by Olivia Dade
“Have the two of you ironed out your differences?” Tina tilted her head, a heavy lock of gray hair falling on her cheek. “You’ve been…vocal about your disagreements in the past.”
Con laughed. “Can’t argue with that. But yes, we’ve settled our differences.”
Unfortunately. Which made resisting the urge to claim him that much more difficult.
Tina stood. “Good. I’ll be stopping by to speak with you after the week is over. Contact me if you have any questions or concerns in the meantime.”
After lengthy meetings with her supervisor, Con usually tried to track down Helen for a chat. But today, her feet seemed to resist the direction of the stairs. Instead, they steered her back toward the other employee offices on the first floor. Specifically, toward her own office, where Sam was working today. Waiting for her.
On meeting days, Iman and Sybil took Bertha for the entire day, allowing Con to touch base with coworkers outside of the Bookmobile department and wade through her mountains of paperwork. If she wasn’t driving Bertha, she was scheduling her employees or homebound visits, running reports, updating the Bookmobile website, sending requests for supplies or maintenance, checking that her staff was current on training, or ordering books.
The tasks never ended, and simply looking at the piles of paper exhausted her. But she tackled her duties one at a time and kept working until she achieved a modicum of order once more. Normally, she did so alone. At least until lunchtime, when Helen would come down and eat with her.
This morning, though, Sam had been waiting outside Con’s office when she’d arrived, his hair slicked back and still damp from the shower.
“I’m all yours today.” Leaning against her door, he’d hooked his thumbs through his belt loops and offered her a slow smile. “I’ve got a handle on Bertha’s problems, so let’s tackle some of your IT concerns here.”
All mine? she’d almost said. Christmas obviously came very early this year.
Instead, she’d just nodded and unlocked her door to let them both into the small room.
“I’ll start with your computer, so why don’t you deal with your plants?” For once, he hadn’t appeared irritated when mentioning them, merely matter-of-fact. “That way, both of us can get work done at the same time.”
So while he’d inspected her office equipment, she’d filled her watering can and spray bottle, grabbed her fertilizer and shears, and lost herself in caring for her greenery. Calm had settled over her, as it always did when she worked with plants. The constant to-do list scrolling in her head had halted, and her incipient headache had disappeared.
For the first time, she’d really noticed how overgrown her plants had become. And then she’d realized: No wonder her ficus was poised to conquer the adjoining office. If she remembered correctly, she hadn’t had time to clip any of her plants back in weeks. Too many urgent tasks had always claimed her full attention.
But this morning she’d had no choice. Sam had needed her computer, and so she’d been forced to delay paperwork and do a little light gardening. Between that luxury and his low-key company, she couldn’t recall a nicer two hour-block of time spent in her office.
And now, as she peered through the small window on her door, she could see him still hard at work. Only he wasn’t typing away on her computer anymore. Instead, he appeared to be feeding papers into a long, rectangular device.
She opened the door and walked inside, closing it behind her so Tina wouldn’t be able to hear any stray fucks and shits. As Con had discovered over the last several days, she and Sam shared a heartfelt love of swearing. Another reason to like him, as if she didn’t have enough already.
“What’s that?” The machine on the desk buzzed when the paper moved through it, and she moved close to Sam’s side to watch. “A scanner?”
“Yup.” The machine spit out the paper, and he placed it on a nearby pile of forms before picking up the next sheet. “I’ve set up files on your computer for different types of documents. Circulation reports, maintenance requests, and so on. If you don’t like the way I organized everything, feel free to fiddle with the it. But this should clear out a lot of the papers from your office and let you the locate information you need more easily.”
As he inserted the next document into the scanner, she stared at him. Surely scanning hundreds of documents on her behalf was going above and beyond the call of IT duty. What the fuck was he doing? And how the hell had he managed to get so much done in such a short period of time?
Stunned, she swung around to survey the rest of her office. The sight of him had clearly drawn her complete attention as soon as she’d entered the room. A fact she only grasped when she looked away from him for the first time, realizing in shock that he’d managed to sort through most of her mess in the space of a single morning.
The tops of her file cabinets now contained no clutter, only pots of plants with shiny leaves and trimmed stems. Her desk boasted five tall but manageable stacks of documents, which she guessed he’d already run through the scanner. And the chair in front of her desk didn’t have a single book or piece of paper on it, so she collapsed into its shiny pleather embrace.
She stated the obvious first. “You found me a cart.”
“I made a deal with Pauline from Circ. If I stayed late tonight to fix the malfunctioning self-checkout machine, she’d surrender a cart for your permanent use. All the books you had sitting around the office are on there.” Even as he fed another paper into the scanner, he didn’t turn his gaze away from her. “Sorry if I jumbled them together and got them out of order.”
The cart stood by her door, dozens of books arranged neatly on its shelves. It was old and scarred, and she doubted it would roll easily, but it was apparently hers. Hers.
“Sam, I…” She never stumbled over her words. Not usually. But then again, she’d never had a coworker wheel and deal on her behalf before. “Pauline basically considers me a goddamn truck driver, rather than a librarian. She’d never deign to issue me a cart. I mean, I’ve stolen one a few times, but she’s always sent a pissy representative from Circ to take it back ASAP. Finally, she said if I wanted one, I’d have to use my own department’s budget for it, and we don’t have the extra money. I gave up on getting a cart a year or two ago.”
“Well, you have one now.” Sam flashed a grin, his teeth white against his reddish beard. “She may be a snobby bitch, but she’s a snobby bitch who wants a usable self-checkout machine.”
“And she won’t try to reclaim it?” Not that Con would let Pauline touch the damn thing now. That cart was the Bookmobile department’s property from here on out.
“I told her the self-checkout machine wouldn’t respond well to any cart retrieval attempts.” He swept his hair back from his forehead, his brown eyes lit with a wicked sparkle. “Technology is so fucking finicky, isn’t it?”
Con didn’t hug men much. It gave them ideas about affection and a future together, ideas she didn’t want to encourage. But if any man had ever deserved a hug from her, Sam was that man. She simply needed to make sure, given their agreement to keep a certain platonic distance, that he’d welcome it.
“Can I hug you?”
He froze in place and swallowed hard. But when he spoke, his voice was as casual and unconcerned as ever, and he opened his arms wide. “Sure. Bring it on in, Chen.”
A moment later, those strong arms closed around her, and she was enveloped in a Sam Wolcott cocoon. His warmth soaked into her bones, relaxing her even as his broad, hard body sent electricity shooting to her sex.
All with a single, brief hug.
Even though she knew she should pull free, she didn’t. She couldn’t.
If someone was going to preserve the distance between them right now, it would have to be him. Because for once in her life, she was fresh out of resolve.
***
To Sam’s shock, Con didn’t edge away after a brief hug. Instead, she seemed to burrow closer, unt
il every curve and plain of her body pressed up against him. She felt exactly how she looked. Slim but strong. Sexy as hell.
He’d never imagined hugging her. Fucking her, yes. Hugging her, no. Honestly, he’d have guessed she wouldn’t stand for it. Not from a man who might misinterpret the embrace as evidence of her desire for a relationship.
And he’d certainly never imagined how neatly she’d fit into his arms. Warm and scented with apples—this time without the telltale hint of diesel—she cuddled close, her hands pulling him tightly against her. So tightly he was struggling not to prod her with the evidence of what her embrace did to him.
In its own subtle way, her body was giving him the same signals. Even though he shouldn’t be able to feel a thing through her nubby sweater, he could have sworn her nipples had drawn tight. Maybe because she was cold, but he didn’t think so. Her hands were moving in subtle circles on his back. Her spine had arched just a little. Just enough to align her hips with his. And when he stroked down that graceful arch, she hitched in a quick breath.
He could only draw two conclusions. First of all, he was fucked. Doomed to unprofessional erections and jacking off in his shower because of Con’s inimitable charms. But he’d already known that, so whatever.
Second of all—and more importantly—if a man wanted to woo a woman like Constance Chen, this was how. Not with flowers in a crystal vase or romantic poetry or a mariachi band, but with a scanner. A cart. Another little surprise underneath her desk she hadn’t noticed quite yet.
Her lover would need to win her heart through pragmatic items and tasks, ones that made her daily life simpler and more manageable. Because she had enough on her plate without adding a heaping helping of boyfriend. The only way she could make room for one would be if he removed all the unnecessary items from that plate ahead of time.
Oh, Jesus. Another tortured metaphor, no doubt because of Con’s influence.
Sam wasn’t auditioning to become her boyfriend, though. He wasn’t wooing her. He was simply acting as her platonic friend. Her platonic friend who really wanted to make her come against his tongue, but still. He was looking out for her interests because no one else seemed to be doing it, and that bothered him. He was going to have to discuss the issue with Penny and Helen at some point.
“Scanning all this shit never even occurred to me,” she told him, her voice muffled against his shoulder. “You’re a goddamn genius.”
A genius, huh? He preened, his puffed-out chest practically bursting through his tee. And at the feel of his reaction, she made a sound he’d never heard from her before. A light, happy laugh.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” she muttered in disgust. “Did I just giggle? You’re a bad influence, Wolcott.”
A wave of affection submerged his growing lust, and he resisted the urge to rest his cheek on the top of her head. Or brush a kiss there. God knew, he’d probably get stabbed in the eye by a pencil if he tried.
“Haven’t you heard of elastics and pins? Or barrettes, or whatever the hell women use to keep their hair up?”
That broke the mood, as he’d intended. She pulled away slowly. Reluctantly?
“Doesn’t matter what I use.” Her shoulders lifted and dropped. “It all slides out sooner or later. My hair’s too slippery.”
Slippery was not a word he wanted to hear emerge from her mouth. Not if they planned to keep their relationship nonsexual. His fuzzy brain floundered, searching for a safe subject.
Wait, didn’t he have one more surprise for her?
Taking a careful step back from temptation, he jerked his head toward her office chair. “Check over there.”
“What did you do?” In three clomps of those ridiculous boots, she reached the desk. “I don’t see anything.”
“Look underneath.”
Her brow crinkled, and she ducked her head. Then a smile dawned on her face, and he could hardly stop himself from preening again. “You got me a library-issued footstool. And installed it in exactly the right place under my desk. Who the hell are you, Wolcott? Some kind of timber-felling guardian angel?”
“No more boots on the CPU.” His cheeks flamed hot, and he shifted from foot to foot. “And no telling people I took the footstool from Marsha’s office. Other than the cleaning staff, no one should see it down there, so I think you’re safe if you keep it quiet.”
Before he knew what was happening, she practically knocked him over with another hug. “This is the best gift ever. The fact that you stole the footstool from that mofo Marsha…”
“Makes it even better, huh?”
Seemingly overcome by happiness, she clutched him with one hand and flapped the other in front of her eyes. “Definitely. I hate her”—she took a shaky breath—“so much. So much.”
“We all do.” He accepted her embrace with caution, gently setting her aside after only a few seconds.
She plopped down onto her office chair and propped her feet up on the new footstool, relaxed satisfaction radiating from every inch of her lithe body. The chair reclined a bit, and she folded her arms over her chest and regarded him warmly.
“I’m taking tomorrow afternoon off to get ready for Pen’s wedding,” she said. “So if you plan to work in our department, Iman or Sybil will have to help you.”
She snuck another glance down at the footstool, her smile widening even more. He was pretty sure she was picturing Marsha’s hapless irritation when the children’s librarian noticed the missing item.
“I’m planning to take the afternoon off too.” Now that he knew Con wouldn’t be at the library, anyway. “I need time to groom my blue ox for the big day.”
Her smile turned naughty, and a shallow indentation appeared in her cheek. “Your blue ox? Is that what we’re calling it? Is it especially veiny?”
Don’t react. God help you, don’t react. “It’s a Paul Bunyan reference.”
“Sure it is.” Her fingers drummed against her upper arms as she stared up at him.
“Who are you bringing as your date?” If the thought of Con with another man didn’t cool him down in a hurry, nothing would. He didn’t really want to hear about her latest boy toy, but at this point, he needed something to slap him in the face and distract him from her unexpected flirting. Pronto.
“No one.”
His back straightened in surprise. “No one? Really?”
He couldn’t imagine anyone turning her down for a date. So why was she going alone?
“Guys get ideas so quickly.” She swiveled back and forth in her chair, clearly unconcerned. “You invite them to be your plus-one at a wedding, and next thing you know, they’re blinking down at you with cow eyes and begging for a commitment. No, thank you. I don’t need the arguments or the hurt feelings. A partner for the Chicken Dance is not worth all that bullshit.”
He had to laugh. “You’re such a stereotypical dude, Con.”
“Whatever.” The swiveling stopped, and she busied herself flipping through one of the stacks of documents on her desk. “How about you? Are you bringing someone?”
“Nope.”
Her hands stilled. “I guess we’ll both be doing the Electric Slide alone, then.”
“Unless…”
No. No no no. What the fuck is wrong with my tongue? Why is it saying things I haven’t authorized? Is this a HAL- type situation? “I’m sorry, Sam. I’m afraid I can’t allow you to do that. And by that, I mean remain silent and maintain your sanity.”
Apparently so, since his mouth continued to form words without his permission. “Unless you’d like to go as my date. My platonic date.”
In an uncharacteristic gesture, she bit her lip. “I don’t know. I don’t want to give you the wrong impression.”
That’s when his pride kicked in. Did she really think he was so desperate for love he’d beg for a commitment after one measly wedding date? Oh, hell no.
“I know the score.” He drew up tall and looked down his nose at her. “If anyo
ne’s going to violate our friends-only arrangement at the wedding, it’ll be you.”
She snorted. “You wish.”
Well, yeah. But she didn’t need to know that. And even if that wish came true, it would only lead to trouble. “We’ll have a good time together, now that we’re not at each other’s throats.”
“Hmm.” She squinted, assessing him. “You sure this is a good idea?”
No. Not at all. “Yup.”
“All right, then.” She swung her feet off the footstool and sat up straight. To give her next words a bit more gravity, he presumed. “Sam Wolcott, will you be my completely platonic date for the wedding? To have and to hold during any reception slow dances, from tomorrow evening forward, for better and for worse?” She paused. “And by worse, I mean if one of the groomsmen gets drunk and pinches my ass and I have to punch him.”
He blinked. “Has that happened before?”
“Of course.” Her steel-clad toe tapped an impatient rhythm on the floor. “So? What do you say? Will you be my date? In champagne-induced sickness and in health? Until the end of the reception do us part?”
“I…” It was stupid. He knew it. But he couldn’t seem to stop himself from sealing his own doom. “I will.”
9
Halfway through the wedding ceremony, the thumps and groans from overhead became louder. Too loud to ignore. And they were causing the heavy oak bookshelves lining the room to rattle a bit, although the leather volumes contained on each shelf didn’t appear to move. Too tightly packed, Con supposed.
She leaned toward Sam, keeping her voice low in deference to the occasion. “I thought Penny and Jack turned down the deluxe package.”
“They did,” he whispered, his breath stirring the loose tendrils of hair by her face. “Too disruptive. Plus, the upcharges were excessive. So no interruptions during the ceremony accusing Jack of bigamy. And definitely no insane wives imprisoned in the attic. Or, as Penny prefers to say, wives with inadequately and barbarically addressed mental health issues.”
