I shake my head. My stomach drops to my toes, and everything goes numb.
“Hey, are you . . .” He steps forward. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
Oh no, no, no. What can I do? What can’t I do? Is there anything that can save the library when the only feasible rental in town just went up in smoke?
“I’ve gotta go.”