Chapter Three
Lucy
My knees press into the dragon’s hardened scales as the wind lashes against my face, whipping my hair into my eyes.
My heart pounds wildly, the sound of it drowning out everything else.
I dare a glance over my shoulder, searching the sky for the dark figure that’s been chasing me, but there’s nothing there.
Just endless blue stretching in every direction.
He’s still out there. I know he is.
“Higher!” I shout, my voice barely cutting through the roar of the wind.
The dragon surges upward, wings beating furiously as the ground disappears below us. I cling tighter, burying my face against the warm ridges of its neck, willing myself not to panic. How much longer before everything comes crashing down?
I need—
A shadow falls across the table.
I suck in a sharp breath, my body jolting as the world snaps back into place. The dragon vanishes. The sky dissolves. In its place is a café, the low hum of conversation, and a pair of piercing blue eyes staring directly at me.
“Library Girl.”
For one disorienting second, I’m still halfway in the sky.
“Boy Who Fixed My Car.”
His grin is slow and unapologetic, as if he knew I’d call him that.
He taps his knuckles lightly against the table, entirely too relaxed for someone who just interrupted a life-or-death dragon chase.
“I’m waiting for someone.” I lift an eyebrow, hoping he understands the dismissal.
“Does this someone have a name?”
“Dylan,” I answer, glancing around.
This table is usually mine, or as close to mine as a public table can be.
It sits far enough from the counter that no one expects conversation but close enough for Gretchen to refill my mug without asking.
The chair across from me is almost always empty.
I use it for my bag, a stack of books, or the imaginary company of whichever character has followed me out of a chapter.
Instead, his gaze flicks down to the cover. “What’re you reading?”
“A fantasy.”
“What kind?”
“Dragons.”
His lips twitch. “So, romantic fantasy.”
“Maybe.”
He hums, clearly pleased with himself. “Is there romance in it?”
That does it.
I snap the book shut and glare at him. “I really am waiting for someone, and I’m not in the mood to chat with some football player whose dad is a mechanic.”
“Ouch,” he says, laughing softly. “Some football player?”
“I’m assuming,” I say, crossing my arms, “since you were hanging out with the team last night.”
“Fair assumption,” he replies easily.
And then, to my horror, pulls out the chair across from me and sits down like this was always his plan.
“That seat is taken,” I groan.
His gaze drops to the cover. “Can I?”
Before I can decide whether to say no, he tips the book gently toward himself, reading the synopsis upside down.
“Called it.” He taps the cover once. “Romantic fantasy.”
I clap my hands together in exaggerated enthusiasm. “Amazing. Truly. Now that you’ve solved the mystery, can you please leave?”
He goes quiet, as though he’s reconsidering everything he assumed about me.
“How do you feel about Shakespeare?”
I stare at him. “Shakespeare?”
“Yes.”
“I tell you I’m meeting someone, and you take that as an invitation to sit down and discuss Shakespeare?”
“Correct.”
I narrow my eyes. “Comedies or tragedies?”
“Both.”
“You’re impossible.”
He grins, completely unbothered. “We can switch to novelists if you’d prefer.”
“Let me guess. Your favorite writer is Hemingway.”
“I liked A Farewell to Arms, but no.”
“Fitzgerald.”
“Overrated.”
I study him more carefully now—the rugged stubble, the dimple in his right cheek, the kind of wild eyebrows that make him look slightly untamed despite the clean-cut athlete thing he has going on.
“Kerouac,” I guess.
The pause gives him away before he answers. “Took you long enough.”
“Tom Sawyer,” I add dryly. “You strike me as a Tom Sawyer guy.”
“That’s actually one of my favorites.”
“Of course it is.”
He leans back slightly, watching me with unsettling focus.
My eyebrows lift.
“Wuthering Heights is your comfort read,” he says.
“Absolutely not.”
“Too much emotional destruction?”
“Too many people making terrible decisions on the moors.”
“You like Pride and Prejudice,” he continues, “but you love one of Austen’s other books more. Emma or…” He studies me, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Persuasion.”
“You seem very confident.”
“No.” He snaps his fingers lightly. “Wait. Lady Susan.”
“I’ve never read Lady Susan.” The admission escapes before I can reconsider it.
His eyebrows raise. “Really?”
“I haven’t gotten around to it.”
“You would like it,” he says with complete confidence.
“So I’ve been told,” I mutter, folding my arms.
He watches me for a second longer than necessary.
“What’s wrong, Library Girl?”
“I told you,” I say, exhaling sharply. “I’m meeting someone. I would appreciate it if you weren’t here when he arrives.”
“You got a hot date or something?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
“That’s none of your business.”
He lifts both hands in surrender. “Okay. Okay.”
I press my palms to the table, trying to steady myself. “I’m not great at this. First meetings. First impressions. I didn’t even want to come, but I promised someone I would. And you being here is only making it harder.”
I almost canceled on Kate today. The thought of saying the wrong thing to her son—or confirming every awkward assumption anyone has ever had of me—nearly kept me at home.
And for a split second, I wonder if he’s the type of person I could be friends with. If he wasn’t so irritating.
“Who did you promise?” he asks quietly.
“Someone you don’t know.”
“Why aren’t you great at first impressions?”
I shrug and focus on my mug. “Because I’m awkward. I read a lot. That tends to confuse people.”
He nods slowly. “In high school, I was the jock who read on a bench outside the library.”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you mocking me?”
“No.” His voice turns earnest. Honest. “I know what it’s like to be misunderstood.”
The sincerity catches me off guard. I don’t know what to do with it.
“Whatever,” I say quickly, retreating. “I’d really like it if you would leave. Please.”
“Can I get you anything?” Gretchen interrupts, tapping a pen on her notepad.
“Coffee,” he answers.
My eyes widen.
“No,” I say to Gretchen. “He’s not staying.”
Gretchen looks from him to me, catches the warning in my expression, and writes something on her pad. “One coffee. To go.”
“No—”
But Dylan smoothly cuts me off.
“To-go cup works.”
Gretchen tears the order from her pad and heads back toward the counter.
Before I can argue again, he pulls out his phone and slides it across the table.
My heart stutters when I see my name in a text message thread.
“You’re Dylan?” I whisper.
“I am.” His expression shifts. He’s less amused now, more careful. “Dylan Sharpe. Kate Sharpe’s son.”
Heat floods my face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He runs a hand through his hair, clearly caught off guard. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Of all people.”
“Why not?” I ask, still trying to recalibrate my brain.
“You’re Library Girl,” he says.
I stiffen. “And what exactly does that mean?”
“I’ve seen you around campus, but always near the library or one of the humanities buildings.”
The words aren’t cruel, but they land harder than he intends.
“I don’t live there,” I say lightly, as though the assumption doesn’t bother me.
“That sounded worse out loud. I only meant that’s where everyone seems to know you from.”
I let out a short laugh. “I’ve never seen you in this café before, and I’m here all the time. Maybe we just don’t exist in the same places.”
He considers that, then leans forward, elbows resting on the table. “You’re right. I’m sorry. That came out wrong.”
I meet his gaze, surprised by the sincerity there. People don’t usually apologize to me.
“Uh… thank you.”
For a moment, neither of us moves. The café noise fades into the background, and the air between us feels charged, as if something’s humming just beneath the surface.
I look away first, cheeks warming.
“So.” Dylan leans back, easing some of the tension between us. “How did my mom con you into this?”
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “You don’t want to know.”
“No,” he says. “I really do.”
“She told me you didn’t have many friends,” I admit. “And that she thought I might be someone you’d get along with.”
“She did not.”
“She absolutely did.”
He shakes his head, half amused, half exasperated. “She always does this. Butts into my life like it’s her job.”
“If it makes you feel any better,” I sigh, “she’s been relentlessly butting into mine for the past three months.”
That earns a real laugh, easy and unguarded. Something about the sound makes my heartbeat slow.
“Okay,” he says. “That actually does make me feel better.”
“So,” I say, leaning forward just slightly, “which Kerouac novel is your favorite?”
He takes a moment before answering. “The Town and the City.”
“His debut,” I say, impressed despite myself. “What do you like about it?”
He leans back in his chair, gaze drifting as he thinks. “I guess I connect with wanting something different from the life you were raised in but still feeling tied to it. Like no matter how far you go, something keeps pulling you back.”
“Roots and wings.”
He looks at me again. “What was that?”
I hesitate, then decide not to retreat. “It’s hard to have both. Roots keep you grounded, but wings make you curious. Sometimes it feels like you have to choose.”
His expression softens. “Yeah. Exactly.”
“I’ve never really spread my wings,” I say. “My roots run deep.”
“You grew up here?”
“I did.” Pride rises first. Uncertainty follows close behind. “I love it here. I’ve never wanted to live anywhere else.”
“And after graduation?” he asks softly. “Do you think that’ll change?”
“I don’t know.” The word comes out quietly. The future feels like a question I’ve been avoiding for years.
“What’s it like?” he asks.
“Not knowing?”
“No,” he says. “Wanting to stay somewhere everyone else seems eager to leave.”
I trace the edge of my book with my fingertip, thinking. “It’s comfortable.”
“That sounds nice.”
“It is,” I agree. “Sometimes it’s too comfortable.”
His expression warms. “Where’s the farthest you’ve ever traveled?”
“The county line,” I say dryly.
He laughs, but there’s no mockery in it. Just warmth.
I’ve never dreamed beyond the end of the street. I wouldn’t even know where to go if someone offered me a plane ticket.
Dylan’s mouth curves, drawing my attention there before I can stop it. “I’ve always had plans,” he says, almost to himself. “Lots of them.”
“Was football one of them?”
He presses his lips together, thinking. “Yeah. One of many.”
“What excites you about football?”
He thinks for a moment. “The second before the snap. Everyone’s moving, shouting, trying to disguise what they’re about to do, and I have to make sense of it before the ball moves.”
I smile. “Okay. An easier question. Favorite Shakespeare tragedy?”
“Hamlet,” he answers without hesitation.
“And comedy?”
“A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
Some of my remaining nervousness slips away. I’ve never talked to someone this long without searching for an excuse to escape.
With Dylan, it’s just… easy.
“What about you, Library Girl?” he asks, leaning forward slightly. “Favorite tragedy?”
“Romeo and Juliet,” I say. “Not every romance has to end happily.”
“Most of them don’t,” he says.
The weight behind his words makes me pause.
“My parents divorced when I was thirteen,” he adds, like he knows exactly what I’m wondering.
“I’m sorry,” I say softly.
“It’s okay. They just fell out of love.”
“My parents met when they were ten and have been convinced they were meant for each other ever since.”
“Sounds like they were one of the lucky ones.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you ever come to any of the football games?”
I swallow hard. “I went to a game my first year with my dad. We left early when we both realized neither of us had any idea what was going on. Since then, I’ve stayed far away from Ashby Stadium.”
He glances toward the window, then back at me, as though he’s reached a decision he didn’t intend to make.
“They’re doing Romeo and Juliet at Shakespeare in the Park tomorrow. You should come with me.”
He catches me completely unprepared. “Are you asking me on a date?”
“Yeah, I guess I am.”
Heat rushes to my face. I rub the back of my neck, pretending I’m not internally spiraling. “I would like that.”
“Can we keep it just between us?” he asks, scrunching his nose. “If my mom finds out, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“If the library staff finds out,” I add, “I’ll never hear the end of it either.”
He laughs, full and unguarded. “I didn’t know you were funny.”
“I didn’t know I was either,” I say.
“I’ve got film in an hour,” he says reluctantly as Gretchen arrives with his to-go cup. “Tomorrow evening, after team meetings?”
“Okay,” I say, my heart doing a small, traitorous flip.
“I’ll see you then.” He stands, smiling at me like this moment matters. “It was really nice talking to you, Library Girl.”
“Same, Boy Who Fixed My Car.”
When he leaves, I sink deeper into my chair, shock and excitement leaving me strangely weightless.
I have a date with a football player.
Ms. Thorn is never going to believe this.