Holy Shit
Chapter Eighteen
The invitation came on a Wednesday evening while we were tangled together on the couch, Vera reading aloud from Persuasion while I traced lazy patterns on her thigh, half-listening to Captain Wentworth's letter and half-drowning in the cadence of her voice.
"There's a library event next week," she said, setting the book aside. "Special book club discussion. We're doing a local author spotlight. There's this woman from Phoenix who writes historical fiction set in Arizona. It's kind of a big deal for us."
"Sounds nice," I murmured, my fingers continuing their exploration of the silky skin above her knee.
"I was hoping you'd come." Her voice carried a careful note, like she was asking for something she wasn't sure she'd get. "But you don't have to. I know it's not your thing."
I stopped my wandering touch, looking up to meet her cornflower eyes. They held that particular blend of hope and resignation that made my chest hurt, like she expected me to decline but was brave enough to ask anyway.
"If it's important to you, I'm there."
Her face transformed, brightening. "Really?"
"Really." I pulled her closer, pressing a kiss to her temple. "When is it?"
"Friday evening. Seven o'clock. It's wine and cheese, kind of fancy for San Jacinto." She bit her lip, and I could see her already trying to manage expectations. "You really don't have to feel obligated—"
"Vera." I cupped her face, my thumb stroking her cheekbone. "I want to be there. I want to see you in your world, doing what you love. Besides," I added with a grin, "someone's got to make sure all those book nerds know you're taken."
She laughed, that bright tinkling sound that never failed to make me smile, and kissed me thoroughly enough that Persuasion got forgotten on the floor and we didn't make it to the bedroom until much later.
Friday evening found me standing in front of our bedroom mirror, adjusting my collar for the third time and feeling ridiculous.
I'd pulled out my nicest suit, a dark navy color, purchased years ago for a funeral and rarely worn since. The pants fit perfectly, tailored to hug my hips and legs in a professional but undeniably flattering way. But it was the shirt and jacket combination that had me second-guessing everything.
White shirt, crisp and expensive. I'd left the top three buttons undone, enough to show the hollow of my throat and the tanned expanse of skin below.
My clavicles stood out sharp and pronounced, drawing the eye down to where my tattoos began their journey up from my chest, the phoenix's wing spreading across my ribs and up into the corners of my chest, the top curves of Lucas and Santi's initials visible above my heart.
The jacket hung open, casual despite its formal cut, the sleeves pushed up slightly to show my forearms.
I looked like I was trying to seduce someone at a funeral.
Books weren't my thing. People weren't my thing. But Vera was my thing, so I'd make it work.
"Holy shit," Vera breathed from the doorway.
I turned to find her frozen in place, one hand gripping the doorframe, her eyes wide and dark as they traveled over me with unconcealed hunger.
She wore a navy dress with a fitted bodice and full skirt, the kind of vintage piece that made her look like she'd stepped out of an old movie.
Her hair was styled in flowing waves, her lips painted ruby red.
But she wasn't looking at her own reflection. She was staring at me like I was something to be devoured.
"Is it too much?" I asked, suddenly self-conscious. "I can button up more—"
"Don't you dare." She crossed to me in three quick steps, her hands immediately seeking my exposed chest, fingers tracing the visible ink. "Petra, you look... god, you're so fucking hot I can barely think straight."
Heat flooded through me at the raw desire in her voice. "Yeah?"
"You have no idea what you do to me." Her fingers traced my clavicle, following the sharp line to where it disappeared under the shirt.
"Walking around looking like sex personified.
Those forearms, that chest, the way the suit fits you...
" She bit her lip, her cheeks flushing. "We're going to be late if you keep looking at me like that. "
"You're the one looking at me like that," I pointed out, catching her hand and bringing it to my lips.
"Can you blame me? You're wearing a suit looking like that with your shirt unbuttoned like you're about to fuck up some poor girl’s life." She pressed closer, her voice dropping. "Specifically mine."
I grinned, pulling her against me. "We're going to be late."
"Worth it," she murmured, but she let me take her hand and lead her toward the door, though not before stealing one more appreciative look that made my skin flush hot.
The San Jacinto Public Library had been transformed for the evening.
String lights hung from the ceiling of the community room, casting everything in a warm, brilliant light.
Tables draped in white cloth held trays of cheese and crackers, bottles of wine, and little clusters of grapes.
Bookshelves lined the walls, and vintage reading posters created a backdrop that was both charming and slightly intimidating.
I'd walked into a different world. Everyone was discussing literary themes and symbolism while I mentally calculated fuel loads and wind patterns from muscle memory to occupy my thoughts and settle my anxiety.
The crowd was exactly what I'd expected, consisting of cardigans and reading glasses, gentle voices and controlled laughter.
Soft people who spent their days with books instead of fire.
I stood out like a torch in a library full of candles.
Several pairs of eyes tracked my entrance, and I caught fragments of whispered observations:
"Is that Vera's girlfriend?"
"My god, look at her..."
"Those tattoos..."
"That suit..."
Vera's hand found mine, squeezing gently, and when I looked down at her, she was smirking. "Told you that you looked incredible."
"You failed to mention I'd cause a scene."
"Oh, I knew exactly what I was doing." Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "I wanted everyone to see exactly who I'm going home with tonight."
Before I could respond, a woman approached, about sixty-something, with steel-gray hair styled in a neat bob and shrewd eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. She carried herself with the silent authority of someone who'd been running this library since before I was born.
"So, you're Petra." Her voice was measured, assessing, though I caught the way her gaze briefly dropped to my exposed chest before returning to my face. "Vera talks about you constantly."
"Good things, I hope." I extended my hand, and she took it with a surprisingly firm grip.
"We'll see." Vera had mentioned her, Helen, the head librarian who'd mentored her since she started. Helen looked me over with the thoroughness of law enforcement conducting a background check. "Vera says you're a firefighter."
"Helitack crew forewoman, yes ma'am."
Something flickered in her expression. Not quite approval, but acknowledgment. "Dangerous work."
"Someone has to do it.”
"Oh my god, you're even hotter than Vera said!"
I turned to find a young woman bouncing toward us, dark curls wild around her face, her smile bright and unguarded. She couldn't have been more than twenty-five, wearing a dress covered in a book print that somehow worked on her.
"Becca," Vera said, half-laughing, half-mortified.
"Sorry, was that inappropriate?" Becca didn't look sorry at all. She extended her hand to me with enthusiasm. "I'm Becca. I work circulation and I loooove your tattoos. Very motorcycle gang chic. Also, that suit? Illegal. Should come with a warning label."
Despite myself, I laughed. "Thanks. Um, I think."
"She means it as a compliment," said a man joining our circle, his arm around another man's waist. "I'm James, reference desk.
This is my husband, Marcus. And yes, Becca's right.
That suit is a crime. Also, your whole…" he gestured vaguely at me, "energy.
Very mysterious badass energy. The open shirt showing the tattoos? Chef's kiss."
"Stop flirting with Vera's girlfriend," Marcus said, swatting James's arm affectionately.
"I'm just appreciating! Aesthetically!" James protested. Then to me, "Firefighter, right? That's incredibly brave. And incredibly hot. Sorry, my husband thinks I have no filter."
"Because you don't," Marcus said, but he was smiling. He turned to me with more restraint. "Nice to meet you, Petra. Vera's told us a lot about you. And you do look very sharp tonight."
Another woman approached, and the temperature seemed to drop.
She looked about Vera's age, maybe a little older, with sharp features and sharper eyes.
Her dress was conservative, her posture rigid, and she looked at me like I was a problem she was trying to solve.
Her gaze lingered on my exposed chest with clear disapproval.
"Sarah," Vera said carefully. "This is Petra."
"Hello." Sarah's greeting was polite but cold, her handshake perfunctory. She barely met my eyes before turning to Vera. "We should probably start soon. The author will be here any minute."
She walked away without another word, and I felt the weight of her judgment like a sandbag on my shoulders.
"Don't mind Sarah," Becca said cheerfully. "She's protective of Vera. Like a mother hen, but less cuddly. And she's probably threatened by how hot you are."
"Becca," Vera warned, but she was fighting a smile.
“She really doesn’t like me, huh?” I said, mildly amused.
"She's just cautious," Vera said as lightly as she could manage, but I could hear the tension in her voice. "She'll warm up."
Helen was still watching me with those assessing eyes. "We should all take our seats. Petra, you're welcome to sit anywhere."
It was said kindly enough, but I heard the unspoken message: you don't have to stay if you're uncomfortable.
"I'll be in the back," I told Vera quietly. "You go do your thing."
"You sure?"