1. Jane
CHAPTER 1
JANE
“Why not wait at the library?” Mom asks, and though we’re talking on the phone, I can sense the worry on her kind face. “I thought this interview was important.”
Important is an understatement. This librarian job is The One Ring, and I’m Gollum for it.
Gripping the phone tighter, I look around at my picturesque Central Park surroundings. “I knew sitting in the waiting room for too long would make me nervous, so I took a promenade.” Not that it helped much.
Mom gasps audibly. “Is ‘promenade’ what the kids are calling Xanax these days?”
I almost drop my phone into the serene waters of the nearby lake. “A promenade is a leisurely walk in a public place. Sorry—another one of those historical romance words.”
“Oh.” Mom sounds way too relieved, considering I’ve never done drugs. “Make sure to tell them how much you like those books.”
Huh. Saying that I merely like historical romance is like saying Glenn Close’s character was kind of into Michael Douglas in Fatal Attraction . Or that Hannibal Lecter was peckish for human livers with fava beans in The Silence of the Lambs .
The alarm on my phone goes off, spiking my heartbeat. “It’s time to head over there,” I tell Mom. “I only have ten minutes before my interview starts, and it’s a five-minute walk.”
“Go then,” Mom says. “Hurry. I’m sure you’ll crush it.”
“Thanks.” Hanging up, I smooth the skirt of the suit I bought with the last of my money—clothes I’ll have to return if I don’t get the job.
But I will, of course. This library has the best collection of historical romance in the world, and I’m the most avid historical romance reader there is. It’s a match made in Victorian England.
Miss Miller tightens her stifling corset, readjusts her bonnet, and lifts her chin. During trying times such as this, a lady must keep a stiff upper lip.
Yes, that’s better. When I need to calm down or cheer myself up, I often cast myself in the role of a nineteenth-century lady named Miss Jane Miller. She’s the daughter of a baron who impregnated her mother out of wedlock and then promptly died on a ship that was hunting sperm whales. According to survivors, the good baron was humped to death by the majestic beast’s eight-foot cock—which, to me, seems like a fittingly ironic fate for a useless sperm donor.
To further relax myself, I pop in my headphones and play the theme from Netflix’s Bridgerton .
A menacing white shadow appears in the corner of my eye.
I turn, and my already-pounding heart nearly jumps out of my throat as I freeze on the spot, a dozen questions forming in my mind.
Is that a sheep? If so, what’s it doing in Manhattan? Why is it running at me? Is it wagging its tail? Can you be killed by a?—
Snapping out of my stupor, I attempt to move out of the ruminant’s path, but it’s too late. The massive thing is already upon me, standing on its hind devil-hooves and plopping its front ones on my shoulders with the force of Thor’s hammer.
I fly backward.
The ground slams into me.
Air rushes out of my lungs, and it’s a struggle to breathe.
There’s thick liquid all around me.
Blood? Brains?
No, worse.
It’s mud. Mud that probably saved me from an injury but has destroyed my hopes of looking presentable.
I suck in some air and thank God I’m not dead. As far as embarrassing ways to die go, getting killed by a sheep is up there with getting mauled by a hamster and licked to death by a kitten. The fact that I’d die a twenty-three-year-old virgin would just be the cherry on top of a multilayered shit-cake.
The sheep is right in my face now. Is it about to eat my eyelids? Or chew the glasses that, by some miracle, are still on my nose?
Nope. It licks my cheek.
Its breath smells like chicken and sweet potatoes.
What the hell?
Wait a second. This sheep’s fur smells suspiciously like a wet dog. Almost as if?—
“I’m so sorry,” says the sheep in a deep, rich, smooth-as-melted-chocolate voice. “The leash slipped from my hands.”
“You’re a dog?” I ask the sheep, my mind still muddled.
“I’m not,” it—or whoever—says. “I’m Adrian. The dog is Leo, and he sounds like this.” The voice changes to sound an octave higher and sped up, like this person has eaten an overcaffeinated chipmunk. “You smell good. The mud is fun. I’m sorry I made you fall. Sometimes I forget I’m not a puppy anymore.”
The dog that is not a sheep—Leo—moves out of my view, and I finally spot the speaker.
The sight evaporates whatever air I’ve reclaimed.
The man’s—Adrian’s—face is perfectly proportioned, with an aristocratic nose, a powerful chin, and silver-colored eyes that gleam roguishly. Yes, roguishly. With his broad shoulders and dark, windswept hair that extends past his ears, he could be copy-pasted onto a historical romance book cover; all they’d need to do is Photoshop in some period clothing.
Taken by the Duke , the title of said romance would read. Or Marquess’s Reluctant Bride. Thy Name is Earl. Baron’s Virgin Mistress. Scoundrel Viscount’s Wallflower ? —
He kneels next to me.
Are my glasses fogging up, or my retinas? Such unadulterated handsomeness should come with a warning.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
Am I? I’m anxious, shaken, and much too turned on considering my predicament, but mostly, I feel like I’m forgetting something extremely important.
Then it hits me.
The interview! How could I forget about that, even for a moment? Do I have windmills in my head?
“I’m late,” I announce and move to sit up.
Hell’s bells. My arms flail, and chunks of mud fly in every direction—including toward Leo, who licks them eagerly, and Adrian, who takes it stoically.
“Are you sure you’re ready to get up?” Adrian asks as he extends his hand to me.
“It doesn’t matter if I’m ready.” I grab his hand—and then nearly collapse back on the ground in a fit of the vapors.
His skin is hot like a raging furnace, and that heat permeates my body, melting everything in its wake.
Uh-oh. Miss Miller feels a yearning in her most secret place. A most unladylike tingle that ? —
“I don’t think you’ve recovered yet,” Adrian says as he helps me get to my feet. “Let’s have you sit on that bench over there.”
“Can’t,” I pant, pulling my hand out of his grasp before I combust. “Must run.”
His expression hardens. “You could have a concussion.”
“And whose fault is that?” I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m late for an interview. For my dream job. Can you stop getting in my way?”
“An interview?” He drags his gaze over me. “Looking like that?”
I glance down and wish I hadn’t. “Oh, no. I’m dirtier than a pig.”
“Pigs aren’t actually dirty,” Adrian says. “They use mud to cool off, and as sunscreen and bug repellent.”
Miss Miller fights the urge to slap the scoundrel’s high-cheekboned face.
“That’s such a helpful lesson in husbandry, thanks.” I step out of the mud. My knees are wobbly at first, but with each step, I’m feeling more and more like myself—just a much, much filthier version.
“Wait,” he calls after me. “Let me at least help you.”
I don’t wait, but he catches up with me and grabs my elbow—like we’re about to go for a stroll before teatime.
Once again, my treacherous body reacts to his touch with the most inappropriate intensity.
Sheesh. If by some miracle I get this job, I’ll have to move Project Grand Deflowering to the top of my to-do list. Not getting any for so long has clearly turned me into a hormonal powder keg, ready to blow the first stranger I meet.
Miss Miller finds that last thought unseemly.
“Would they let you reschedule?” Adrian asks, still keeping a hold of my elbow.
“I doubt it,” I say. “I wouldn’t.”
“It’s just that I live right across the street,” he says. “We could get your clothes laundered in an hour.”
I blush like the maiden I am. “Are you trying to get me out of my clothes?”
His smile is cocky. “Do. Or do not. There is no try.”
I free my arm from his. “Keep Yoda in your pants.”
A total rake. I should’ve figured.
Speeding up, I leave him behind—for a second, anyway.
“Hold on.” He catches up with me, Leo panting at his heels. “I meant the laundry offer.”
“And I mean this: even if I weren’t in a rush, the answer would be ‘hell no.’”
He sighs. “Can I at least?—”
“This is my destination,” I say breathlessly as I halt next to the library. “It was not a pleasure meeting you.”
He smiles wickedly. “The lack of pleasure was all mine.”
When I enter the library, the smell of books cools my burning cheeks and calms me a bit, at least until people start looking at me pityingly.
“I’m here for the interview,” I blurt to the guy at the counter.
“Mrs. Corsica is through there.” He gestures at the door behind him. Wincing visibly, he adds, “She won’t be pleased that you’re late.”
So on top of being inappropriately aroused and covered in dirt, I’m also late? What’s next? Bird poop on my head, so I smell like how I look?
I sprint for the office door like I’m being chased by wild horses. As I knock, I try to get my frantic panting under control.
“Come in,” a woman’s voice says in a displeased tone that doesn’t bode well.
I enter.
To say that Mrs. Corsica looks stern would be to greatly understate the case. With her formal attire, straight posture, and cold gray eyes, she reminds me of a wicked dowager duchess who’s just met a heroine she considers to be far, far below the hero’s station.
God. Even if I’d come on time and looking presentable, I’d be worried about my chances with an interviewer like this. As is, I might as well forget about the job.
“When did you think this interview was supposed to start?” Mrs. Corsica demands.
I turn so she can see the mud, then say, “There was an accident on my way here. I’m very sorry.” I doubt it would help if I also told her, “A dog that belongs to a very hot guy pushed me down.” That sounds like a less plausible version of “the dog ate my homework.”
Nodding disapprovingly, Mrs. Corsica says, “Do you mind doing the interview standing? That guest chair is an antique.”
“No problem,” I say with faux cheerfulness. In reality, standing when an older woman is sitting seems rude, but what can I do? It’s not like I have a shot at the job at this point, so my best bet is to treat this as a chance to practice my interview skills under extremely difficult conditions.
“Tell me why I should hire you,” Mrs. Corsica says, and I can almost hear the unstated, “Not that anything you say at this point will convince me.”
This is the hardest part of the interview process because I’m humble by nature, so selling myself is much harder for me than answering specific questions. Nevertheless, I launch into the spiel I’ve rehearsed in my head for a few years, one that highlights how organized and detail-oriented, how good with the latest library tech, and how amazing at research I am. As a coup de grace, I tell her how much I love reading and how big of a dream it is for me to work with books.
The whole time, Mrs. Corsica’s expression is so unreadable that I start to wonder if she abuses Botox, is a poker champion, or was replaced by a wax statue when I blinked.
“Your only focus is books?” she asks. “A curator needs to be knowledgeable about many different forms of media.”
I explain that I stay up to speed on movies and TV shows, and even challenge her to ask me about one if she wants.
She does, and I get lucky for the first time today. Her question is about Sense and Sensibility , which I’ve obviously seen and read, having been named after Jane Austen and the film being one of a small handful of historical romances.
She next asks me about my Master’s thesis and work experience at Columbia University’s library.
As I speak, I do my best not to shift from foot to foot and not to think about Adrian, both herculean tasks.
Eventually, Mrs. Corsica must feel that she’s asked enough questions politeness dictates in a case when you have no desire to actually hire someone for the job—a bit like my conversation with my date the other day, after the man turned out to be at least twenty years older than he looked in his profile photo.
“Thank you,” Mrs. Corsica says frostily. “You’ll hear from us.”
Translation: you’ll get this job over my dead body. Get the hell out of here, and for the love of God, clean yourself up.