Copyright © 2021 by Julie Christianson
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover design: Blue Water Books.
This one’s for my mother, who is nothing like Lenore. (I love you, Mom!)
Contents
Chapter 1
Brooke
Chapter 2
Mac
Chapter 3
Brooke
Chapter 4
Mac
Chapter 5
Brooke
Chapter 6
Mac
Chapter 7
Brooke
Chapter 8
Mac
Chapter 9
Brooke
Chapter 10
Mac
Chapter 11
Brooke
Chapter 12
Mac
Chapter 13
Brooke
Chapter 14
Mac
Chapter 15
Brooke
Chapter 16
Mac
Chapter 17
Brooke
Chapter 18
Mac
Chapter 19
Brooke
Chapter 20
Mac
Chapter 21
Brooke
Chapter 22
Mac
Chapter 23
Brooke
Chapter 24
Mac
Chapter 25
Brooke
Chapter 26
Mac
Chapter 27
Brooke
Chapter 28
Mac
Chapter 29
Brooke
Chapter 30
Mac
Chapter 31
Brooke
Chapter 32
Mac
Chapter 33
Brooke
Chapter 34
Mac
Chapter 35
Brooke
Chapter 36
Mac
Chapter 37
Brooke
Chapter 38
Brooke
Epilogue
Also by Julie Christianson
Acknowledgments
About the Author
1
Brooke
If I’d known my new job would land me smack-dab in the middle of a food fight, I might’ve reconsidered my best friend Emi’s offer to talk me up to the hiring committee. Instead, I told her yes, please and thank you very much because, let’s face it—I needed the money.
Scratch that. I need the money. As in present tense.
Forget the past.
A plastic pork chop sails an inch above my head.
“Ha!” I duck. “You missed!”
Two seconds later, a plastic tomato strikes my chest.
“Psst! Please stop. Now.” I’m using my best loud-whisper voice, partly because my attacker looks to be about five years old, and also because we’re in the library.
Oh, right. Did I forget to mention I’m the newest security guard at the Edward R. McCoy Library?
It was all Emi’s bright idea.
She’s my roommate. Well, she was. We’d shared an apartment ever since college. But when her hometown needed a new librarian, Emi left Los Angeles and moved back to Apple Valley, Oregon. Then she missed me. I’m very missable. Unless you ask Ethan.
(Don’t ask Ethan.)
“Come up here and work at the library,” she said. “It’ll be the fresh start you’re looking for. You’ll absolutely love this place!”
New state. New career. New life.
“Sign me up!” I said.
Too bad by the time I packed my car and made the drive up from LA, the only open position was as a security guard. The second shift from five to nine o’clock. That comes to just twenty hours a week.
Without hazard pay.
“When Sheila retires in September,” Emi said, “you can apply for her full time spot in circulation. In the meantime, this is Apple Valley. How much danger could there be?”
Ha! What does Emi know? She and Spencer Crane are librarians on my shift. They mostly sit behind their reference desks.
Very few people throw pork chops at them.
But Emi assured me that Gus, the first-shift guard, mostly goes around asking people to take their loud phone calls or their fragrant food outside. He makes his rounds a few times an hour, including stops at our aquarium and puppet theater.
Easy peasy, right?
So I convinced myself I’d be the right woman for the job. Two months later, I’m still trying to convince my boss.
“Oof!” A corn cob hits my stomach, which reminds me I’d rather be shucking corn husks at a weekend cookout than dodging plastic groceries on a Monday. But here I am, squatting in front of our Little Tike’s play house, staring down a pint-sized security breach. The girl inside has made the space a fortress, and her mother is nowhere to be found. Since unattended children are my responsibility, I’ve got to coax the child out, then figure out who brought her.
Come on, Brooke. You’ve got this.
I plop down on the carpet and sit criss-cross applesauce. Thank goodness my black knit skirt is extra long and extra stretchy. The fact that it matches my long black hair is about as close as I get to fashion. Most days I aim for a look I like to call Flexible Library Chic—monochromatic skirt, cardigan, and high-tops. The idea that I might need clothes that are literally flexible hadn’t even occurred to me.
In any case, my sudden shift to ground level shocks the girl into freezing, mid-chuck.
Her eyes go wide, and her mouth takes the shape of an O. When she drops her arm, I exhale in relief because the plastic steak she’s holding is big. Like a porterhouse.
“Hi there.” I paste on a bright smile, hoping I’m no longer in danger of being pelted. “What’s your name?”
The little girl tosses the plastic steak in my direction, but she misses. On purpose.
Progress.
One of her strawberry-blonde pigtails is higher than the other, and a few curls hang loose along her neck. Whoever did her hair could use a bit more practice. Then again, they might’ve been ducking plastic picnic food while tightening her rubber bands.
Ask me how I know.
“Are you lost?” I tilt my head. “Where’s your mommy?” When the girl still doesn’t answer, I brainstorm other options. After three years as a kindergarten teacher, I’ve got lots of tricks up my sleeve. Then again, maybe my super-soft spot for children has already evaporated.
Poof. Gone!
Wouldn’t that be nice, Brooke?
Yes, it really would.
But nope. There’s that old, familiar tug at my heartstrings. In fact, this time it’s more like a yank. So I should probably give up and ask Spencer Crane to page the child’s mother. The thing is, I’m no quitter. Well, except for my last job. But I had good reasons to leave teaching. So unless you count that one time I left my dream career, I don’t surrender when the going gets tough.
“Chomp. Chomp. Chomp.” I pretend to nibble the corn from one end of the cob to the other, typewriter style. “I’m so hungry! Hungry, hungry, hungry. Just like the very hungry caterpillar.”
For the record, I haven’t had my seven o’clock dinner break, so I’m actually not lying. The little girl covers her mouth with a hand.
Was that a giggle I heard?
“Yum.” I rub my stomach in a circular motion. “This corn sure is tasty. Could use some butter, though. Did you see any butter lying around?”
The girl glances at the Little Tikes pantry and the plastic stove top next to her. But then, as if she realizes I almost tricked her into answering, she looks down at her lap. I’m losing her.
“Hmm. If I can’t find butter for this corn, maybe I’ll stick it in my ear. Get it? Ear? Of corn?” The girl might not get my excellent pun, but the promise of me sticking something in my ear does make her lift her chin again.
I bump the corn against the side of my head “Huh! That’s funny! It doesn’t fit.” The girl drops her hand, and her blue eyes go wide. She opens her mouth like she might start laughing.
See, Brooke. You haven’t lost your touch. Kids still love you. You still love—
“Daisy!” A deep voice sounds behind me, and the girl startles. I turn and see a pair of sturdy work boots. The scuffed and rugged kind, like whoever wears them isn’t afraid to get dirty. As my gaze travels upward, I notice a pair of well-worn jeans settled above those boots. And the jeans are attached to a man.
A very well-built man.
Scrambling to my feet, I curse the long, stretchy skirt that makes moving my legs more difficult. I probably look like a baby giraffe. More specifically, a graceless baby giraffe. Then again, grace has never been my strong suit. One might say it’s among my weakest suits. In any case, once I’m standing, Mr. Well-Built towers over me by a good eight inches. This means he’s pretty tall, because at my last doctor’s appointment, I measured in at five foot six. There’s a small dent around his thick, dark hair where a hat would normally sit. The longish waves remind me of the beach at sunset. His eyes are sea-glass green.
“Hey there,” I chirp at Mr. Well-Built. He stares at me like I might actually be a talking giraffe. Then he peers over my shoulder, which isn’t hard for him because, as I mentioned before, he’s tall.
“How many times have I told you not to hide from me, Daisy?” His jaw is tight. “Come on out of there. Now!” Instead of coming out, Daisy shrinks back into the playhouse. “Daisy? I’m losing my patience.”
Mr. Well-Built’s green eyes flash, and I can sense the tension escalating. Since escalating tensions are the opposite of my job description, I rush to fix the situation.
Conflict resolution to the rescue!
I offer my hand to Mr. Well-Built, even though touching patrons is not good security-guard etiquette. That’s one of the first things Gus taught me during orientation. But I’m practicing conflict resolution. And I’m pathologically polite.
“My name is Brooke.” I point to the badge pinned to my cardigan. “I’m the library security guard, so everything’s okay.”
Mr. Well-Built ignores my extended hand. “None of this is okay.” He darts his sea-glass eyes at my name badge and I feel myself starting to blush. “Ms. Wallace.”
When he says my last name, two dimples crease the sides of his mouth. To earn those dimples, Mr. Well-Built must smile occasionally. But he sure isn’t smiling now. Maybe he was worried. Maybe he’s annoyed. Either way I need to up my conflict-resolution game.
“It’s just that I think Daisy might be a little scared, is all.” I nod at the little girl.
She looks away and starts scooping the Little Tikes food into her lap.
Mr. Well-Built’s jaw goes stiff. “What would you know about Daisy?”
“Good question.” I smile at him, but he still doesn’t smile back. “You see, I used to be a teacher. Kindergarten, in fact. Before you found us, I think Daisy and I were starting to make a connection. I’d be happy to keep—”
“I think you’ve never met my daughter,” he says. Okay. This guy is both worried and annoyed. “You have no idea what she’s been through,” he says.
Flames of heat spread across my face. “No, I guess I don’t.”
Mr. Well-Built takes a step toward me. “So you should probably mind your own business, Ms. Wallace.” His deep voice startles me as much as it startled his daughter, and without thinking, I chuck the plastic corn at him.
Little Tikes self-defense.
Unfortunately, the cob bounces off his chest and comes back to smack me in the face. “Ouch!”
Mr. Well-Built glances down at his formidable chest, completely unfazed. Of course a piece of plastic ricocheting off a marble statue wouldn’t hurt the statue. I’m surprised the man even felt it. Maybe he doesn’t feel anything at all.
I’m about to tell Mr. Well-Built that he shouldn’t go around scaring smaller people, when someone starts to giggle behind us.
“Wait!” His glass-green eyes go wide. “Was that … Daisy?”
We both spin around so quickly, I trip over the plastic steak. Mr. Well-Built catches me in his well-built arms. He’s so strong and chiseled, I feel like we’re in a Batman cartoon.
Zap! Pow! Bam!
Once I’m steadied again, Mr. Well-Built kicks the offending steak like it’s a genuine bad guy. When the steak lands over near the puppet theater, Daisy trades in her giggle for a full-on belly laugh.
Mr. Well-Built gasps. “Oh, Daisy!” He rushes past me, squeezing his body into the playhouse. When he gathers Daisy in those well-built arms, his muscles strain against his fitted T-shirt.
Zap! Pow! Bam!
I clear my throat to clear my head. “I’m sorry about throwing corn at you,” I say. “That is not my usual method of conflict resolution."
Mr. Well-Built pulls Daisy in close, rocking her back and forth while she continues to giggle. “I’m sorry I was rude,” he says. “I was just so worried when I couldn’t find her.”
I smile at his broad, beautiful back. “All’s well that ends well.”
“You don’t understand.” He shakes his head. “I haven’t heard her laugh like this in months.”
Daisy takes this as her cue to cut the laughter.
Mr. Well-Built looks back over his shoulder, his glass-green eyes pleading with me.
“Do it again,” he says. His voice is gravelly with emotion. “Please. Do it again.”
“Do what again?” I ask. “Throw food at you?” I snort—very gracefully, I might add—and he nods.
Oh. The man’s not kidding.
Surveying the Little Tikes kitchen, I discover a head of lettuce that must have rolled off Daisy’s lap. “Seriously. I’m just double checking. You want me to attack you with pretend vegetables?” Mr. Well-Built nods and turns back to Daisy.
I bend over to pick up the lettuce.
Here goes nothing.
I aim at a spot between Mr. Well-Built’s perfect shoulder muscles, and lob the lettuce at him. It’s been ten years since I played high school softball, but the lettuce strikes Mr. Well-Built at the base of his neck, just below the hairline. Daisy sees this and her laughter bubbles over.
She sounds even happier than before.
I’m basking in the glow of conflict resolution when Daisy’s giggles are drowned out by an angry voice behind me. “Ms. Wallace!” Uh oh. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”
That bellow belongs to none other than Mr. Dudley.
My boss.
Turning slowly, I raise both hands like I’m in an old-school, western shoot-out. Mr. Dudley is about my height, although Emi told me his shoes have lifts. His eyes are bulging, and his jowls droop past his chin. He’s like a bulldog with a clipboard and a walkie-talkie.
“Ms. Wallace? Explain yourself. Immediately!”
I begin to stammer. “Oh, no, no, no. Mr. Dudley. T
his is definitely not what you think. I was just—”
Mr. Dudley cuts me off. “Attacking a patron and a child? Have you gone stark raving mad?”
“Hold on and let me explain—” Mr. Well-Built says, hauling himself out of the playhouse. I still can’t believe he managed to cram that big body of his into such a small space. He helps Daisy crawl out while I stand there stunned and silent. Two minutes ago, he was telling me to mind my own business. Now he’s defending me to my boss.
Am I dreaming?
Mr. Well-Built takes Daisy’s hand. Hers is so tiny and his is so large, it’s almost like one hand is gobbling the other. “Ms. Wallace didn’t do anything wrong,” he says to Mr. Dudley. “She was just trying to help.”
Mr. Dudley puffs out his chest. “I saw the whole, despicable scene, sir. Instead of performing her duties, Ms. Wallace grabbed a piece of food from our play area and threw it at a patron. While his back was turned!”
“That’s not exactly how things happened.” Mr. Well-Built glances down at Daisy. “You see, I brought my daughter to visit the aquarium, and she taught me that you can lead an almost five-year-old horse to water, but you can’t make her feed the fish.”
“I was right!” I blurt out. “I guessed she was five!”
Mr. Well-Built meets my gaze. “You guessed almost right.” He offers me a small smile, then his eyes skate back to Mr. Dudley. “Anyway, Daisy ran off while I was putting money in your Feed the Fish donation bucket. When I came back and couldn’t find her … well.” His jaw tightens. “I thought maybe someone took her. But Daisy was safe all along.” He nods at me. “In good hands with your security guard.”
“Brooke,” I say.
The Mostly Real McCoy: A Sweet Romantic Comedy (Apple Valley Love Stories Book 1) Page 1
