C6 Livia

I’m inside the elevator and the doors are closing when a large hand reaches in and stops them. A large sexy hand that can belong to no one other than Chase Kelly. Two seconds later, he’s in the car with me.

The elevator is small, and it feels like he takes up all the room. I push the button for the top floor and then step as far to the side as I can. I swear he only spreads out wider. His body grazes mine and goose bumps break out all over my skin. I huff in irritation. Where is he even going? Wasn’t he watching the kids?

He doesn’t offer an explanation, and I refuse to ask.

Fortunately, the ride is short, and I have work to do. As soon as the doors open, I rush to the cart I’d loaded earlier and start pushing it toward the fiction section. It’s slow enough that I’m not needed on the floor where Chase might feel obliged to try to talk and disarm me with his cobalt deathrays. So yeah, I’m planning on hiding in the stacks.

It’s a good plan. Problem is, as soon as I start pushing, Chase starts following.

Perhaps it’s a coincidence. He could have been heading for fiction. Maybe that’s why he came up here—to grab the latest Scandinavian murder book, or no. That’s not what he’d read. He’d read epic fantasy, Le Guin or Rothfuss maybe. Or maybe something more in the Neil Gaiman or Terry Pratchett vein. He struck me as the kind of guy who liked his books smart and a little fun.

So I stop and pretend to look at a book on the cart, giving Officer Kelly a chance to pass me by.

Except he stops too.

Goddammit.

Of course he stops.

He probably isn’t even a reader because a subscription to Playboy online does not count as reading.

With my jaw set, I take a deep breath and force a smile. “Can I help you with something?” I have no idea why my voice sounds as high as it does. Or why my heart is beating as fast as it is. Or how his cheekbones can be as perfect as they are.

“You can, actually,” he says, his eyes twinkling.

Aw, Christ on a cupcake, he knows how to twinkle. I let out a string of curse words in my head, including a bunch that I’ve made up on the spot that are specifically related to how amazingly Chase Kelly fills a pair of jeans.

I’m hopeless. This is hopeless. “Is this library related?” I ask him. “Because if it isn’t—”

“I can tag along while you shelve.”

“Fine,” I say through gritted teeth. I shove the cart harder than I need to, hoping it will alleviate some of my irritation, but if it does, I don’t notice. Chase and I are walking side by side now toward the fiction section, and all I’m aware of is the wall of heat between us. It beckons me closer, makes me wonder what it would be like to press up next to him. Makes me wonder what the scratch of his beard would feel like against my cheek.

I push the cart up to the P’s, pick up a handful of books, and start looking for their places on the shelf. We’re silent at first, and it’s killing me, but after what happened downstairs, I’m not saying a word until he does.

He leans back against the bookshelf and crosses his arms over his chest, which causes his biceps to flex, and until now, I had not been aware that arm porn was actually a thing, but apparently it is. In this position I can see his tattoo better. The silhouette of a ram’s head is at the bottom and, above that, concentric circles like the bottom half of a bulls-eye, maybe. The rest disappears under his sleeve, leaving me to guess and wonder what it looks like.

I pretend not to notice he’s watching me too. It’s not like I like it or anything.

Okay, I like it. Hot guy checking me out? How could I not like it?

“So, I’m vetted now,” he says eventually.

“Vetted?” I reach for another book, avoiding looking at him directly. “What do you mean?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him shrug. “I’m Megan’s brother. It means you can go out on a date with me. I’m not some random stranger.”

Oh God. The date he’d asked me on. I’d hoped he’d given up on that.

“Being Megan’s brother doesn’t automatically vet you. You can still be a giant douchebag and share DNA with a good person.” Another handful of books and this time I bend down to search for their placement.

“But I’m not a giant douchebag.” Is it my imagination, or is he suddenly closer?

I peer up at him. “How do you know for sure? It’s hard to be objective when you’re both the one doing the judging and the one being judged.”

He crouches down beside me, and my heart practically leaps into my throat. “How about you go on a date with me, and you can tell me if I’m a giant douchebag?”

I mean to let out a mocking laugh, but it comes out sounding more like a giggle. “I’d rather not.”

He moves to meet my eyes. “Why would you rather not? You said I was hot.”

“I said—” I stare at him, open mouthed, shocked that he’d bring that up. I’m so humiliated. Again. “That was a slip of the tongue.” I return to shelving, refusing to look at him. Ever again. Ever, ever again.

Fine, I sneak one more peek at him, but this is definitely the last one.

“So you’re saying you don’t think I’m hot?”

Oh my God, he’s so hot.

“Aren’t you supposed to be watching your nephews?” Yes, I’m changing the subject.

“Megan’s taking her dinner break; it’s been ten minutes. Tell me, Livia. Are you absolutely not attracted to me?”

I study him for several seconds before my eyes flicker involuntarily to his lips.

What the hell am I thinking?

I shoot up to my feet. “This feels like a trap.”

Chase follows me up, caging me between the bookcase, the cart, and his body. His hard, hard body.

“It’s totally a trap,” he says, his voice low and husky. “I’m trying to trap you into dinner with me.”

I swallow, but I can’t get the lump out of my throat. He’s close enough I can breathe him in. He smells like musk and sporty body wash and, faintly, of baby bottle, which somehow makes him even sexier. My eyes wander back to his lips, and I can’t help wondering what it would feel like to be kissed by him. I bet he kisses hard. And deep. I bet his kisses bruise and burn.

His head tilts toward mine. “For the record, the feeling’s mutual.”

“What feel—” It takes me a second to remember he’s referring to me accidentally calling him hot. And another second to realize he’s now calling me hot. “Oh my God.” I turn away, my skin so flushed I’m sure it’s warm to the touch.

Even with my back to him, I can feel him grinning. I’m so glad I amuse him. Is that his interest in me? Comic relief?

I’ll never know because I’m never speaking to him or looking at him or thinking about him ever again.

But when I reach for another pile of books, he says, “Hand me a stack. I’ll help.”

And so I turn and hand him a stack as big as I can hold. He grips it easily in his large hand, and when the tips of my fingers brush his and my body starts to hum in response, I decide that maybe this is how it’s going to be when I’m around Officer Chase Kelly, and maybe I should just accept it.

Accepting it doesn’t mean I’m going on a date with him. But he can certainly help me shelve a few books.

We settle quickly into a routine, reaching around each other for a new stack, Chase placing the higher books while I shelve the lower ones, chatting while we work.

“How come I haven’t seen you around here before?” he asks.

“I transferred a couple of months ago from Central.”

“Ooh. Central. Sorry.” He looks around like he’s about to tell me a secret. “You got a downgrade.”

“I don’t know,” I say a bit whimsically. “Corinth has charm.”

“If by charm you mean underfunded and falling apart, okay, yeah. I feel you.” He’s not completely off base—Central is where the administration offices are and somehow the majority of the budget and programming attention gets allocated there.

“But Central is corporate,” I explain. “It’s top of the line. It’s buzz buzz and hullabaloo. It’s always having to learn new stuff in the Maker Space and experiment with systems and come up with trendy branding and watch out for the big boss. And only sometimes does it feel like it’s actually about reference or matching people with good books.”

“You like that, don’t you? Playing matchmaker.”

“I do,” I say proudly. Because not only do I like it, but I’m also good at it. I’m good at listening to someone tell me which books they’ve enjoyed, which they haven’t, what they think they’re in the mood for and then finding just the right book for them to read now.

“Okay then,” he says, his tone challenging. “Go ahead. Match me.”

We’re standing next to each other, barely a foot separates us, and somehow I think he’s not asking me to find him a book, which is good because I couldn’t begin to think of a book to recommend right now.

“Okay,” I say, anyway. Then nothing else. My breath quickens as he searches my face, his eyes landing on my lips before skimming down to my breasts. I’m sure he can see how they’re peaked through the thin fabric of my blouse. He has to know it’s because of him.

“Livia?” His voice is ragged, and fuck. It’s so sexy, I can hardly stay standing. It’s been so long since I’ve been attracted to a guy. I mean, really attracted. To the point where I’m sure that my vibrator can’t compare with even what I just imagine about his fingers.

I meant what I’d said earlier—I’m not interested in men or dates or anything involving emotions. But the stairwell’s fairly quiet and Megan still has time on her break...

“There you are!” Ryan pops out from around the bookshelf, and I jump away from Chase as far and as fast as I can.

“Nothing. It was nothing. We were nothing. Shelving.” I smile tightly, brushing back an imaginary hair behind my ear. “Hi, Ryan. What’s up?”

“Just looking for you.” She looks at me suspiciously. Then eyes Chase. “Heya, Officer Kelly. Livia’s not in trouble, is she? Liv, you should have texted! I would have been here for you! Paybacks and all!”

“Nope. Not in trouble,” I say hurriedly. I’m blushing, and I know Chase is grinning his cocky grin, even though I refuse to look at him to be sure. “What do you need?” I ask again, desperate to get the attention off of us. Off of me.

“Cool. Well. I have a paper due tomorrow. I know. I procrastinated until the last minute, but that’s a long story, and I don’t think that you’d really consider it my fault if you heard all the details because I’m not the one who—”

“Ryan,” I interrupt. “Get to the point.”

“Oh. Right. American History. I have to do a paper on a woman who has shaped American History and everyone else is already doing Susan B. Anthony and Betsy Ross and Hillary Clinton. I want to do someone cool and unheard of, but I don’t know who that would be. But I knew you’d know.”

“Um. Okay.” Normally this would be an easy one. But my head is not in the game. I’m still thinking about Chase and his lips. And his eyes. And his...everything.

“Frances Elizabeth Willard,” he says. “Do a report on her.”

“Who’s that?” Ryan asks.

“You don’t know her?” He feigns shock. “She’s your soul sister. A protester and suffragette.”

“My kind of woman!”

Chase goes on to highlight Frances Elizabeth Willard’s contributions to society, but I’m no longer listening. He’s good with Ryan. Like he was good with his nephews. Is that something a man’s either born with or not? As much a part of his DNA as his thick hair and strong jaw?

I think about Chase’s good genetics. I think about the constant ache in my heart. I think about the newer ache between my legs, and an old idea starts to re-form and become something new.

“Now stop talking about it, and get started,” Chase says, interrupting a Ryan-length monologue. “Library closes in two hours, and you’re going to need all that time. Better hustle.”

“Aye aye, captain.” She salutes, and miracle of miracles, she actually goes off to work without further pushing.

He’s good. He’s real good.

“Well?” Chase says when he turns back to face me, and I’m sure it’s because we were in the middle of something, but that was a bad idea. I have a better idea now, so I maintain a three-foot distance between us and avoid gazing directly into his eyes.

“I do admit that I might have misjudged you,” I concede, leaning against the bookshelf, my hands tucked behind my back.

He raises a brow. “Because I’m a guy, and I know who Frances Elizabeth Willard is?”

“Because you’re a guy who supports your local library.” I can’t help myself—I meet his eyes. His goddamn twinkling eyes.

He grins, slowly, and I know that he knows he’s got me.

He leans against the opposite shelf. “Dinner tomorrow. Six o’clock.”

“Seven.” He’s got me, but he doesn’t have me that easily. “I work before that.”

“Tell me where to pick you up.”

“Tell me where to meet you. I’ll drive myself.” No way am I going out with him without an escape plan.

He considers. “I haven’t decided yet. I’ll text you.”

“I haven’t given you my number.”

“Then give me your number.”

There’s no way for me to have the last word on this one and win. There’s either I give it or I don’t, and if I don’t, this is done.

And I don’t want it to be done.

I give him my number.

Because maybe there’s something to what Megan said earlier after all—you don’t get anything good without risk.

Well, I’ve decided there’s something that I want. Something I’m willing to take a risk for after all.

And if I get it, I have a feeling it’s going to be real good.