Checked Out

by Hazel James

  Selena: Do you want me to ask him for a guy’s opinion?

  Me: Nah, that’s okay. Just overthinking it.

  Selena: Who are you overthinking about?

  Ugh. Why did I have to go and open my big mouth?

  Me: No one. Just random curiosity. Heading to bed. See you at Olivia’s play tomorrow!

  With that bullet dodged, at least temporarily, I powered my phone off and went through my typical nighttime routine of face wash, moisturizer, and eyelash serum. Aunt Alma always said an ounce of prevention kept the plastic surgeon away.

  She launched her acting career in a soap opera called Thunder Harbor that ran in the seventies and eighties and prided herself on being one of the few females from the original cast who’d never gone under the knife. Needless to say, I assumed she knew what she was talking about.

  But despite my best efforts to fall asleep, my mind kept drifting back to Jack. I caved sometime around midnight and did what any rational, mature twenty-two-year-old would do.

  I looked him up on the internet.

  The only pictures on social media came from the Newcastle Library page when he started working there in the spring. Determined, I pressed on and scored with a string of videos.

  That made my jaw drop.

  And my skin flush.

  And my heart race.

  Jack Price was on my computer—in all its HD viewing glory—wearing spandex trunks for a college swim tournament. I nearly sprained my finger trying to get the videos to play.

  There was no sleeping after that. Not until I’d watched every one of them twice. And tested the Golden Buzzer again. Now I needed to mainline some coffee.

  “Helloooo. Earth to Tuesday.” Nina snapped her fingers in front of my face, making me blink.

  “Huh? Oh, sorry.” I casually wiped the corner of my mouth to make sure I wasn’t drooling.

  “I’m taking a break now that you’re here. I’ll be back in fifteen and you’re going to tell me all about this mystery man.”

  Nina was a single mom in her early forties. Her only son started his freshman year at the University of Idaho a few months ago, and she dealt with empty-nest syndrome the best way she knew how—by moving into a fixer-upper and devoting her spare time to home improvement projects. When it came to dating, she said she’d live vicariously through me. Except I wasn’t dating anyone either. Maybe I should tell her about the Golden Buzzer.

  I downed more coffee and worked my way through the return rack, re-hanging bras and shapewear on the crappy little clips designed by Satan himself. I swear there was some sort of conspiracy against the people working in retail. At least I had something delicious to occupy my thoughts.

  And trust me when I say everything about Jack Price was delicious, from his perfect hair to his gorgeous body that looked like it belonged on the cover of a fitness magazine. And to top it off, he was a genuinely nice guy who made me laugh. If I was writing a review of him online, it would fall into the “10 out of 5 stars, would absolutely recommend” category.

  As we left the library last night, Jack said he thought my dream of being a news reporter in a new city was brave and admirable. That it took talent to stand in front of a camera and distill information into something a viewer could understand in less than a minute.

  If I wasn’t already swooning over him, that compliment would have done it. I just needed to remind myself that permanent residence in Jacklandia wasn’t an option since I wouldn’t be staying in Idaho.

  But that was okay. I could totally have a visitor’s crush on him. What was the harm in that?

  I pulled into the parking lot of Marcum Elementary School on Wednesday evening with a single thought playing on a loop in my mind: Jack Price was a jerk.

  A well-intentioned, extremely handsome jerk.

  He was already using the upper body machines when I got to the gym this morning. Not wanting to look like a creepy copycat, I waved and headed toward the free weights instead. I was seven reps into my tricep kickbacks when he spoke.

  “Bring your shoulder in.”

  “What?”

  He rose from the lat pulldown machine and approached my weight bench. I had one foot on the floor, one knee resting on the bench, and two eyes that were now inches away from his shorts. I bit my tongue to force moisture back into my mouth.

  “Tighten your form a bit so you don’t get hurt.” Jack cupped my shoulder and guided me into the proper position but didn’t let go. I was okay with that. I was so very okay with that. “Lift your arm until it reaches my hand,” he said, holding the palm of his free hand along my torso.

  “Like this?” I forced my lips to maintain a straight line and somehow focused on my form and not on how close his fingertips were to my sideboob.

  “Exactly. Now kick your forearm back.”

  When I finished my set, he grabbed his own dumbbells and walked me through a bunch of other exercises. I thought it was sweet at the time. Eleven hours later, muscles were aching that I didn’t even know existed.

  I was going to kill him… as soon as I could lift my arms again.

  For now, I shelved my murderous plan and wove my way through a mob of parents clustered around the entrance to the auditorium. Mom, Dad, Tag, Selena, Aunt Alma, and Uncle Alan were somewhere in this mess of bodies. Of course we were all proud of my niece Olivia, but Selena and Aunt Alma were treating the school play like it was a Broadway event.

  I’d bet money they both had a portable battery in their purse so they wouldn’t miss recording one second of Liv’s starring role in the Kindergarten production of Hoppy’s Halloween. I think Aunt Alma told Selena to join the PTA for the reserved seating privileges.

  I, on the other hand, got to be honorary PTA aunt. My main duty was assisting Mrs. Northcutt, the music teacher. I grew up in community theater, so helping with school plays was second nature to me. That automatically made me the most valuable member on her team. Her words, not mine.

  “Thank God you’re here,” she said when I slipped inside the door. “It’s an hour before showtime, two of my volunteers called out sick, and the custodian lost the lily pad. How in the devil do you lose a six-foot foam leaf?” She pinched the bridge of her nose and mumbled a prayer to herself.

  “Didn’t he move it to the art room so it wouldn’t get damaged?”

  She lowered her hand. “Oh, right.”

  I felt bad for her. Coordinating an event with a hundred five-year-olds was no easy task. “Why don’t you check in with Eddie and make sure he has the song list cued up correctly?”

  “Are you sure? I don’t want to abandon you.”

  “I’m positive. I’ll mark the stage, and then I’ll have Mr. Williamson bring the lily pad.”

  “Okay.” She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and pushed her lips into a weary smile. “See you in a bit.”

  With Mrs. Northcutt’s mini-crisis averted, I grabbed the rolls of colored tape from backstage and got to work making tiny Xs across the worn oak—white for the swans, yellow for the ducks, brown for the beavers, blue for the fish, and green for Hoppy herself.

  And before you start claiming nepotism, I had no vote in the casting. I couldn’t hide my pride, though. Olivia was a natural on stage and I hoped this would be the first of many performances I’d get to watch from the wings.

  Until I got a reporting job, anyway. Then I’d be relegated to watching on FaceTime until I had enough seniority to take leave. Suddenly my dream of seeing the world, or at least a lot more of the U.S., didn’t look quite as grand. Why did being an adult mean we had to choose between the things that brought us the most happiness? It wasn’t fair.

  Then again, neither was having a pity party when people were counting on me. I shoved my thoughts into my Things-I’ll-Deal-With-Later box and gave all my attention to making Hoppy’s Halloween the best production Marcum Elementary ever had.

  At six o’clock sharp, the crushed velvet curtains parted and the audience fell silent. Olivia’s first line was right afte
r the opening number. She was supposed to frog-hop across the stage onto the lily pad, then say, “I sure am excited for Halloween!”

  Except she walked.

  Fearing she’d developed a sudden case of stage fright, I whisper-shouted for her to hop. That’s when she turned to me and said, “I can’t, Aunt Tuesday! I’m constipated!”

  She remembered her stage voice, I’d give her that.

  Every adult in the building burst into laughter as she continued her walk to the lily pad, this time with a bit more strut than before. Somewhere along her path, I realized I was no longer adamant about leaving. Not when I had a constipated niece and a cute librarian to keep me in town.

  Jack

  Which one? The red or the white? I signed to my phone.

  Diego glanced off camera and signed What do women wear on a first date? to Erin, who just laughed.

  I was holding up my middle finger when he looked at the screen again. Can you please be serious for two seconds?

  Why are you freaking out?

  Because I know shit about wine and I don’t want to give her the wrong impression.

  And what would that be? His eyebrows inched up, taunting me.

  I don’t know. I ran my hands through my hair and sighed. I don’t want her thinking I have an ulterior motive.

  She’s the one who suggested dinner, right?

  I nodded.

  Did she tell you to fuck off at the gym yesterday?

  I shook my head. If anything, she seemed happy to be working out with me. The feeling was entirely mutual.

  So she’s interested. You’re interested. Take both bottles. Have fun. Who knows, maybe you’ll finally—

  He got the middle finger again, albeit with a smile, right before I hung up on him. My phone chimed two seconds later.

  Diego: GET LAID. It’s time for Little Jack to come out of hibernation.

  Me: First, it’s BIG JACK. And second, nothing comes out of hibernation in the fall.

  Diego: Not with that attitude.

  I laughed. No matter how stressed I was, Diego always had a way of pulling me out of my head. Or, as he liked to say, pulling my head out of my ass.

  Dinner with Tuesday was nothing more than a byproduct of tonight’s sign language lesson. She felt bad I was skipping a meal because of it, so she offered to cook. It was a logical arrangement and there was no reason to be anxious.

  Well, except for the part about it being ages since a woman invited me to her place, logical arrangement or not. Was wine too forward? I didn’t want to show up emptyhanded and flowers seemed a little too romantic.

  I glanced at the bottles again. Tuesday never said what she was making which is why I got a red and a white. Bringing both was just another point in the logical column, right?

  Right.

  Christ, I wanted some Pepto.

  My breath came in warm staccato puffs against the cold October air on the short walk to her building. I looked like a nervous choo-choo train. I think I can. I think I can.

  When I knocked on her door, Tuesday and her bright smile greeted me. “Hey! Come on in.”

  Stepping inside her apartment was a sensory experience. Her living room was decorated in neutrals with a plush area rug, throw pillows, and a fuzzy blanket draped over the back of the couch. It looked like an ad for a home store and smelled like the set of a cooking show. I wasn’t sure what she was making, but I wanted a heaping plate of it.

  “I brought a red and a white since I didn’t know what was on the menu.” I held up the wine like an overeager Boy Scout on his first date. “It smells amazing though.”

  “Thanks. It’s baked chicken alfredo and it should be ready in about twenty minutes. I also made brownies earlier.” She took the bottles from me and popped her brows. “What do you think about white with dinner and red with dessert?”

  “I think I should do this sign language thing more often.” We shared a laugh and I felt myself relaxing as I toed off my shoes and followed her into the kitchen.

  “It’s the least I could do for you helping me, especially on short notice. But—” She paused to retrieve a corkscrew from a drawer next to the oven. “I’m putting you on bottle-opening duty. My arms are still dead thanks to a certain gym partner who shall remain nameless.”

  I liked the way she said partner, as if it implied we had a standing date three times a week. Then I wouldn’t be stuck across the gym until I had a valid reason to approach her. Granted, my excuse on proper form was a bit of a stretch since she wasn’t actually in danger of hurting herself.

  Judging by the smirk she was giving me now, she didn’t mind. “I distinctly remember someone saying, ‘This isn’t so bad.’”

  Slack-jawed, Tuesday parked a fist on her hip and aimed the corkscrew at me. “I also said I was a beginner and to go easy on me.”

  Her mock indignation was cute, but the way her green eyes flashed with mischief was sexy as hell. Everything about her was, from the pastel floral fabric tied around her messy bun to the shirt that hung off one shoulder to her ripped jeans and pink polish on her toes.

  Needing to get closer to her, I leaned in and lowered my mouth to her ear. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you’re not a beginner for long.”

  She sucked in a quiet breath and angled her head slightly, giving me better access to a path of bare skin along her neck that begged to be kissed. I wanted to oblige the hell out of her, and I might have if it wasn’t for the knock on her front door.

  With a long sigh, Tuesday dragged her gaze to the living room. “Ten bucks says that’s Mrs. Fairchild.” She held up the corkscrew again, and our fingers brushed when I took it from her. The fleeting contact had me resenting our intruder on principle alone.

  “Who’s she?”

  “My nosy neighbor.”

  Tuesday answered the door while I adjusted myself and opened the wine. A few seconds later, she was back with an elderly woman at her heels.

  “Oh no, I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.” Mrs. Fairchild didn’t look contrite at all. In fact, the loafer-wearing liar looked delighted to be standing in Tuesday’s kitchen. She reminded me of the old ladies at the library who ran a gossip ring under the guise of a weekly knitting circle.

  “It’s no problem, Mrs. Fairchild. This is my friend Jack. He came by to help me with my video blog.” Tuesday gave me a wry smile and mouthed I’m sorry as she pulled a container out of the pantry.

  I returned a quick wink and focused my attention on the four-foot-nothing wet blanket in front of me. “It’s nice to meet you, ma’am.”

  She flashed her dentures. “It’s lovely to meet you too. I apologize for interrupting your date.” Either she didn’t hear Tuesday’s comment, or she was fishing for more information. The way her eyes bounced between Tuesday, me, and the uncorked bottle of wine told me it was the latter.

  But the most important part was that Tuesday didn’t correct her. That was a good thing, right? Or maybe she didn’t want to be rude.

  “Here you go.” Tuesday passed a Ziploc bag of sugar to Mrs. Fairchild, who was still giving both of us a knowing look.

  “Thank you so much, dear. You kids have a fun night!” Tuesday started to escort her out when Mrs. Fairchild politely shooed her away. “Stay here with your guest, I’ll see myself to the door.”

  Neither of us spoke until we heard the latch click shut, and even then, Tuesday peeked in the living room just in case the old woman was playing a game of hide-and-seek.

  “Sorry about that. I didn’t realize when I rented my apartment that it came with a well-intentioned neighbor.” With a rueful smile, she pulled two wine glasses down from a cabinet.

  I filled both and passed one to her. Beer was more my style, so wine fell into two basic categories: good and gross. This one was damn good. Tuesday took a sip and hummed her approval. The sound traveled straight to my dick, requiring an immediate distraction before it got any ideas about what else caused her to make that noise. Thankfully, there was no better chub-kil
ler than thinking about a woman in support hose. “What’s she baking at seven fifteen at night?”

  “Probably nothing.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “She lives alone with her dog, Trixie. She just didn’t have any other excuse to knock on the door.”

  And instead of turning her away, Tuesday humored her and let her inside. That spoke volumes about the woman standing in front of me. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you have a soft spot for her.”

  She chuckled, returning the sugar to the pantry. “I can’t fault her for being a hopeless romantic. It beats the heck out of being old and bitter.”

  “Good point. She kind of reminds me of Cara, my co-worker at the library. She lost her husband a few years ago and still hopes she’ll find another Prince Charming.”

  “Is she the one I talked to on Monday night?”

  “Yeah. She’s worked the front desk for fifteen years. Technically, I’m the librarian, but she runs everything.”

  That made her smile as she hopped up on the counter and reached for her wine. Her new position put her at eye level with me. I shifted sideways, leaning my hip against the granite, and enjoyed the view.

  “So what made you want to be a librarian?”

  With a straight face, I said, “Cardigans and glasses are a huge turn-on.”

  She blinked. It wasn’t often my quick wit rendered a beautiful woman speechless. I reveled in the moment until I lost the battle against the smirk I was holding in. “I wish you could see your expression right now.”

  Realizing it was a joke, Tuesday pressed a hand to her chest and laughed. “Oh my God, for a few seconds I thought you had some weird fetish for old people. I was about to run over to Mrs. Fairchild’s apartment to make sure her door was locked.”

  “No fetishes, I promise. I’m about as vanilla as they come.”

  “Somehow, I doubt that.” She nudged my shoulder with hers. “You still didn’t answer my question.”

  Of course, the journalist wasn’t taking evasion as an answer. I thought about the fight I had with my ex-girlfriend before I started my master’s program a couple of years ago. Natasha couldn’t fathom why I’d leave a lucrative job in finance to work in a “building full of books.” Even after explaining that a hefty bank account did me no good if my soul was empty, she dumped me because it would be too embarrassing to introduce me as her boyfriend, the librarian.