Karina Bliss - What the Librarian Did

“I jumped to conclusions, last night.” When she didn’t say anything, he forced himself to give more. “I’m still learning to give people the benefit of the doubt instead of suspecting their motives in being with me.”

She glanced away. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not like we expected anything from the date.”

“No,” he admitted. “We had too many prejudices for that.”

“I was trying to keep an open mind.” Stepping back, she started to close the door.

And Devin realized his arrogance was about to lose him a friendship with the first woman to interest him in years.

“Before I go, let me give you a few more tips on bad behavior,” he said brusquely. “Develop an alcohol addiction and get married a couple of times-at least once in a ceremony you can’t remember because it was during one of your alcoholic blackouts.

“Try and keep the marriages short and make sure you write a song about eternal love to play at each wedding, which will have you cringing for the rest of your life. Become an arrogant, opinionated prick because no one ever said no to you.” Devin stopped, disorientated. Overhead, the sound of a distant rumble drew his gaze. A 747 glinted in the blue sky. Wishing to God he was on it, he sighed. “I’m sorry, Rachel. I guess I’m still getting the hang of normal.” He started to leave.

“Normal’s overrated,” she said behind him, and he turned. She was staring after the jet’s vapor trail. “You know how certain songs take you back to key times in your life? Times when you were happy or sad, confused or needing courage?” She looked back at him. “Writing the soundtrack to people’s lives is no small thing,” she said softly.

Devin cleared his throat. “What was your special song?”

“‘Letting You Go.’ Sam…Samantha Henwood. I was sixteen.”

“I don’t know it.”

She started to hum, then to sing, and it was painful to hear because the librarian was tone deaf.

Devin put his hands over his ears. “You’re killing me.”

Rachel smiled and sang louder.

Stepping forward, he clapped a hand over her mouth. Above his fingers, her eyes were still smiling. Devin had never thought of gray as a warm color before, but now he dropped his hand before he got burned. “Will you accept my apology?”

“As long as you admit that the world doesn’t always revolve around you.”

“As long as you realize it has for the last decade.”

“And for the record,” she told him tartly, “I didn’t eat butter because before Beryl and Kev joined us I intended having dessert. I wear cardigans because I like vintage. Not sleeping with a guy on the first date doesn’t make me a prude, and if you ever call me a book nerd again I’ll ram my mountain bike down your throat.”

Damn, but he liked this woman. “I get it. Librarians are people, too.” And because he couldn’t resist teasing her he added, “Next you’ll be telling me you have a vice.”

“I do.” She hesitated, long enough for his imagination to jump to the bait. “I don’t make my bed.”

Devin laughed. “Let’s try another date.”

Her eyes widened. “Why?”

“Admittedly, most of the time we engage in interplanetary warfare and yet…” Devin tucked a strand of loose hair behind her hair. “And yet, Heartbreaker…”

Rachel knew what he meant. There was something between them, an odd, unexpected connection. And that kiss…But it was wrong to use him as a means to Mark, and she couldn’t kid herself that that wasn’t the primary temptation. She shook her head. “I just broke up with someone I thought I’d marry. You’d only be a rebound.”

He grinned. “See, that’s what I like about you, you keep giving me firsts. I’ve never been the rebound guy before. What’s the drill?”

He was incorrigible…and far too appealing. Rachel wavered. He was also offering her another chance to find out more about him. Wasn’t that her goal? And a repentant Devin was more likely to reveal himself… She was skirting dangerously close to her ethical boundaries. Was it fair to use him like this?

“Any sensible person would run a mile,” she hedged.

“I’ve had a million words written about me,” he said. “I don’t think sensible was ever one of them.”

Rachel remembered the other things written about him, things he hadn’t denied. This wasn’t about her. Or Devin. It was about protecting her son. “Maybe we could go out to formalize our peace treaty,” she suggested, “but no date. Strictly platonic.” Attraction only made things tougher. Her motives murkier. This way no one got hurt.

“Sure.” His lopsided, sexy-as-hell grin belied his easy acquiescence. “The Flying Dutchman opera is coming to town, isn’t it? I’ve been seeing billboards.”

“Next weekend, but the tickets are expensive.” Which was why she hadn’t booked. Most of her income went toward her mortgage. Rachel remembered who she was talking to when he laughed.

“Consider it part of the apology.”

She trusted his meekness even less than she trusted that sexy grin. “As long as we’re quite clear,” she stressed, “that I’m only using you to get to Wagner.”

“I think I can hold my own against a dead guy.” Devin’s expression grew serious. “So you’re not upset anymore?”

How did he know that she’d been…“Wait a minute! Did Trixie make you apologize?” I’ll kill her.

Devin frowned. “No one makes me do anything.”

But the apology hadn’t been his idea. Rachel stopped feeling guilty about her mixed motives.

“HI, MOM, it’s Rachel.”

“Rachel, are you in trouble again?”

Eighteen years later, it was still the first question her elderly mother asked.

“No, everything’s fine. I always call Sunday morning to see how you are.”

“Well, you know, bearing up.” Maureen sighed. “Still missing your father terribly, of course.”

“Did you get that book on heritage roses I sent you?” Rachel swapped the phone to her other hand and wiped her suddenly damp palm on her dress.

Maureen’s voice brightened. “Yes, it’s wonderful, particularly the section on English hybrids.” She rattled on about cuttings and placement, and Rachel stared out the window at her wild garden. “And Peggy and I are our club reps in the regional district’s floral arranging competition.”

“Sounds like you’ve got plenty going on.” Since her father’s death, her seventy-nine-year-old mother had taken up a multitude of new interests. Blossomed, in fact.

“Oh, and the most exciting thing? The council is recognizing your father’s years of service by naming one of the new benches in the park for him.”

Rachel caught her breath. “Well, it’s great to hear you’re doing so well.”

“Honey, did you hear what I said? Your father-”

“You know I don’t want to talk about him, Mom, and you know why.” She took a few deep breaths because otherwise she’d scream, He’s dead and you can stop pretending! But it would do no good. “Please, let’s just concentrate on what you and I are doing, okay?”

Her mother sighed. “Okay. I’m sorry about your attitude, though.”

A familiar sense of betrayal tightened Rachel’s throat. “Listen, this has to be a short call today. I’ve got a roast in the oven that needs basting.” She always made sure she had a good reason for a short call. Because sometimes they were all she could cope with.

“Have you started your charity lunches again?”

“It’s not charity, Mom,” she reminded her patiently. “Just a handful of first year students desperate for a home-cooked meal.” She’d been inviting strays to her first semester Sunday lunches for five years. The event had become such a fixture around campus that staff and counselors would often send lonely scholars to see her in the library. Overseas students and out-of-towners for the most part.