Talk Wordy To Me (His Curvy Librarian Book 1) by Frankie Love & Kaylin Evans

Author:Frankie Love & Kaylin Evans [Love, Frankie & Evans, Kaylin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-04-28T23:00:00+00:00

8

Chuck

I’ve never had a harder time dropping a woman off at her front door. I didn’t want to let Cassidy go, but when a light turned on upstairs in her parents’ farmhouse, she stole one last kiss and disappeared through the front door.

And I went home, lay down on the sheets that still smelled intoxicatingly like her, and wondered what the hell just happened.

I haven’t been able to keep my mind off her for more than about five minutes at a stretch since then. And that’s why I’m pulling up to the library a little before noon, hoping to catch her in time for her lunch break.

The moment I walk in the library, however, a blonde about her age and wearing a library name tag intercepts me at the circulation desk.

“You’re Chuck McArthur, aren’t you?” She asks. I give her nametag a quick glance—Brooklyn, Teen Services Librarian—and before I can answer, she’s given me a once-over too and noticed the bouquet I’m carrying. “Oh my gosh, are those for Cassidy? I heard Charles finally wore you two down.”

“I was–”

I’m trying to tell her that I’d love to see Cassidy if she’s available, but again, Brooklyn doesn’t let me get a word in edgewise. Instead, she alerts the entire building that I’m here in a rather unlibrarianly shout.

“Cassidy, you have a visitor at circulation!” she calls out, then turns back to me with a wink. “She’ll be over in a minute, I’m sure.”

I laugh. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” she says, giving me a grin that makes me wonder just how much of our date Cassidy told her about this morning. Not that I mind the idea. It means she’s been thinking about me too.

Brooklyn skips away, and sure enough, Cassidy emerges out of the stacks a couple minutes later, her arms loaded down with multiple copies of The Secret Life of Bees. When she sees me, her eyes light up.

“Chuck, what are you doing here?”

“Would it be sappy to tell you that I missed you?” I ask, taking the pile of books from her before they spill out of her arms and helping her stack them on the circulation desk.

“A little,” she says. “But I’m okay with sappy.”

“What’s all this?” I ask, pointing to all the Sue Monk Kidd on the counter.

“Next month’s book club pick,” she says. “I’m going to make honey cocoa truffles to go with the theme.” Her eyes fall on the bouquet and she’s more bashful about it than Brooklyn, but she asks, “What’s that?”

“These are for you,” I say, holding the bouquet out for her, wrapped in butcher paper and tied with twine. “They’re from my grandmother’s garden,” I explain. “Gramps still tends it every day.”

“And he let you cut them?” she asks, holding the bouquet like something precious.

“Let me?” I laugh. “When I told him how well our date went, he got the shears himself.”

“Well, tell him thank you—for the roses and for the blind date—if you see him before I do,” she says, bringing the roses up to her nose and inhaling their perfume.

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