Chapter 10
ten
LYDIA
Dad: Hey. Want to come have dinner with Shelley and me this weekend?
Lydia: Sorry, I’ve got plans.
Dad: Next weekend?
Lydia: I’ll have to see.
Dad: Give me a chance here, Lydia. I’m really trying.
Lydia: Sorry, Dad. I’ve got a lot going on.
Over the course of the next few days, Will’s team is in and out of the library.
From what I can tell, it’s just a couple of engineers and some kind of interior designer, and they’re still mapping things out, so they’ve stayed largely out of my way so far.
Which I’m glad of—because with every ladder that comes through the door and every tape measure I hear snapping shut, I’m reminded of what they’re in here to do.
I haven’t seen Will Holloway himself—except in passing—since Saturday, when he showed up at the Farmers Market with that sleazy yet weirdly charming brother of his and thought he’d score some quick points by paying for a couple of caramel apples.
Autumn seemed to approve and wouldn’t shut up about him, but I’m pretty sure Will must’ve seen how Dylan blew me off for that Barbie hanging on his arm and took pity on me.
Had to play the hero, absolve himself of the role he’s playing in wrecking the library by paying me off.
Well, fuck him. He can’t even write a good resume. I don’t need his pity—I’ve got that part down.
I don’t know how I could’ve thought Dylan’s brazen texts last week meant he actually wanted something with me.
I was stupid. Like duh, Lydia. A guy doesn’t dump you only to try to win you back four months later via X-rated texts.
And when he comes to the Farmers Market with a bombshell on his arm?
Even if she was his “friend” like he said she was, he couldn’t even hug me.
Yeah. Stupid. Stupid and pitiful.
But I’m trying not to think about it. I’m shelving books in the mystery section this afternoon, and since Nancy’s already gone home for the day, it’s just me and the books.
The solitude is soothing. Aside from the faint hum of male voices somewhere in the building, the only sounds in the room are the crackle of the plastic dust covers and the squeak of my cart as I wheel it between the aisles.
This place… it’s still how I remember it.
Sliding an Agatha Christie novel onto the shelf next to its counterparts, I let my gaze wander the room.
A darkening pink-orange sky is visible through the panes in the dormer, and fading, golden sunlight streams in through the bay windows, flooding the reading nook a few aisles away.
My throat feels suddenly tight. That reading nook—particularly the armchair there, now bathed in shimmering golden hour light—was Mom’s and my spot.
After her first round of chemo, when Mom couldn’t get around very well anymore but still wanted to leave the house, we’d come here to read together.
We’d squeeze into the armchair, and Mom would read aloud to me, her voice soft and steady as we escaped together into another world—one where Mom didn’t hurt, where Dad wasn’t sad, and where I wasn’t terrified of being alone.
Sometimes other kids would come, plopping casually down next to us or hanging over the back of the chair, and Mom would read to them, too.
We all loved her voice, the way she did the characters and paced her reading to match the action.
All the way up until almost the end, when she started having a hard time forming words correctly, Mom always had a crowd of kids hanging around, asking sheepishly for a story.
And after she was gone…
Fuck.
After she was gone, I came here by myself.
I did whatever I could to get out of my dark, lonely house, to be wherever I thought any sparks of Mom’s energy might still be lingering.
I knew it was silly, but I didn’t care. I was desperate.
I used to climb up into that armchair, which now felt so vast, so empty, and pretend Mom was sitting next to me, that I could still feel her warmth and the weight of her arm around me.
I guess I thought I could keep her from slipping away completely—I don’t know.
It’s hard to say what goes through the mind of a ten-year-old, even when that ten-year-old is you.
I’m jerked out of my thoughts when Will comes striding into the fiction section, a ladder over his shoulder and his sweaty t-shirt stuck to his chest. The outline of his pecs is visible through the darkened gray of his shirt, and I tear my gaze away to concentrate on the cart that’s piled with Agatha Christie hardbacks.
I’ve got work to do. I guess I should be grateful he tore me out of my memories.
“Hey.”
It’s the only word he says as he sets the ladder down with a clang. I flit my gaze to his and nod. Using the bottom edge of his t-shirt, he wipes the sweat from his brow, and I catch a glimpse of his well-defined stomach glistening beneath. Holy shit, this guy is ripped.
But I don’t let my gaze linger. I don’t think Will’s sense of self-importance can get any more inflated, but I’d rather not find out.
“What do you need?” I ask, not looking up from my cart.
“Just taking some measurements.”
“Well, you’ll have to wait. I’m working.”
Will blows out his breath. “Seriously? It’ll take ten minutes. The rest of my guys already went home.”
“Seriously,” I say, finally looking up at him. “I don’t know what part of ‘I’m working’ you’re not getting, but I’m re-shelving. I’ll let you know when I’m done.”
“Jesus.” Will shakes his head and looks away, an irritated half-smile flashing across his face, like he can’t believe he has to work with me.
“Okay, how about this? I’ve got to get behind this bookcase to check the wall thickness.
You hold off for a sec while I do that, and then I’ll do the rest after you leave tonight.
You won’t have to see my face, and I won’t have to hear you bitch at me. ”
I scowl at him, but I want him out of my hair and this feels like the quickest way. “Fine. Make it quick.”
Will only grunts in reply. As I wheel my cart past him, I catch the tiniest whiff of his cologne. It’s mixed with sweat, but it’s still delicious, and I hate it. I also hate that I’m still fighting the urge to stare at the way his dampened t-shirt clings to his solid chest.
“Stand over there,” he instructs, pointing to the far wall. “These bitches are heavy, and I’d rather not have to deal with any crushed limbs.”
“How kind of you.” I’m not about to follow his pointing finger, but I move toward the adjacent wall where he set down the ladder, and he seems satisfied.
Leaning against the wall, I watch as Will pushes one of the heavy bookcases out from the wall. His shoulders strain beneath his t-shirt, biceps rippling as he grimaces with the effort. His arms look absolutely massive. Too bad he’s such a massive dick. And apparently also has a massive dick.
God. I’ve been listening to Autumn too much, who keeps telling me the fastest way to getting these blueprints changed is to get under the architect. I need to get a handle on myself.
Having lifted the far end of the book case, Will’s now on the other side of it, coming to push the other end toward the center of the room. I can hear him cursing under his breath.
“You good?” I ask, in spite of myself. It’s not like there’s much I can do to help if he isn’t. These bookcases are insanely heavy, and a little part of me is impressed he’s able to move them around by himself.
“Yeah,” he grunts. Although he’s not far from me, he’s still on the other side of the bookcase, so I can only hear his voice through the shelves. “I think there’s a nail or something in the floorboards, though. It’s caught on something.”
I sigh loudly. “Want me to go get one of the other guys you have traipsing through here? I don’t have all day.”
“I told you. They went home.”
I can’t see his face, but I see the bookcase wobble. He must still be trying to get it over the catch in the floor. Knowing he can’t see me, I roll my eyes. Men. Always have to do everything themselves.
Suddenly, the nearby end of the bookcase—the one Will’s directly behind—jumps a foot in the air and the top of it teeters wildly.
Books start avalanching down, and it takes a second before I can even tell what’s happening, they’re falling off the shelf so fast. Barely thinking, I throw myself backward, crashing into something behind me.
And then everything happens so quickly it’s a blur.
I must’ve crashed into the ladder, because suddenly, I turn to see it towering above me, wobbling dangerously and then falling toward me.
I freeze. My whole body’s cold. But then Will shoots out from behind the bookcase and hurls himself at me, his huge arms coming on either side of me to catch the ladder before it crashes onto my head.
I’m face to face with his chest, and it’s even more solid up close than it looks from afar.
Still frozen from shock, I realize I’m barely breathing. As Will strains to right the ladder, the hem of his shirt slides up, revealing two delicious lines that slope down into his jeans and make my breath hitch even more.
It’s also hard not to notice the curve of his bulge, which is now about an inch away from me. It looks… substantial. Like he said.
Will shoves the ladder back against the wall, and it lands with a clang.
He stands looking at it for a moment, panting, and then, as though deciding better, strides past me to pick it up again.
Carefully, he maneuvers it away from me and lays it down on the ground. Then he turns back to me and glares.
“I thought I told you to stand by the far wall.”
Seriously? No ‘are you okay’? No sign of concern, no nothing? I don’t care how many caramel apples he buys me—this guy is a piece of work.
“Okay?” I snap, feeling my anger rise. “And? You shouldn’t have leaned the ladder against the wall like that!”
“Well, it wouldn’t have mattered if you’d just done what I asked you to!” His voice is a growl.
Did he just save me from getting crushed by a ladder? Sure. But to blame me for his mistake? Get real. This time I let him see me roll my eyes. And then I walk right up to him—so close we’re almost touching—and look up into his face, meeting his glare with one of my own.
“So, what?” I say, pressing a finger into his solid chest. “You’re not the boss of me.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know how childish they sound. But I don’t care. Because Will Holloway has royally pissed me off, and I’m sick of being polite.