by C. S. Poe
“I can pay for Mr. Sakasai to fix the shelves,” Logan said after a pause. “And I can pay for you. I’m certain I can get you a few hundred for the bar code system, but that’s it.”
“Mr. Fields—”
“No,” he said. “I just can’t. I have no budget left. I’m sorry, Christopher, but you’ve got to find a way to get the state what they need without buying this computer software.” He stood and gathered his coat. “I’ll get that check cut for you by the weekend. Send me the total cost, will you?”
“Yes, sir,” I said quietly, defeat sinking my gut like a stone in water.
Logan said goodbye and saw himself out. I sat at the desk for a while longer. All I needed was three grand and I could do it—could prove we deserved our annual budget, and in fact deserved more. I was already so in love with this library that I’d have spent my own savings to pick up the software, but I had nothing left after moving here.
The wind outside picked up, howls passed through the trees, and snow whipped up in pretty spirals around the windows.
It felt like Sam Bloom had already won. What was the point in fighting?
I dragged myself from the chair, went upstairs, and stopped in the doorway of the kitchenette. Miles was making sandwiches at the counter.
He looked over his shoulder. “It didn’t go well,” he stated.
I shook my head. “I need three thousand dollars for inventory software, a bar code system, and a website. I only get the bar code system. But that’s not enough. The Board wants me to provide real data to prove how much the library is utilized, and I can’t do that without all of the tools.”
“Come sit.” Miles put the sandwiches on the table.
I walked across the room and collapsed in the closest chair. “If I hadn’t spent all of my money moving up here, I’d just buy it myself.”
Miles sat across from me. “Eat.”
“I’m too upset.”
“Being upset on an empty stomach will only make it worse.”
I sighed, maybe a little dramatically, and picked up the sandwich. Miles had chosen the chicken slices, added some lettuce, tomato, mayonnaise, and with his bread, it was an award-winning combination. “It’s really good,” I mumbled.
Miles tore at his crust. “May I ask, why are you so invested?”
I looked up. Miles was staring intently, waiting for an answer. “It’s silly, right?”
“No.”
“I feel like I’ve always been looking for a place to belong. And I feel that here. I know it’s sudden—I’ve been working all of two days—but I love Lancaster so far, and I love the history within these walls. And there’s nothing sadder than losing books. Don’t you think?”
Miles looked thoughtful. “My father went on a lot of business trips, back and forth to Japan. My mother and I were never very close, so I was lonely when he was gone. And… I’ve always been shy. That hasn’t changed much. But I spent a lot of time here when my father was away. The smell of the books is nostalgic—reminds me of summer vacations or cold winter days sitting in the alcoves, reading.”
“There must be others who feel like you do, right?”
“Yes.”
I took another bite of food. “I won’t give up until they fire me, but I feel like the blow I got from Mr. Fields all but confirmed it’s a lost cause.”
“Don’t say that.” Miles didn’t smile, but he reached out and touched my arm briefly. “I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
I thanked Miles. He nodded and busied himself with lunch and the morning newspaper he’d brought with him. I ate my own sandwich while trying to read the headlines upside down.
“There’s a fair?” I finally asked.
Miles glanced up. “Hmm? Oh. Yes, the annual holiday food fair is this weekend.”
“That sounds fun! What sort of things do they have?”
Miles waved a hand. “There’s live music, restaurants and businesses in town set up booths to sell food, there’s a cooking contest….”
“Are you going?” I asked next.
Miles looked down at the newspaper. “I was thinking about entering the cooking competition,” he said by way of answer, scratching the side of his nose absently. “Maybe.”
“Oh my God,” I said, feeling much happier with this discussion versus the doom and gloom of the library’s sad fate. “Do it! What will you enter?”
Miles shrugged. “Bread.”
“Well, duh. I’ve no doubt you’ll win.”
He laughed nervously and was definitely blushing. “That’s nice of you to say, but I’m not—”
“No, no, don’t say some little old lady has a secret blueberry pie recipe that’s greater than your orgasmic bread.”
“Orgasmic?”
“Your bread satisfies the pleasure principle of the id,” I said, grinning as Miles started laughing in earnest. “Come on! It’ll be fun. I’ll go with you, if that’s okay.”
“That sounds nice.”
I PEEKED into the out-of-order room as Miles finished for the day. “Wow, this is major progress.”
He stood from shutting his tool kit and picked it up. “The shelves built into the walls are fixed, but these standing shelves need to be reinforced. Some aren’t salvageable. I’ll build new ones to replace them.”
I must have had a look on my face. Even crappy shelves would cost money, and me without a piggy bank to bust open for a rainy day.
Miles said, “Don’t worry. I’ll deal with the fees and Selectmen.”
I nodded.
“Come to dinner?”
“Now?” I looked at my watch.
“I want to teach you to bake bread. It takes a while.”
I grinned and crossed my arms over my chest. “Oh, really? Are we going to do it à la Patrick Swayze in Ghost? You get close behind me, put your hands over mine, and—knead dough?” I asked suggestively.
Miles shook his head as he walked past and left the room. He was singing “Unchained Melody” under his breath. God, I hoped my baking lesson ended with some touchy-feely time at a pottery wheel—sans the pottery wheel.
After Miles helped me close the library for the night, I followed him in my car to a big Queen Anne Victorian home not far from the center of town. Even in the dark, I could make out the bright paint, massive porch, and the ancient trees with branches hanging over the lower roof. I got out of my car, my breath coming out in frozen puffs in the cold night air.
“This is some place,” I said.
Miles locked his truck, then motioned for me to follow. I hurried behind, snow crunching loudly under our feet. Inside, his home was an interesting mix of country aesthetic and no doubt expensive antiques that better suited the elegant home. Miles hadn’t struck me as an antique-y sort of guy, but then again, he didn’t seem to be the sort who baked and sang fifties love songs either.
He took my coat and hung up our winter garments before leading the way into a large kitchen. “Wait here.”
I stood at the counter, watching Miles go into the wide-open living room. He turned on the television, brought up an instant movie account, flipped through the options for a moment, then selected one. Ghost started playing.
“I knew it,” I said as Miles came back and washed his hands at the sink. “You’re a big softie, aren’t you?”
“A little.”
“Patrick Swayze your kind of guy?”
Miles shook his head. “No. You are, though.” He dried his hands on a towel. “This whole librarian thing you have going on is cute.”
I looked at myself. Different checkered pants, a tie, a baggy gray sweater buttoned up the front—okay, I looked a little like the stereotype. “Cute, huh?”
Miles chuckled under his breath. “Sexy,” he corrected.
“Yeah?”
He shrugged one shoulder and grabbed two mixing bowls. “Here’s your bowl.”
“We’re really baking bread?”
“Yes.” He fetched little packages and set them beside me. “Here’
s your yeast.”
“Yummy.”
“You have to be gentle. Yeast is a living thing. You mix it with water, but if it’s too cold, it won’t grow, and if it’s too hot, you’ll kill it.”
Miles did the finger test with the water, but then confirmed he was right with a thermometer. He expertly stirred his concoction, almost as if it were second nature to him, and instructed me how to do the same with my own. I had thought it was sort of goofy at first—I mean, this was a date, and we were baking bread—but watching Miles in his element was nice. He was so chill and relaxed while cooking, his smile unguarded and easily offered. Even his shoulders seemed to loosen up. Miles might have been good at making repairs, and physical labor clearly paid the bills, but he loved baking more than anything.
“So why bread?” I asked as he took the dough out of the bowl and I did the same with mine. “Of all things?”
“It’s both a science and an art,” he said. “Measuring your ingredients is straightforward—it has the same results every time. But kneading dough isn’t easy. You must pull forward and push back and turn just a little before doing it again. If you’re too rough, the dough will be heavy or it could end up full of air, neither of which makes for good eating.”
“I think that’s the most you’ve ever said in one breath,” I replied.
Miles ignored the jab, looked at my dough, then slowly performed the kneading motion on his own. “Like this.”
I watched a few times and tried to mimic. “Good?”
“Fold it over more.” He again performed the motion.
I did so.
“You’re too rough.”
“What are, things I never want to hear in bed,” I said, trying the kneading motion once more.
That got another little laugh out of Miles. “You’re cute.”
“So you’ve said.”
“At the cost of another sex joke, you’re still too rough,” he stated.
I paused and looked up at him. “Oh, come on. You have to stand behind and knead with me. This is a prime moment.”
“Is it?”
“This will make or break our future together,” I joked.
Miles stopped working his dough and stepped behind me. He was warm and solid, and as Miles slid his arms around me and put his hands over my own, it was like finding home.
Miles tilted his head to the side, resting close to mine. “Like this,” he murmured as he guided my hands.
“I could get used to this,” I replied, falling into the calm repetition of fold, press, turn.
“It’s nice,” Miles agreed. He planted a kiss on the side of my head.
THE NIGHT turned out to be one of the sweetest and most enjoyable dates I’d ever been on. No awkward small talk, no trying to find where you clicked with the other person. Miles was so easy to get along with, and by the time the bread was baking, we were drinking wine and laughing as if we’d shared that moment in his kitchen a hundred times before. Unfortunately, I wasn’t very good with wine. I remembered eating the bread—Miles’s was better than mine, naturally—and pasta afterward, I believe, but the rest of the night….
I vaguely remembered trying to kiss Miles, I mean kiss kiss, like let’s-get-it-the-fuck-on, and him stopping me. Then nothing. So when I woke up in his bed, I was more than a little confused.
“Good morning.”
I grunted and rolled over to see Miles sitting on the edge, holding a cup in one hand. “Why am I here?”
“I wasn’t going to let you drive home last night,” he replied. “Here. Have some water.”
I sat up, took the cup, and downed the drink in one go. “I’m sorry,” I said when I came up for air. “I should have only had one drink. Me and red wine don’t mix.”
“It’s okay. You’re an adorable, handsy drunk.”
“Am I?”
Miles set the cup on the nightstand. “I slept on the couch.”
“Oh, Miles, I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
He waved a hand. “It’s all right. Really.”
“You’re so chivalrous. What time is it?”
“About six o’clock. I came to see if you wanted breakfast.”
Miles had cooked dinner, given up his bed, and now wanted to continue tending to me the next day? This sort of princess treatment was going to go to my head.
“I almost can’t handle you,” I stated.
“What should I do to make sure that doesn’t happen?” he countered.
I rubbed my forehead with one hand.
“Headache?”
“A little,” I answered. “Couple of painkillers will do the trick.”
“Want a shower?” Miles asked next.
I glanced up. “With you?”
He stared at the bedspread for a moment, shrugged, and said, “Sure.”
Wow. That was easy.
Miles stood, offered a hand, and pulled me out of bed. He led me into the adjoining bathroom, shut the door, and turned on the taps to let the water warm up. He took off his pajamas, revealing a tattooed chest and back to match his arms. I loved the choice of such vibrant colors. The bold line work on some of the tattoos was mesmerizing, and I nearly forgot to check for that inner-thigh art Miles had mentioned before.
A bird on a flowering branch. Very pretty.
“Did the tattoo artist get a glimpse of your cock?” I whispered.
Miles moved closer and started unbuttoning my shirt. “Yes.”
“How’d that work out for you?”
Miles slid the shirt off my shoulders and then worked on the front of my pants. “Well, it was a she, so less exciting for me.”
I laughed and stepped out of my clothes. Miles was half-hard, but I had a flagpole that wouldn’t quit, hungover or not. And frankly, I couldn’t fault my physical response. Miles was gorgeous.
The steam and heat from the shower were nice, but Miles wrapping his arms around me and kissing me was a million times better. He ran his hands down my sides, around my back, and settled them on my ass. He pulled me closer against him. Miles slipped his tongue into my mouth as we kissed. God, he tasted good.
Like coffee and mint toothpaste and man.
Perfect.
Shivers of excitement cascaded down my spine as Miles moved his hands along my body again. He kissed and nipped the side of my neck, running his tongue from my Adam’s apple to the hollow of my throat. He tilted his head, bit down where my neck and shoulder met, and began stroking my cock.
“Oh God,” I groaned. “Don’t stop.” I wrapped an arm around Miles’s neck, holding him close. I shoved a hand between us and started touching him too.
Miles panted quietly. “A bit tighter,” he instructed.
I adjusted my grip on him, giving his cock long strokes and running my thumb over the head.
Miles sped up. The only obvious goal in mind was to make me come until I maybe passed out. “You like this?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, moaning unabashedly.
He kissed me hard.
My knees nearly buckled. I said against his lips, “Next time. Sex? Until I can’t walk.”
Miles nodded briefly. “It’s a date.” He kissed me again and thrust a finger between my asscheeks.
“Shit….” I pressed my forehead against Miles’s chest, watched my hand on his dick, and focused on that delicious tease of what “next time” would entail.
I can say with absolute certainty that the best hand job and fingering I’d ever had was from Miles. Kudos for the guy who worked with his hands for a living. Miles was both gentle and thorough, bringing me to the edge faster and more efficiently than any lover I’d had in the past. His hands were rough, and his callused skin made every part of my body feel like both fire and electricity at once.
I’d never screamed from a hand job, but I think his neighbors heard me that morning. And after we finished and washed, he smiled, kissed my lips, and made pancakes.
WHEN IT came time for the fair that weekend, I realized it was a far bigger deal than Miles
had led me to believe. It was like the entire town came out for it. Maybe neighboring ones too. After much fretting and baking more bread than he really knew what to do with, Miles had settled on a loaf of sourdough for the competition. The judges had taste-tested earlier in the day, and afterward the tent was opened to the public to sample the competing pieces.
Miles was nervous, which was precious. “There are a lot of people in the contest,” he said as we surveyed the rows of cakes, pies, stews, and other submissions.
I rubbed his back and he absently put an arm over my shoulder to pull me closer. “True, but look—your bread is gone.”
“Is it?”
I pointed to where there was a sign with his name and an empty plate.
“Maybe they tossed it.”
“Miles, don’t be silly.”
“It wasn’t my best.”
“Yes, it was.”
“I can do better.”
“I’m sure,” I agreed. “But they judged this piece. So there’s nothing you can do about it.”
“I should have done rye bread.”
“Sourdough is superior.” I looked up and smiled at him. “Don’t worry. It’s just for fun. Want to go take a hayride?”
“They announce the winners soon.”
“All right. Let’s get drunk on hard apple cider.”
Miles glanced down. “Maybe a drink wouldn’t hurt.” He dropped his arm as he turned, and we both nearly collided with Sam Bloom.
Great. The guy who wanted to shove me off a theoretical cliff.
But Sam seemed equally surprised and looked back and forth between us. “Miles,” he finally stated.
Miles was really excellent at neutral expressions, and with the naturally gentle way in which he spoke, it was difficult to tell if he was upset or not. Even though he was so nervous about this food competition, I’d have hardly known it from his deep, calm voice. In fact, the only reason I knew there was an issue between him and Sam was because it was Sam’s expressions that gave it away. Just like at the library, there was a crackle of energy between them, and not the good kind.
“Hello, Sam,” Miles said cordially.
Sam had already made up his mind about me. I was a roadblock he’d easily run over in a few weeks. His personal issue was with Miles. “Can I speak with you for a minute, Miles?”
