3. Artemis
ARTEMIS
My brain snapped into catalog mode.
Noise location: entrance.
Possibility of injury: high.
Universe’s agenda: petty.
I stood and dropped the towels, my focus shooting toward the doors.
Of course this happened at eight fifty.
I caught a glimpse of movement. A tall shape on the floor, long legs stretched across the tile. Water pooled around the figure in a widening circle. The door behind him was still half open, and the wind was driving the rain inside.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I muttered, then I rushed toward the entrance, towel half-forgotten in my hand, completely unaware that my entire night had just shifted into another category altogether. This had not been on my schedule.
The wet floor sign had spun so far across the tile that it had lodged itself against the fire extinguisher. Water continued stretching in a wide arc around the collapsed figure. For one wild second, I thought he had passed out, but then he moved.
I crouched beside him. “Are you hurt? Please tell me you aren’t concussed. I cannot handle paperwork right now.”
He pushed himself upright. And upright. And upright some more.
My brain paused.
How tall was this man?
He kept rising until I had to tilt my chin far higher than I liked to look at him. My neck made an uncomfortable sound as I continued to crane it. He steadied himself, then looked down at me. That was when the second shock hit.
His face.
He wasn’t normal handsome or average handsome.
He was classic handsome. Renaissance-painting handsome.
The kind reserved for portraits and actors who win lifetime awards.
Strong jaw. Dark hair damp against his forehead.
His presence filled the whole entryway and spilled into my bloodstream like it had decided to take up long-term residency.
I swallowed, aware that my mind had stopped filing coherent thoughts.
He met my gaze with a startling focus, as if he was cataloging me in return. We stared at each other a beat too long. Heat traveled up my neck and settled unpleasantly in my ears.
Say something normal, Artemis. Deploy sentence.
“Hi,” I blurted.
He blinked. I blinked. My dignity left the building.
“Are you hurt?” I added, except it came out clipped and cold, which was not what I intended. My tone had decided to betray me in public. Excellent.
He studied me. A strange concentration moved across his expression, as if he was assembling the right sentence. Then he spoke.
“I’m searching for a book,” he said, staring at my name tag. When I didn’t respond, he continued. “Recopilación de Linajes de Dragones Notables de este Milenio.”
His voice was deep and smooth, and he said the title in perfectly fluent Spanish that suggested serious study. My brain tried to reconcile the height, the formal coat, the clear Canadian energy, and the flawless Spanish. My knees almost forgot their purpose.
I stared at him as the words sank in with the slow horror of someone who prided herself on knowing every obscure title in her catalog, but I didn’t recognize the one he was looking for.
“I’m sorry. You’re looking for what?”
He repeated it in even more precise Spanish that scrambled my brain. I had never heard that title in my life, and I practically lived in this library.
“I can check the system,” I said, marching to the computer in a stiff attempt to reclaim professionalism. My hands trembled just enough to make typing an ordeal. “One moment.”
I pulled up the rare books catalog and entered the terms. My pulse thudded in my ears. I could feel him standing behind me, close enough that I sensed the shift in the room around him. An undeniable presence.
I swallowed. “This might take a second. Our system is old and resents being useful.”
“It is admirable,” he said mildly, “that it still serves.”
I paused, fingers hovering over the keys. “It crashes twice a week and once deleted an entire index of eighteenth-century pamphlets.”
“Even so,” he said. “Persistence is not diminished by inconvenience.”
I glanced back at him despite myself. He looked sincere. Thoughtful. Entirely wrong.
“That’s a very romantic way to describe outdated software,” I said.
He inclined his head. “History often survives in imperfect vessels.”
I turned back to the screen before my face gave me away. “Libraries survive because we update our systems. Romanticizing decay is how you lose things.”
“Or,” he said carefully, “how you learn what was worth saving.”
My fingers stilled for a beat, the full disaster of attraction settling into my spine.
This was going to be a problem.
“Patrons usually stand on the other side of the desk,” I said, keeping my tone neutral. “For security reasons.”
He stepped back at once. “My apologies.”
The distance returned, and I hated how a small part of me missed the nearness.
Focus, Artemis.
I typed the last accented character and hit search. The database spun for a moment, then populated the results.
The title appeared between two others that nearly made me snort.
Ancient Technologies: The Regression of Old World Technology and Barbaras Rhabarberbarbara, Second Edition.
Exactly the brand of chaos I had come to expect from this archive.
“We do have it,” I said.
He leaned in again, this time over the counter to view the screen, but still so near I felt his warmth. This guy had absolutely no understanding of personal space. My brain went offline, both thrilled and deeply overwhelmed. I forced myself to keep my attention on the screen.
“It’s in Special Collections,” I continued. “Follow me.”
I stepped out from behind the desk, hoping movement would mask the small storm inside me.
It did not.
My foot caught on absolutely nothing, and I pitched forward, arms flailing as if I’d never walked before in my life.
Classic Fartie Artie. Trip over nothing. Impress no one. Survive out of spite.
I caught myself on the edge of the desk with a muttered apology to no one in particular. He was already there, steadying without grabbing, like he had anticipated gravity betraying me.
He followed me down the aisle with an energy that felt grateful and attentive and somehow directed entirely at me. I tried to ignore how aware I was of his presence at my shoulder.
“You located it with the machine,” he said, sounding impressed. Of course, that made everything worse.
“The… computer,” I said. “Yes. That’s what it does.”
I couldn’t parse the awe on his face.
“You work with such skill.”
I blinked. Was he mocking me? Was he serious? Who praised someone for typing into a database? My cheeks warmed in self-defense.
“It’s standard library procedure,” I said. “Nothing special.”
“I disagree,” he said.
My knees protested again.
I walked faster to regain control of my dignity, leading him down the aisle toward the rare books room.
Out of habit, I washed my hands at the sink outside the door, dried them carefully, then keyed in.
The smell of aging paper, leather bindings, and the faint cleaning solution I always complained about wrapped around me.
The shelf where the book should have been sat at perfect eye level. I scanned the titles.
Left. Right. Up. Down.
Nothing.
It wasn’t there.
Of course.
I checked again, certain my AuDHD was doing that thing where certainty arrived before accuracy. Still nothing.
A small, quiet drop of disappointment hit my chest, but the sound beside me hit harder.
He looked devastated in a way that struck something soft inside me.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “It should be here. I don't understand why it is missing.”
He nodded slowly, but I could see the defeat settling on his shoulders.
I couldn’t stand it.
“Let me take your information,” I said quickly. “If it turns up, I’ll contact you.”
His expression shifted into confusion, as if the entire concept of exchanging contact information had never occurred to him. “Information.”
He looked genuinely lost.
Oh god. He thought I was hitting on him. He thought I was saying something suggestive.
Abort. Abort.
“I mean, your number,” I blurted. “For professional reasons. Strictly professional. So I can let you know when the book shows up.”
His face brightened instantly.
“Yes. That’s good,” he said.
He reached into his pocket and handed me his phone.
Just… handed to me.
“Can you find my number?” he asked. “I keep forgetting it.”
I stared at the phone. It wasn’t locked. In fact, it had absolutely nothing on it.
No password. No apps. No browser. No email. Only calling and texting.
Did this man live in a monastery or something?
I tapped through to the settings and located his number. “Here,” I said, pulling a pen from my pocket and writing it on the sticky pad I kept in my pocket.
When I handed the phone back, he reached for it.
And took my hand with it.
Just a gentle wrap of his fingers around mine, but the warmth of him seeped into me.
“Thank you,” he said with complete sincerity. “For your help. I hope I see you again.”
My chest constricted. His background image flashed across the screen before it dimmed. A woman and a man stood together, smiling at the camera, their arms around each other. Family. Loved ones. A piece of his world I would never know.
I cleared my throat. “For the book.”
“For the book,” he agreed.
He stepped back, giving me space again. My pulse kept its unreasonable pace.
Right. I needed to find that book. Immediately.
I wasn’t letting the most attractive, strangely bilingual, devastatingly earnest man I had ever met walk out of here empty-handed.
And some wild, reckless part of me wanted to be the reason he walked back in.
My apartment welcomed me with the quiet I craved every moment of the day.
Silence without judgment, which was the best kind of silence.
The hallway light cast a soft, golden glow over the open space, which always settled my pulse. The exposed brick caught the evening shadows in clean lines.
My bookshelves stood along the far wall, arranged in a system only I understood and didn’t need to defend.
The kitchen was small but perfect—its layout made cooking feel manageable even when my brain refused to cooperate. Through the sliding door, the balcony overlooked the Hudson, its lights stretching out in the distance like a long, steady horizon.
I set my keys in the bowl by the door and drew in a deep inhale of peace. I really did love it here. Loving a place was safer than loving people.
My mind dragged me back to the tall man in the library.
Rude.
And yet, I didn’t stop myself from thinking about him. His height. His face. His Spanish. His hand around mine. The way he had looked at me like I was competent—and like that was special.
His number in my pocket.
Not his name.
I groaned at myself. “Great. Anonymous Adonis with a very specific rare book request. I am thriving.” This was why I didn’t engage with strangers.
A knock sounded at my door. I opened it to find Eloise standing there, holding a baking tray.
“Good evening, Artemis,” she said. “I made your favorite: Luteal Phase Chocolate Explosion.”
I stared at her. “Why would you name it that?”
“It’s accurate,” she said.
“And unsettling.”
“I track patterns,” she replied.
“You track my cycles?”
“It’s only fair, since you track everything else.”
I had never once felt judged by her. That alone made this conversation possible. I stepped aside and let her in. Eloise moved into my kitchen with the confidence of someone who had co-signed the lease.
She hadn’t, but she had earned squatter’s rights emotionally.
She placed the muffins on the counter and made tea without asking me.
Eloise Kane had been my next-door neighbor for three months and the closest thing to a chosen aunt I had ever acquired.
She was in her early seventies with close-cropped, snow-white hair, and a sharp gaze that missed nothing.
Retired screenwriter. Former best-selling novelist. A woman who had opinions but never weaponized them.
There was a lifetime of wisdom packed into a body that barely reached my shoulder.
She had taken one look at me on move-in day, handed me a muffin, and decided I was hers.
She didn’t ask what I did wrong, why my parents weren’t involved in my life, or why I didn’t have any friends or a partner. She simply stayed. She brought comfort, safety, and a kind of steady presence I never expected to find as an adult.
I picked up a muffin and took a bite as she handed me a mug. The chocolate centered me for exactly three seconds before I moved to grab a book, forgetting I had a mug in my hand. The tea sloshed over the rim and spilled directly onto one of my favorite throw pillows on the couch.
I froze in horror.
“Oh no, no, no, no,” I muttered, quickly putting down the mug and muffin.
I grabbed a few napkins off the coffee table and blotted the pillow.
“This is fine. This is manageable. People handle spills every day. Entire civilizations have endured worse disasters. The Spanish archivist of 1394 mislabeled an entire vault of manuscripts and caused trade disputes across three kingdoms. I can handle a stained pillow.”
Behind me, Eloise let out a delighted sound. “There it is. The academic meltdown I was waiting for.”
I kept blotting the pillow even though the damp patch was growing wider.
Excellent problem solving, Fartie. “I shouldn’t be allowed near liquids.”
“You should not be allowed near your own brain,” she said. “It gets louder every time you panic.”
“I am not panicking,” I tried.
She raised one eyebrow. “You just invoked a medieval archivist to cope with a tea stain.”
I stopped patting. “I did.”
Eloise nodded. “You’re coping through excessive knowledge again. I was worried you might have stored your anxiety in a box like a normal person.”
I dropped the soiled napkins on the coffee table. “Normal is not my strength.”
“Good.” Eloise took my mug and poured fresh water over the teabag. “I don't think I need to ask, but how was your day? Tell me everything. The full story. Use details. I want to know why you’re red in the face and pretending you’re not flustered.”
“I am not flustered,” I lied.
Eloise stared at me. I stared back.
I lost the staring contest.
“Fine,” I said. “There was a man.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “A man.”
“A very tall man.”
She leaned her elbows on my counter. “Interesting.”
“He asked for a book we don’t have.”
“Tragic.”
“And he spoke perfect Spanish.”
“Oh dear,” she said. “You are doomed.”
I covered my face with both hands. “I never even got his name.”
Which was objectively humiliating.
I pulled out the sticky note, and she glanced down at the number in my hand. “You have his number, though.”
“For professional reasons.”
She smiled like she was ten steps ahead of me. “If you say so.”
“I do,” I insisted. Loudly. Unconvincingly.
Eloise gestured at my mug. “Drink. And then tell me the part where you decide you must locate this book even if it kills you.”
I stared into the tea. “I must locate this book. Even if it kills me.”
“I knew it,” she said.
And just like that, the night turned warm and steady again—even if a nameless, bilingual giant was now lodged firmly in my brain.
Because of a book. Obviously. Only the book.