Stud in the Stacks: A Fake Fiancee / Hot Librarian / Bachelor Auction Romantic Comedy

by Pippa Grant

“No, but failing at one thing doesn’t mean you didn’t do a good job. It means you failed one thing. You learn from it, and if your boss can’t appreciate everything you went through last night, fuck him. You work too hard to take his shit.”

  I suck in a breath, because I don’t want to fight. “Says Mr. Stayed At The Library Until Eight On A Saturday,” I tease instead.

  His muscles go taut under my cheek. I give his waist a squeeze. “Kidding. You needed to be there, and we both know it.”

  His chest rises with a deep breath. “I quit.”

  I start to laugh, but he’s serious. A quick glance at his face confirms it. “Whoa. What? Where did that come from?”

  “Dorky’s never going to quit looking for an excuse to get rid of me, so I quit.”

  I straighten, pulling a sheet with me to cover my naked bits. “After that program, you quit?”

  “Not a big deal. Lots of other libraries in the city.”

  “But they love you there.”

  He grins. “They love me everywhere.”

  I gape at him. I know he’s right—people do love him everywhere—but it’s unsettling. And it’s pissing me off for reasons I can’t entirely identify. Possibly because he can be friggin’ unemployed and confident he’ll fit in the next place when I don’t know how I’m going to tell my own boss that Randy Pickle basically told me Crunchy can shove it.

  Also—if Knox quit…it doesn’t matter what the next Times article says.

  Because his job was the only reason he needed me.

  The realization that our deal is done—over, finished, sang its last song—hits me in the chest with a sucker-punch.

  “Parker?” He scoots up, his smile fading.

  “That’s…great.” Great? Who the fuck am I kidding? It’s horrible. I lunge for a pair of pants in a pile next to the bed. “Wow. So I guess you have some résumés to get busy on. Or you could call Lila. It’s something, at least, until you can get into another library.”

  “Parker—”

  “I realize this is awkward, but I’m kind of a master at that, so I’m just going to say it.” I struggle into my pants. “You don’t need to stay if you don’t want to. Since we’re basically done with our deal. I—I’d like to stay friends. You’ve been really great.”

  “Parker.” The eyebrows of doom are lowering over something dark in his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

  “Our deal. My reunion, your program… It’s all over.”

  And now I’m getting the dancing-penises-growing-out-of-my-ears look again. I yank a T-shirt over my head, realize it’s his, strip, and grab last night’s dress instead, which I dance into with all the grace of a one-legged monkey.

  When I poke my head out, Knox is saying something and gesturing to the bed, to my pillow, to the sheet covering his—oh, god, nope, don’t think about his magic peen, because I was just borrowing it, and my time on that rental has expired.

  I am never having sex again.

  Because there’s no flipping way my usual horrible sense will ever give me a man who knows what he’s doing in bed again. It’s like I found a sex unicorn—you know, they don’t actually exist, and if you’re lucky enough to find one, no one will ever believe you, and you’ll start to doubt yourself after it disappears again because unicorns don’t actually exist.

  Finally, his words register.

  “This was way more than a deal.” His voice is gravelly and low, and his eyeballs are doing that intense stare thing that I’ve never seen from Knox before. “It started that way, but—you’re more, Parker. I don’t want this to end. Do…” He visibly swallows, and he squeezes his eyes shut for a long second. “Do you want it to end?”

  Do I want it to end? Of course not. That would be like wishing someone would come along one day and take one of my feet just because I made a joke about trading it for another piece of cheesecake. But— “Ending is kind of inevitable, isn’t it?”

  “It doesn’t have to be.”

  “Doesn’t it? You’re still like a chocolate cupcake while I’m that weird lemon-white chocolate cookie people always pick last because it’s weird.”

  “You’re not—”

  “I work too many hours for you, and you just throw around jobs like they’re a dime a dozen.”

  “There’s more to life than work.”

  “I have my band. I have my friends. I like my life. And I like you too. I do. A lot. But I’ve only been a VP for about two months, and I still have a lot of work to do to prove to my boss and myself that he made the right choice when he promoted me. I spent fifteen years at Crunchy, being told I’m not good enough for this. You can’t come in and wave a magic wand and suddenly fix everything that’s wrong with me.”

  “There is nothing wrong with you.”

  “There’s something wrong with all of us. I just happen to know what’s wrong with me, and I know there’s not a quick fix.”

  He rakes his hands through his hair. “That doesn’t mean we can’t work this out. Parker, you—you’re funny, and you’re smart, and you’re so fucking strong, so fucking beautiful, and I’m not letting you go so you can find some idiot who doesn’t appreciate every single molecule of your very essence.”

  “So you’re playing hero again,” I say softly.

  “No. Dammit, Parker—”

  “We’ve had a good run,” I say, my voice getting thicker, each word getting harder, “but why drag this out? A month from now, six months, you’ll find another damsel in more distress than me, or you’ll be unemployed and I’ll be harping on you about it, or we won’t get to see each other enough because of my schedule. I never wanted to get married. You never wanted a woman who’s never wanted kids.”

  He flinches, and another part of my heart crumbles.

  “And even if I wanted to give you kids, I’m thirty-eight. I’m old. There’s no telling if I could.” Oh, god, I’m going to cry.

  Because I suddenly do want to give him children. Fucking dammit. There goes my strong, independent woman card, flying out the window because of a sex unicorn.

  “Parker—” he starts again.

  I cut him off with the last bits of my conviction. “I’m going to get in the shower. It’ll be best if you’re gone when I get out. Thank you. Again. For everything. And good luck.”

  Before he can argue, I dart to the bathroom, shut the door, and lock it. Because while I’ve just figured out how to be Parker 2.0, I don’t know how to be this woman who’s suddenly craving everything I never thought I wanted or needed.

  Including that man on the other side of the door, who will one day find a woman without all my emotional baggage, without my aging ovaries, and without all my insecure need for him to bang down this door, tell me I’m wrong, and that he’s just as much in love with me as I am with him and that he doesn’t care if we never have children, because I’m enough all by myself.

  Me.

  Crazy, insecure, Pimple Popper Parker.

  After what feels like an eternity, I hear him leave my bedroom. The apartment door shuts, sealing off all my budding hopes that I knew better than to indulge in.

  Tomorrow, I’m going to be queen of my world.

  But today, I let myself sink into the bathtub for a good long cry.

  37

  Knox

  The only reason I know it’s Monday is because I’m still counting the hours since Parker kicked me out of her apartment. I’m on my couch, getting my ass kicked by Nana in MarioKart, and I don’t give two fucks.

  Because for the first time in my life, I’m in love with a woman.

  And she doesn’t love me back.

  I keep rationalizing that this is for the best. That I like my freedom. I like knowing that I’m the only one who gets hurt if I quit my job. I like knowing that if I’m walking down the street and happen to see a woman drop her purse, I can help her pick up her scattered pens and lipstick and ask her out for coffee without worrying that it’ll piss off my girlfriend.

  But I keep circlin
g back to not wanting to take another woman out for coffee.

  No, I want the woman who wants me to take a high-paying job that probably also comes with insane hours, and who wants me to change my blog so it can bring in the all-important revenue, and who wants to work eighty fucking hours a week so that she feels like her life is worth something.

  Because I’m not that something that’s worthwhile enough.

  I’m fucking pathetic today.

  “Good god, what died in here?”

  I hadn’t heard the door open, but my mom’s behind us.

  “It’s Romeo here,” Nana says. “That’s the smell of his heart rotting in his chest since his old babysitter dumped him. He’s given up caring for the world. I think he might need a diaper change too.”

  Nope, don’t even care that she’s implying I’m a baby.

  “Knox.” Mom steps in front of the TV. She starts to bend toward me, but recoils and steps back four paces, covering her mouth and nose with her hand. “We’re just going to pretend I’m giving you a hug.”

  “Your nose goes numb after a couple hours,” Nana tells her cheerfully.

  Whoever invented cheerful needs to be dragged out in the street and shot.

  “Marty Dorky got fired.” Mom’s voice is muffled behind her hand. Two days ago, that would’ve been funny. “If you’d answer your phone, you’d know Gertie’s been trying to call you all afternoon. He’s been sleeping with a barely-legal girl he met at church, and his wife called his boss to demand you be reinstated.”

  “Mm,” I grunt.

  I don’t give two fucks about work either. Dorky might be a cheating, self-righteous asshole, but he was right. I’ll just go back to flirting with all my patrons, no matter where I am, no matter how old or young or what their gender or sexual orientation, because that’s what I do.

  I play hero through my book recommendations.

  Look what playing fucking hero gets me.

  “And the Times article on your program went live an hour ago,” Mom continues. She pulls a folded piece of paper out of her back pocket.

  She has a smart phone, and she’s still printing articles on paper. Just like Dorky.

  “It’s deliciously patronizing. Calls you the male organizer of the women’s re-liberation movement, where perceived societal slights against women are played out on the pages of sex-riddled romance novels.”

  I grunt. “Fucker.”

  “And he calls Parker your mindless mouthpiece.”

  I surge to my feet, because no one calls Parker names. “I’ll fucking tear his arms off.”

  Nana snickers. Mom’s head shrinks into her shoulders, guilt flashing over her smile. At the same time, my phone dings. My heart stutters when I see Parker’s name pop up.

  She’s sent a text message.

  Clairol turducken. Mice over over age.

  I fucking love that phone. I fucking miss that phone.

  Did you just invite me to dye fowl feathers, or are you happy to text me? I reply. Hope is soaring in my chest.

  I really want her to be happy to text me.

  Her answer pops up so fast, I know it’ll be good.

  Dog hymen ducking phthalate.

  And one more text.

  J U S T W A N T E D 2 S A Y C O N G R A T S.

  I blink. Unless she wants to say I want you back, I don’t give a fuck about anything. I miss her.

  Her phone. The way she laughs until she snorts over The Big Bang Theory reruns. That little sigh that slips out every night just before she shoves me off so she can curl up and fall asleep. Her rockin’ hips when she’s strumming and singing on a stage.

  Her bravery.

  That doesn’t come easy. Probably never will.

  Another text pops up.

  Anyway, good fuck, it says. I whisk you the rest.

  I wait for the correction, because I know she didn’t mean good fuck.

  Except it doesn’t come.

  I guess that’s all I was to her. A good fuck.

  I flick my fingers at Mom in a hand it here gesture, because I have a feeling that wasn’t a bad article at all, and it’s the more important thing right now. If, you know, I’m going to get myself a new job and go about the business of fucking living.

  Mom surrenders the paper.

  I blink twice and force myself to concentrate.

  Evening surrounded by voracious romance readers…invitation from an arrogant, no-name blogging librarian with better manners than his blog suggested…surprising sense of community…smart, business-savvy writers…passionate for their little obsession…

  I roll my eyes.

  Little obsession.

  Probably a dig at my little dick insult.

  The piece was put together by both reporters, and while it’s not a shining endorsement of the romance genre—it’s the Times, can’t expect miracles—the condescending tone is mostly gone.

  There’s no apology, or concession that Jedidiah Sampson has realized he’s a dick either.

  Not that it matters.

  “You still have a job at West Park Branch Library,” Mom says. “Gertie wouldn’t know what to do without you. And I’m so proud of you for standing up for what you believe in.” She squeezes me in a quick hug—holding her breath—and retreats back to fresher air. “Now. Let’s talk about Parker.”

  “We weren’t engaged.”

  “Oh, honey, I know. You never are. But you’re in love with her. That’s a first.”

  I don’t ask how she knew. I usually keep my relationships away from my family, so I don’t know if they know how many times I’ve played the fiancé at weddings, funerals, and the occasional bowling league championship—don’t ask—but apparently they know enough.

  “She works too much,” I say. Possibly whine. Because my man card has fled the building. Probably the whole fucking city.

  “Knox. Sweetheart. Parker is not your father.”

  My shoulders bunch, and I don’t answer.

  Mom sighs. “You have to decide. Parker with her hours, or another woman without?”

  Is she fucking kidding? There will never be another woman.

  I shake my head and cross the room to eyeball my books.

  For the first time in my life, I don’t want to read a single one of them.

  I want Parker back.

  38

  Parker

  I shove my phone in my desk and pretend I wasn’t texting Knox when Chase knocks on my door. Not because I’m afraid Chase will catch me texting on work hours—I work my ass off and he knows it, and now I know he knows it—but because I shouldn’t be texting Knox when my brain says Oh, sure, we can be friends while my heart’s saying If you want to extract me from my cozy little home in this rib cage one snip at a time until there’s nothing left of me.

  I miss Knox. But I also know he’ll be better off with a low-maintenance, book-loving woman who doesn’t laugh so hard she spits margarita out her nose when he thrusts his hips and asks if she wants to go Knox Knox Knoxing on heaven’s door.

  I promise I wouldn’t have laughed if he hadn’t had that unicorn blanket hanging from Mr. Happy as part of his strip tease. I’m the double-horned magical unicorn, he’d said.

  He had been.

  God, I need to quit thinking about that. About Knox at all. I just wanted to check on him and congratulate him on a great article in the Times, not go down this rabbit hole.

  Especially since my boss is wearing a weird frown as he steps all the way into my office. That heart that’s in danger of being snipped apart almost stops.

  This is it.

  He’s firing me.

  But Sia barges in behind him, slams my door, and shuts the three of us in, and I find my breath again. If he’s going to fire me, she’ll fight for me.

  Fuck, I’ll fight for myself.

  And Knox might be right—I need to get over this feeling that every time I fail, I’m going to be canned. I earned this position. If I didn’t have what it took, I wouldn’t be here. Chase wasn�
�t in the mood to do anyone favors when he put me here—especially me—and I’ve done some fucking awesome things since I moved up to this floor.

  “I am so pissed at you,” Sia says. “What kind of friend doesn’t tell her friends she was married?”

  Okay, not what I was expecting. But considering I told Chase everything this morning—about Randy, the truth about Knox, about me assaulting an overgrown jockhole at my reunion—I shouldn’t be surprised.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I say, surprised to hear the easy cadence of my own voice. “Maybe the same kind of friend who tells people she’s from Pennsylvania when she really grew up in Minnesota with the number one dick on her dick list?”

  It’s rare to see Sia blush these days, but there it is.

  And Chase actually grins at the reminder that he’s still sitting at the top of Sia’s dick list. She says she’s waiting for a grand gesture to take him off, but I suspect it’s something they pretend-fight over so they can have wild, crazy make-up monkey sex.

  “You said Randy was selling to Pure Green,” Chase says.

  Oh, fuck. Of course. “Let me guess. You’re buying them next?”

  “They’re a terrible investment,” Sia says. “That social media campaign with the narwhal and the tinkling kangaroo is going to tank them. And their house brand cereals taste like cardboard. Can’t fix bad taste.”

  “You done?” Chase asks her.

  “We could talk about that organic milk scandal they had last month.”

  “Or I could tell you both that Randy Pickle just called me and wants to make a deal.”

  My jaw hits my desk. Sia’s eyes bulge. “Are you serious?” she says.

  “Said we have a much better corporate team than Pure Green.”

  “Holy shit, you break a guy’s kneecaps for your ex-husband, and suddenly he’s willing to sell his soul to you.”

  Heat flushes my face. “I’m sure it wasn’t—”

  Wait. What am I saying? If I hadn’t gone to my reunion, Crunchy never would’ve gotten close to Randy’s Pickle Hops TM. “I’m sure it wasn’t just the broken kneecaps,” I amend. “The bloody nose and knee to the groin probably sealed the deal. Let me know next time you need me to beat someone up in your quest to make all food organic.”