33. If You Give a Pig a Pancake
IF YOU GIVE A PIG A PANCAKE
Josie
At work on Friday morning, I bite into a brownie, and it’s so sinfully good, I moan shamelessly. Eddie chews his and whimpers loudly. Thalia devours hers and groans for days. “Dolores can never leave us,” she says of the dark chocolate treat, courtesy of the children’s librarian.
Someday maybe they’ll feel that way about me. But I keep that thought to myself, focusing on my colleague’s baking prowess instead. “I swear, I’m going to find a way to get her brownie recipe from her.”
“Good luck, sister. I’ve been trying for years,” Eddie says, shaking his bald head.
“I can see why,” I say as we finish off our brownies before the vultures from circulation can descend on them.
When we’re done, I head to the digital center on the second floor.
Thalia catches up with me on the staircase.
“Question for you, Josie. Do you think you could do a display for us at the fundraiser tomorrow? Of Your Next Five Reads recommendations?”
Did she just say a display? Like a display of books? I’m salivating. “Yes. For different combos of books?” It comes out like I’m on helium.
“Yes, maybe three or four sets total. Different genres for a table by the pancakes? To get the word out about the online recs you’ve been doing.”
“Yes,” I say. Possibly I sound louder than I do when Wesley makes me come.
That’s something he’s done every night this week. If I’d known having regular sex with your roommate was going to be so fun I’d have started it sooner.
“That would be great,” Thalia says, and I’m doubly excited for tomorrow—both to make a display and to spend more time with Wes.
I’m not so excited about my inbox though.
I haven’t heard a word from the non-profit that sent me here.
I’ve already gotten two rejections for grants.
They were long shots, but still, it stings.
Then, I found a job opening in Marin County earlier this week and submitted my application in mere seconds, only to be shot down the next day.
Talk about disheartening.
I try to remind myself that there’s time.
Maybe I need to tell Thalia that I’d love to stay.
What if she could help? What if she knows someone?
I haven’t said a word yet because I wanted to prove I could do a good job first. Best not to come in hot in your first several weeks on a job and say hey, boss, can I stay?
But she’s also not a mind reader, so she’ll only know I want to stay if I tell her.
Before I go to the center and she goes to the reference desk, I stop next to a display of romance novels that’ll keep you up all night, swallow some courage, and say, “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”
Her eyes turn serious, and she stops walking too. “Sure. What is it?”
I hope I don’t sound as nervous as I feel.
For someone who likes to escape into books rather than sales pitches, this is so hard.
I try to keep my tone calm and upbeat though.
“I love the work I do here. I think I’ve done a good job.
And if there’s any way I could stay on, I wanted to let you know I’d say yes in a heartbeat. ”
“You have done a great job,” she says, but her smile is of the let-you-down variety. “The budget’s tight though. We’re all feeling it citywide. But you know I’ll give you an excellent reference for anywhere.”
My stomach sinks, but nope. That won’t do. Chin up. It’d be a fairy-tale ending if she waved her magic wand and said, “Oh you want a job? I have one! Take it.”
A good reference is a critical step in my Stay Here plan.
“And I will keep my eyes open, too, for any jobs in the city. Would that help?”
Immensely. “I’d be so grateful,” I say.
She crosses her fingers. “Let’s get you a full-time gig here.”
I start the workday glad I told her after all. Maybe I’ll find the guts to tell Wes soon too.
* * *
Early the next day, I put the job hunt out of my mind since it’s time for the fundraiser. Budgets are definitely tight if we need pancakes to lure patrons. But then again, that’s how it’s always been in my field.
I’m scurrying around the home, grabbing my bag and phone for the fundraiser, when I spot a package on the porch. It must have arrived late last night. I swing open the door and grab it, squealing a little when I see the return address.
It’s the stickers I ordered last week. I shut the door and rip open the compostable envelope, then rush to the kitchen where Wes is downing a cup of coffee. I hold it up for him, proud of myself for making these. I dip a hand in and take out a purple sticker, showing him the saying. “Look!”
“Librarians definitely like it hard,” he says, reading it with a glint in his eyes.
“I made them for fun. But I also wanted you to have one.” I offer him a sticker. It’s a little thing, that’s all, but I hope he likes it and its irreverence.
After Wes sets down the mug, he takes the sticker, unpeels the back, and smacks it on his gray T-shirt. “Perfect for today.”
That’s bold. “You’re going to wear it to the pancake breakfast?”
“You bet I am,” he says, and that’s Wes for you—fearless.
He whirls around, reaches into a cupboard, and takes out a pretty pink gift bag with a black bow on it. “For the game.”
He already got center ice tickets for me for the game this evening, as well as for Fable and Maeve. I was so excited he thought of my friends too that I thanked him on my knees.
“Wear this tonight,” he says in a simple command, so bossy and confident. Like there’s no chance I’d even think to say no. He thrusts the bag at me.
Pretty sure I know what it is, but I’m still giddy when I yank out a number sixteen jersey. “Wes,” I say softly, touched.
It’s such a romantic gesture—a jersey that says I’m there for him.
But then a dark cloud descends over me. Will everyone know?
What will my brother think? Will he put two and two together if he sees me in Wes’s number this evening?
Fine, it’s truly none of Christian’s business what I do and who I do it with, and while I worry more about when the next George R.R.
Martin book might release than what my brother thinks of my sex life, I still understand the complexity of the situation.
Wes works with him. It’s a depend-on-every-man kind of job.
And Wes and I agreed to keep this thing between us quiet as we figure it out.
I’m not sure it’s time yet to tell Christian anything. Or if we’re even required to say anything. But at the same time, it’s also polite to give him a heads-up.
When? Not rink-side at a game, that’s for sure.
I’m about to ask if this shirt will give it away to the team what we’re up to but a glance at the clock tells me now’s not the time to tackle that issue.
Besides, so what if Christian sees me in Wesley’s jersey?
Wes isn’t only my roommate—he’s my friend.
It makes sense I’d wear my friend’s number to a game.
Perfect sense. Case closed. I clutch it to my chest. “I can’t wait to wear it. ”
Wes downs the rest of his coffee and sets the mug in the sink. “Wear it today too.”
There’s that demanding tone again. The one he uses when he tells me to spread my legs, suck his cock, and fuck myself with a toy in front of him.
“To the pancake breakfast?” I ask, more breathily than the question demands. But that’s how I feel with Wes. A little light-headed all the time.
“Yes.” He seems dead set on this. A little fiery too. His eyes are darker than usual. I’m getting dangerously turned on as he says, “Put it on, Josie.”
The command in his voice sends a wicked thrill through me, straight to my core. I whip off my top and change in front of him, sliding his jersey over my cami. It’s big and baggy.
“Fuck, you look hot,” he says in a dirty rumble.
I suspect he’ll be thinking about taking it off me the whole time I wear it since there’s nothing friendly about the way he’s looking at me.
* * *
I’m in front of the library, finishing up the romance display—putting the new Hazel Valentine next to a TJ Hardman, since I would definitely recommend those two together—as Wes sets out recyclable plates.
“Should I read this one?” a masculine voice asks.
I turn toward a strapping fireman with a thick beard. He’s just strolled over to the display, and he’s pointing to the Hazel Valentine book.
“If you like banter, spice, clever plots, and happily-ever-afters,” I say with a smile.
The man holds my gaze for a beat, his gray eyes twinkling with…
possibility, I think. “All of the above,” he says, then adds, “I’ll have to check it out.
” He looks around the breakfast area, full of tables and serving trays, then back to me, a smile forming.
“I’m Tom. I’d love to get some more recs from you. Maybe after work some time?”
Did this nice fireman just ask me out? Before I can even process my surprise, a throat clears. Out of nowhere Wes is right by my side, wrapping an arm around me.
“She has a whole display of them right here. Those are her recs.” His arm bands tighter around my waist, curling over my hip. “You don’t have to get them from her after work since she’s busy.”
Someone is staking his claim.
Tom holds up his hands in surrender. “Sorry, man.”
“It’s all good,” Wes says, in a tone laced with don’t let that happen again.
Tom nods at me with an apologetic smile, then walks away.
I turn to Wes, arching a brow at his boyfriend behavior. Color me intrigued. “Are you marking me?”
He’s unrepentant with his “yes.”
I furrow my brow. “He was only asking for book recs.”
“And maybe he legit wanted them. But he also wanted you. And you don’t have any idea how sexy you are. How often men check you out. You have no clue.”
“And it’s your job to ward them off?” I’m not annoyed. I am curious though.
He nods. “Yes. It is. It’s that simple.”
Yeah, boyfriend behavior.
And the low pull in my belly tells me I like it.
After a squeeze of my hip, Wes returns to serving pancakes next to me as several families pass through.