The Librarian and the Mechanic (A Dash of Desire #2)

Chapter 1

Mallory Moran struggled to school her features. He normally read thrillers. Sometimes a horror novel or memoir was placed onto the circulation counter, but he’d never branched out any further than that. As a librarian, judging a patron’s reading habits was the greatest faux pas, but suppressing her reaction was the ultimate challenge. To be fair, she adored a good romance novel and had even read this exact one with her book club last month. Nevertheless, the idea of this man reading a shamelessly steamy book made her head spin.

Perhaps he didn’t realize it was a romance. The recent trend of discreet covers could be difficult to navigate if one didn’t know any better.

“Your hair is lighter.”

The statement hung in the air, her ears ringing as if a bomb had detonated. They’d never exchanged anything other than basic pleasantries— How are you and Fine, thanks and Have a good day and Thanks, you too —so her eyes rose to gawk at him in disbelief.

When she didn’t immediately respond, his frown deepened. He tended to scowl, which should have unnerved her, but she found it oddly soothing. After falling victim to a man whose captivating smile masked devastating lies and master manipulations, she considered glowers to be far more welcome.

Mallory was staring. But, in her defense, it was easy to get caught up in every aspect of him—his strong jaw, pillowy lips, and the ink-black hair that curled at the nape of his neck when it was humid, highlighting the sprinkle of silver strands. Even his grease-stained hands enthralled her on a regular basis. Yes, she could ogle him all day if given the chance, hence why she typically lowered her head to avoid eye contact when he approached the circulation desk every Friday afternoon.

People in small towns talked, so she’d pieced together bits of information about him. Other than his general reading habits, she knew his name was Joel Foster, he owned the town’s auto repair shop, and she had a dreadful crush on him.

A child’s shriek interrupted the excruciating silence between them, followed by gentle motherly scolds from the nearby children’s section. It was enough to shake Mallory out of her stupor.

“Yes, it is,” she choked out. “A little. I got highlights.”

“It looks nice,” Joel said plainly. Matter of fact, even. Not a hint of flirtation to be heard. But it was enough to completely unravel her.

In the spirit of the upcoming summer season, she’d splurged on a blond balayage. No one at work had commented on the change, but she chalked it up to how the highlights naturally blended into her light-brown hair. But he’d noticed, and that only added fuel to the fire that was her silly infatuation.

It was embarrassing to harbor a crush at her age. Such things were better suited to schoolgirls loitering at their lockers, counting down the days until they’d get their braces removed. Crushes weren’t for thirty-six-year-old women. But considering everything she’d endured the last few years, Mallory chose to take it as a sign that she wasn’t a lost cause. That her ex-husband hadn’t broken her completely.

Heat rushed to her face as she fumbled with opening the front cover of the book. After quickly scanning the barcode, she tucked the checkout receipt between the pages. But instead of her habit of placing the book on the mahogany counter and sliding it toward him, she actually handed it over. And then the moment she’d purposefully avoided for months happened.

Their fingers brushed.

Her inner swooning eighteenth-century maiden was activated, the simple touch of his skin enough to send her to an early grave. All the warmth centralized in her face shot down like a bullet train and pooled between her legs. The level of arousal was staggering enough that she quickly withdrew her hand and cradled it against her torso as if she’d been burned.

But he hadn’t grasped the book fully, and it tumbled to his feet. She watched with horror as it fell, the entire sequence so distressing it was almost in slow motion. In a futile effort to stop the inevitable, she reached over the desk to catch the novel, only to knock over a container of pens and the tiered tabletop literature stand of programming flyers. Everything scattered to the ground, culminating with the booming slap of the book as it hit the original hardwood floors, the sound reverberating through the quiet library.

That was a surefire way to kill the sexual desire pumping through her veins.

“Oh my God,” she bemoaned. “I’m so sorry.”

He held up a hand to silence her, then bent over to retrieve the wayward items, starting with the leaflets. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

What a disaster. She’d spent many lonely nights dreaming about the impossible moment when they’d finally discard their routine of rudimentary small talk. How the woman she’d once been would reemerge to charm him with some witty repartee, and his frown would transform into a lustful smile, and they’d escape to the stacks for a torrid tryst.

Instead, she’d made a fool of herself.

When he rose to his full height and placed the pens back in the container, she recalled the first time she’d laid eyes on him. Since she was of small stature, everyone was tall in her eyes. In actuality, Joel was likely just shy of six feet, but he was as burly as a bull. His sheer physicality was a sharp contrast to the sereneness of the library, and one peep of him strolling through the stacks made her rush in the other direction as if the hounds of hell were at her heels.

Despite that adverse reaction and quick getaway, she’d also imagined him pushing her against the shelves to run his teeth down the length of her neck. Nothing better than good old cognitive dissonance.

Later that night, she’d ordered her trusty vibrator and soon indulged in a library-set fantasy, with him as her leading man. Facing him the following week had been difficult, but there’d been no avoiding it—he was a creature of habit and never missed a Friday visit to the library.

And the fantasies hadn’t stopped there. Although, if anything could douse her lusty daydreams completely, it would be today’s spectacle.

“Thank you,” she murmured, gesturing halfheartedly to clarify. “About my hair. No one else noticed.”

He did a double take, his eyes narrowing. “You’re kidding me.”

Irritation was threaded into the timbre of his baritone voice. Mallory shook her head in silent reply, not keen on aggravating him further. The muscles in his throat strained like he wanted to say more, but all that emerged was an indignant scoff.

Eventually, he tucked the book underneath his arm, then rubbed his hands against his jeans. “Have a nice weekend.”

Back to the usual script.

“You too,” she muttered.

Soon he was out the door, her heart rate returned to normal, and the day continued.

But no, she wasn’t a complete lost cause. Because, hours later, her fingers still sizzled with the memory of his touch.

The pain of the past could barrel at someone like a monster truck, and it was usually in the most inopportune places. For Mallory, it was prompted by a particular scent. As she sat in the rustic tavern alongside her book club, the smell of her ex-husband’s cologne tingled her nostrils. Her spine turned to ice, and she glanced around warily.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” said her friend and boss, Vivian.

She hadn’t, thankfully. The skinny hipster who’d walked past wearing her ex’s cologne looked nothing like him. Pushing down the distress, she focused on Vivian and forced a smile. “Just a bit tired.”

Vivian considered her carefully before jumping back into one of the numerous conversations happening around the table. The ten women of varying ages and backgrounds were packed around a rectangular high-top table. Several wine glasses littered the space, plus two cheese and charcuterie boards that were nearly picked clean. It was Thursday night, and the bar was bustling, with soulful songs playing over the sound system.

When Mallory started as the library’s circulation supervisor, the director, Vivian, took her under her wing. And after years of struggling to establish a book club with regular attendance, Vivian had dubbed Mallory a genius when she suggested meeting at a popular bar a few towns away instead of in the library’s all-purpose room. Equal parts bookish discussion and night on the town , she’d called it, and Vivian had been wild over the idea.

The group had thrived over the past few months. Not to mention how it helped ease some of Mallory’s crushing loneliness. Book club reminded her of how things used to be—when she had heaps of friends, never-ending plans, and the world at her feet.

Until he happened.

The club spent the first half hour discussing that month’s book, but now that they’d all indulged in some libations, town gossip was the ruling topic.

“Guess who I saw walking down Main Street yesterday,” Vivian said to the cluster of women, tucking a strand of brassy red hair behind her ear.

Karla, the head barista at the bakery below Mallory’s apartment, perked up. “Who?”

“Christine.”

“You’re lying!”

“Swear to God.” Vivian lifted her hand as if under oath and then snatched her wine glass, sipping the liquid with a speaking look.

“Who’s Christine?” Mallory asked, glimpsing around at everyone for clues.

Despite nearly a year in town, she felt like the odd woman out during moments like these. It was one thing to be raised in a small town or move there to start a family, but it was another thing entirely to infiltrate one as a single adult.

After spending her adult life in an urban metropolis, she’d never expected to settle upstate in a town charming enough to be named Honeysuckle. It had been an adjustment—cars instead of subway trains, the whistle of wind instead of trucks hitting potholes—but she finally considered the small town her home. And the center of her world was the Honeysuckle Public Library, a picturesque Dutch Colonial stone structure on Main Street, surrounded by a garden of colorful wildflowers and honeysuckle bushes.

Inside, the stacks were cramped, and some of the amenities were outdated, but cozy nooks and crannies adorned the space. Armchairs were nestled in corners, paintings by local artists were affixed to the walls, and there was even the original stone fireplace from when the building was first constructed as a home in 1798. The entire place was the very definition of quaint. A bona fide dream come true.

And the weekly appearance of a hot mechanic was a bonus.

“You know Joel Foster?” Ariana asked, reading her mind. As the principal of Honeysuckle’s sole elementary school, she found adult outings like book club essential. “He runs the auto body shop in town?”

“Oh, uh, yes. I know of him, I mean. I don’t know him personally. He comes into the library sometimes, that’s all,” Mallory finished pitifully before gulping her semidry riesling.

The amused look on Vivian’s face proved that her explanation wasn’t anywhere near as smooth as she’d hoped it would be.

“Christine’s his ex-wife,” Karla told her. “They broke up, what, three years ago?”

Julie, the recently retired circulation supervisor whom Mallory had succeeded, grabbed a grape from the cheese board. “Maybe four.”

Instead of irrational jealousy, solace settled over Mallory. Divorce was a common occurrence nowadays and didn’t hold the same stigma it used to, but her status as a divorced woman produced an overwhelming sense of otherness at times. Hearing that Joel was also divorced created an uncanny comfort in her bones, as if they belonged to the same exclusive yet painful club.

Ariana raised her eyebrows. “You think she’s trying to win him back?”

Vivian scoffed. “Wouldn’t you if your ex looked like that?”

Laughter and titters rippled over the group, whereas acid burned in Mallory’s stomach. Ah, there was the jealousy. She’d barely spoken to the man—last week’s pitiful encounter notwithstanding—but the possibility of Joel reconciling with his ex-wife made her stomach twist like a churning sea.

But at the end of the day, crushes were irrational.

Before Mallory could subtly probe for more information, Vivian tilted her head and said, “Wait a second. Mallory, did you do something to your hair?”

Everyone turned toward her, and realization dawned. Compliments flew, and the conversation soon changed topics. An hour later, the waiter cleared the table, and chairs scraped the barroom floor as everyone stood to depart, exchanging hugs and goodbyes.

“Make sure to place your vote for next month’s book by Monday morning,” Vivian called out. “Stop by the circulation desk to submit your choice if you haven’t already.”

A chorus of replies followed, everything from Thanks for the reminder and Did it already to Can we get some steamier options next time?

When Mallory walked back to her car, Vivian’s piece of town gossip pushed her thoughts toward a subject she’d been actively avoiding. Her therapist broached the topic of dating during their last session, but she hadn’t given serious thought to getting involved with another man. Her emotions were too raw, her self-esteem still too battered.

But it went beyond simply dating again. Once upon a time, she’d been a true social butterfly, full of zest and moxie. Hell, she was even considered downright impulsive a vast majority of the time. But that devil-may-care attitude had brought her to a certain bar on a certain day and into the path of a certain man. The perfect target for a love bomb, and she’d fallen hook, line, and sinker. Heartache and trauma had followed, but she desperately missed the woman she’d once been. Oftentimes she wondered if that part of her was dead completely or buried somewhere deep inside, waiting to be resurrected.

But when it came to the topic of men, the crush on Joel had formed as a safety net of sorts. Secretly indulging in an innocent infatuation allowed her to view a man as a romantic partner again, as opposed to a manipulative monster bent on destroying her self-worth.

Granted, her vibrator would probably argue with the label of innocent infatuation, considering how overworked the poor toy was.

Nevertheless, continuing to construct a fantasy world around Joel wasn’t healthy. And as she sat in the silence of her vehicle, keys dangling in the ignition, she had to admit that it was time to get back in the saddle and squash this ridiculous fixation once and for all.

Time to breathe life back into the woman she once was.

She grabbed her phone and downloaded a popular dating app she’d heard Karla mention before. The bio she crafted was simple enough.

Mallory Moran, 36.

Librarian. Looking for genuine connection and kindness.

After uploading a few photos to the profile, she tossed her phone into her purse, eager to ignore it until the next morning. While proud of herself for dipping her toes back in, it wasn’t wise to immediately dive into the deep end.

Impulsive-ish. That’ll do for now.

The engine sprang to life as she turned the key before pulling out of the parking lot, heading back toward Honeysuckle. It was after dusk, and her yellow headlights cut through the dark, illuminating her path as she steered down the long and winding country roads. It had taken several weeks to get comfortable with driving after spending much of her life relying on public transit, but she now enjoyed the freedom it provided.

What she didn’t enjoy was how her car suddenly went haywire, the dashboard lights flashing as the vehicle jerked in an abnormal manner. Alarm surged through her as she pulled to the side of the road, wincing at the clanking sounds that roared from under the hood. Then the car stalled completely, and she rested her head against the steering wheel for a few seconds, praying under her breath.

She tried the ignition.

No dice.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”

Relief burst from her lungs when she grabbed her phone. One bar of service. Not much, but it was something. Dead zones were a normal occurrence upstate, and after years in the city, she still hadn’t adjusted to how easy it was to be totally unplugged from the world.

Her hands trembled as she unlocked the home screen and scrolled to the maps app. It took a while to generate, her heartbeat pounding the whole time, and she shrieked with triumph when the pin finally dropped. She made a mental note of her current location, then drew the map toward the main hub of Honeysuckle.

And there it was—Foster Auto Body.

It was after normal working hours, so she had no clue whether anyone would answer, but she was desperate with a capital D. Ringing sounded in her ear as the call connected.

As luck would have it, a male voice that was not Joel’s picked up. “Foster Auto Body, how can I help you?”

“Yes, hi. This is Mallory Moran, and?—”

“Oh, sure. The librarian. How’s it going?”

She hadn’t expected her reputation to proceed her, but that was a thought for another day. “Uh, not great. My car’s broken down, and?—”

“No worries, we’ll send a tow right out. Where are you?”

Remembering her pinned location on the map, she gave a general description of her whereabouts, hoping her clues were enough to locate her.

“Yeah, I know exactly where you are. Sit tight,” the man instructed. “Be there soon.”

The call ended, and she rested her head back against the seat. The night had taken a sharp turn downward, but help was on the way. And Joel was likely out at a romantic dinner with his ex-wife—or perhaps they’d moved on to reunion sex by now—so there was no chance she’d have to face him.