Hidden Hearts

by Olivia Dade

  * * *

  The doorbell rang, its cheerful peal incongruous in the dingy cabin.

  “Oh, shit.” Miles gave up trying to button his still-snug jeans and contemplated the front door. He didn’t really have time for a tête-à-tête with Eugene, the local pizza delivery guy. Especially given Eugene’s usual lack of urgency and propensity for lengthy lectures.

  But hell, the man worried about him. And how could Miles fault Eugene for that?

  Besides, the bad timing was his own damn fault. Exhausted by his morning run on the treadmill, he’d been too busy napping to see Mary’s e-mail about her date that night. At least until almost three o’clock in the afternoon.

  In a flash, he’d realized his grace period had officially ended, and he would be meeting her for the first time under decidedly inauspicious circumstances. If he planned to get to the Battlefield Library before Mary left for the day, he didn’t have time to see a barber. He didn’t have time to buy new, better-fitting clothing. He didn’t have time to rediscover his long-neglected abs.

  In fact, pretty much all he had time to do was attack his beard with a pair of clippers and take a shower. Luckily, his recent improvements in the stall had helped decrease the time he needed to spend in there. But in the rush of getting un-smelly, trying to squeeze some damn toothpaste on to his frayed toothbrush, and choosing a tee that de-emphasized his diminishing but still-noticeable gut, he’d completely forgotten the pizza he’d preordered that morning via text message.

  He’d meant it as a treat for himself, an inexpensive celebration of his decreasing pain and an acknowledgment that all his fitness and nutrition efforts had paid dividends. He could actually zip his jeans now, even if the button still eluded him. When he moved his shoulders, the stitches in his tees didn’t pop anymore. And were his cheekbones finally starting to reemerge? At least if he sucked in his cheeks like a starving fish?

  Dammit. He shouldn’t have ordered the pizza.

  By the time the bell rang again, Miles was already unlocking and doing his best to open the damn door. Someone hadn’t framed the opening correctly, and the stupid thing would only move if he gave it a violent tug. Shoddy workmanship, plain and simple.

  Four months ago, he’d have fixed it before lunch his first day in residence. Now he simply did his best to ignore the issue. Along with the squeaky floors—he suspected the builders hadn’t used thick-enough plywood for the subfloor—the water damage at the southwest corner of the building, and the ghastly popcorn ceilings.

  Finally, he managed to wrench the door open. Eugene regarded him on the other side of the ripped screen with doleful patience, his cheeks still pink from the heat of the kitchen. “I don’t want to give this to you.”

  Miles had a solution for that. “Then don’t. I’m kind of in a hur—”

  “But you ordered it, so here it is. Extra-large Meatsapalooza, extra cheese and sauce. Or as I call it, Diabetes in a Greasy Cardboard Box.” Eugene flung open the screen door and shoved the pizza box into Miles’s stomach, pushing until Miles was forced to take it. “I thought you weren’t ordering pizzas anymore.”

  Miles deposited the box on to the rickety kitchen table and reached for his wallet. “I’m not. Usually. Give me a minute to grab your tip, and then I need to get going.”

  “I don’t want a tip. The thought of making money from your eventual stroke sickens me.” Eugene shoved his sweat-stained baseball cap further back on his head. “Didn’t you read the pamphlets I gave you last time?”

  Yes, he had. He’d also checked for the millionth time whether his rural corner of Nice County featured any other pizza places that delivered. And for the millionth time, he’d confirmed that Eugene’s Eunique Pizzas was his one-and-only option.

  Since business wasn’t exactly booming, Eugene served as his own delivery driver. He also served as a nutritional counselor, whether his customers liked it or not. Miles assumed not, since—once again—Eugene’s business wasn’t really raking in the dough.

  Dough. Ha.

  “Have you considered that maybe your informational pamphlets about the health dangers of pizza have driven away potential customers?” Miles couldn’t help asking.

  Eugene’s bleary eyes narrowed. “I don’t lecture everyone. Just people who order pizza every single night for weeks on end.”

  “I don’t do that anymore.” Miles scowled at the short, round man in his doorway. “I haven’t for almost four weeks now.”

  “Hmph. My point stands.” Eugene folded his arms across his chest, unimpressed. “You need to stop riding the pizza train, son.”

  When the man produced an egg in a Tupperware container, Miles stifled a groan. “I don’t have time for my regularly scheduled ‘This Is Your Brain on Pizza’ demonstration right now, dude. I have things to do.”

  Eugene brightened. “I noticed. First time I’ve seen you in real clothing in months. You should throw out that ratty-ass robe, O’Connor. It’s enabling your bad life choices.”

  “We’ll see.” He did not have time for this discussion. “Anyway, I need to get going. Excuse me.”

  Eugene’s eyes widened as Miles essentially gave him a one-armed shove out the door and followed him on to the front porch. “You’re leaving the house? Really?”

  “Really.” Miles yanked the door shut and locked it.

  Before going any further, he did a final check. A pat of his back right pocket verified that his wallet was present and accounted for. His front right pocket contained the car keys. If he kept his tee untucked, it would cover his unbuttoned jeans. Good enough.

  Or it would be good enough, if he could actually leave his own damn driveway. “You’re blocking my car. Move it or lose it, Eugene.”

  Eugene lifted his hands in surrender, and the first smile he’d ever offered Miles dawned on his face. It was surprisingly sweet. “Consider me gone. Good luck, son.”

  Miles slid into the driver’s seat and let Eugene close the door for him with only a little pang of bitterness. Moments later, Eugene’s compact car was raising a dust cloud along the gravel driveway, and Miles was poised to reenter the world again.

  The key turned easily in the ignition, and the familiar rumble of the engine soothed him. He let the noise of the gravel under the wheels drown out his thoughts as he drove at top speed toward the library—and toward answers to the questions he’d been asking himself for months.

  Will she recognize me? And what will she do when she notices my arm?

  * * *

  The GPS led Miles inexorably toward the sturdy-looking building on the hill, its bricks a warm red in the late afternoon sunlight. A wall of sparkling windows offered the Battlefield Library a stunning view of the nearby mountains. Installing those windows had probably taken a crapload of time.

  Appropriately enough, the library abutted a grassy Civil War battlefield on one side. On the other, shrieking children were running and climbing all over an expansive playground.

  That playground was pure chaos, but the library itself looked so…tidy. Neat and orderly, like Mary in the lone picture he had of her. He, on the other hand, was about to burst through the doors like an ill-kempt, wounded Sasquatch.

  Don’t think about it, he told himself. Just do it. The library closes in ten minutes, and you don’t have any time to waste. As it is, you just have to hope that Mary didn’t leave early for her date.

  He doubted it, though. Over the course of three months and countless messages, he’d grown to understand her. Most nights, she stayed late at the library to research different topics for her patrons or help Angie prepare the building for the next day’s programs. She didn’t skip out on even a minute of work for anything less than an emergency.

  He knew—he knew—Mary was still there.

  Vague nausea tightened his belly as he locked his car and moved toward the library’s entrance. A quick scan of the building from outside the glass doors didn’t reveal anyone at the circulation desk. From Mary’s
e-mails about her daily routine, he figured she and Angie were probably reminding any remaining patrons of the closing time and battening down the hatches for the night.

  A bell tinkled when he walked inside the library, and he jumped a bit. So much for a quiet, discreet entrance.

  A blond woman called out a greeting from the workroom behind the desk, her back turned to him. “Hello! We’re closing in about ten minutes, but you’re welcome to stay until then. And if you need any help, let us know.”

  Angie, unless he was mistaken. Mary’s boss and friend.

  Grateful for a few last moments of anonymity, he called back, “Thank you.”

  He scanned the library, desperate to see Mary but so terrified by the prospect that his knees were shaking.

  He couldn’t find her anywhere.

  Eye-catching posters for upcoming events covered the walls, and a small children’s area to the left boasted kid-sized bookshelves and lots of big, fluffy stuffed animals. For some reason, Mary had mentioned avoiding those creatures at all costs, but she’d refused to elaborate as to why. Now, maybe he’d have the chance to ask her in person. God help him.

  Near the wall of windows, a massive stone fireplace held court, surrounded by comfortable-looking couches. From her e-mails, he knew the library had a few small meeting rooms too, as well as a computer area. But mostly, he just saw stacks. Rows and rows of bookshelves towering above his head, each stuffed to capacity with neatly shelved paperbacks and hardcovers.

  So much to look at, all impressive. But no Mary.

  Had she already left for the day? Had Angie convinced her to get an early start on the drive to her date? Goddammit, had he waited too long?

  A small, curtained doorway lurked on the back wall, which seemed odd. Maybe she was in there? He strode toward the space, noticing a small sign by the doorway as he got closer. Adult Reading Room, it read. You must be 18 or older to enter. Space monitored by security cameras.

  His brows rose. Whoa. What kind of library is this, anyway?

  Then he heard a woman’s quiet voice. Calm and low. Sweet. It was drifting from behind the back of a study carrel tucked in a corner.

  Mary.

  “I had no idea they even held weddings there,” she said. “What are your plans for the ceremony?”

  The man sounded pleased. “The cap’n will do the leg-shacklin’ on the fo’c’s’le. The reception be on the main deck, and we’ll serve grog and hardtack to landlubbers and buccaneers alike.”

  Miles glanced around, but no one was lingering nearby to offer an explanation for the conversation in progress. As far as he knew, Nice County remained landlocked and untouched by piratical depredations upon the high seas. But hell, he’d only lived in Maryland for a few months. Maybe he’d missed something?

  Her voice became even warmer. “That sounds wonderful, Clarence. And it looks like you found plenty of books about weddings. Is there anything I can do to help before we close tonight? I could keep these books set aside for you until tomorrow, if you’d rather not take such a huge stack home.”

  “Ye be an angel, lassie. Me and me beautiful bride, Swashbucklin’ Sharon, want to plan our tablescapes, but we’re a-fearing we’ll empty our trunks of pirate treasure. So here I sailed, hoping yon library would have DIY wedding guides. And ye did, so thank ye kindly. Please bury these in the sand until me next visit tomorrow morning.”

  “I’ll mark the spot with an X,” she promised. “And please tell Sharon I’d be happy to assist you two with any projects you find in the books. I’m not an expert crafter, so I can’t promise perfection, but I’d love to help make your wedding beautiful.”

  “I’ll let her know. You’re a kind woman, Miss Mary. This old salt be grateful.” His chair scraped as he rose to his feet. Apparently, he was a tall buccaneer, because he towered over the carrel at full height.

  Now that he could be seen, panic reclaimed every nerve in Miles’s body, jangling his thoughts and rushing in his ears. He moved a few feet away, backing up until he was half-hidden by another work station. With a quick adjustment, he made sure his left side faced the wall. And then he watched and waited as he tried his damnedest not to sweat.

  Clarence and Mary emerged from behind the carrel. But before they could see him lurking a few feet away, Angie strode from the front of the library over to Clarence, a huge grin on her face.

  She gathered the skinny man close and gave him a tight squeeze. “I hear congratulations are in order. And Grant says you’ll be holding your ceremony at Buccaneer Times, which seems the perfect spot.”

  Buccaneer Times? Well, that explains the pirate-ship wedding.

  “Aye. I suppose Grant also informed ye that he and Sam are two of me groomsmen.”

  “He did. Also that you’re scheduling him for a puffy-shirt-and-breeches fitting. As far as I’m concerned, the tighter the better.” Angie pulled back and beamed at him. “I’m so happy for you, honey.”

  Clarence’s crooked smile revealed braces. “I owe it all to ye, Angie. After perusin’ the volumes in yon smut room, I knew how to treat me pirate lady right. In the captain’s quarters, if ye know what I mean.”

  For just a moment, Mary buried her face in her hands. When she dropped them again, her smile had become a little pained.

  “I’ll consider that the room’s greatest legacy.” Angie tilted her head. “In fact, why don’t I set up a pirate erotica display for the month of your wedding? That way, you’ll have lots of books to bring on your honeymoon for inspiration.”

  Mary’s hands rose, but she appeared to will them downward before they met her face a second time.

  “Well, shiver me timbers. You’re a sailor’s delight. And if me bride finds the books”—Clarence waggled his brows—“enlightening, ye’ll be a sailor’s lady’s delight too.”

  Angie’s grin widened. “I certainly hope so. I’ll start working on the bibliography this week.”

  “Thank ye again, Angie. Well, I’d best be goin’.” Clarence gathered up his pirate hat and the eye patch he’d apparently removed while reading. “Time to put some shrimp on the barbie. Or maybe fry up fish and chips in the galley.”

  Barbie? Fish and chips? Had they suddenly swerved from Pirate Land and come ashore in Australia?

  Just then, Angie turned her head and caught Miles’s eye. “Sounds good. Before you head out, though, I think you may have a visitor.”

  She nodded toward Miles, and Mary looked his way for the first time.

  He didn’t see any judgment in her wide-set dark eyes. No disgust at his uneven beard and overlong hair. No disdain at his ill-fitting clothes.

  No recognition, either. Just curiosity and the natural warmth he’d anticipated.

  “I don’t know the landlubber.” Clarence gave him a crisp salute and ambled toward the library door. “So I’m guessing he’s yours, Miss Mary.”

  Oh, God. He needed to talk to her. Introduce himself. See how she’d react to the knowledge that he—of all people—was the man she’d been e-mailing for months.

  “May I help you, sir?” She offered him a welcoming smile, her professional demeanor impeccable and seemingly sincere.

  “I…” He faltered, unsure he could actually go through with it.

  With a friendly nod his way, Angie headed toward the front of the library, a huge ring of keys jingling in her hand. Mary’s attention, however, didn’t stray from him. She watched and waited with a patience he envied.

  He was coming out of his skin. No more. No more delaying the inevitable.

  “I’m Miles,” he told her, his voice strangled and rough. “I came to see you.”

  Her mouth fell open. In shock? In distress?

  Then Mary’s face lit with the biggest, most piercingly beautiful smile he’d ever seen. The bridge of her nose crinkled as she beamed at him, and so did the corners of her eyes.

  “Oh, my heavens!” She rushed toward him. “Miles! You’re here!”

  He held
out his right hand, and she came to a halt a couple of feet away from him.

  Her smile faded. “Miles?”

  Slowly, inch by inch, he made himself move away from the wall. “I came to see you,” he repeated. “And I came so you could see me.”

  Then he turned so she could look at his left side. The too-tight jeans. The T-shirt that clung with unfortunate faithfulness to his transformed body.

  And most of all, his sleeve.

  Correction: his mostly empty sleeve. Pinned shut above his elbow so no one—not even Miles himself—could see the ragged remnants of his left arm.

  Her quiet gasp seemed to echo in his ears.

  “Here I am.” He forced a tight smile. “Well, most of me, anyway.”

  4

  Oh, thank goodness, Mary thought.

  She couldn’t wait any longer. Ignoring the tension that tightened every inch of Miles’s frame, she rushed forward and threw her arms around him. He inhaled sharply at the first touch of her body against his, an inadvertent echo of the sound she’d just made. Then he went very still. So still she could barely detect his breathing.

  But he felt solid against her. Strong and vital in a way that forced her to blink back tears.

  As she pressed against him, he stiffened even more. Then, slowly, he relaxed and allowed himself to be held. After a few seconds, his arm curved around her, and she squeezed close to his broad chest and rested her head on his shoulder.

  He smelled good. Like expensive soap, citrusy and spicy. Which seemed odd for a man whose choppy beard, overgrown hair, and ill-fitting clothes proclaimed him less than interested in appearances and pricy trappings.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” she whispered, and his arm tightened around her.

  For months, she’d been convinced Miles was either wasting away from some sort of degenerative illness, cancer-stricken, or so severely hurt he couldn’t leave his house.

  Yes, she understood that an amputated arm wasn’t a minor injury. And yes, she ached for him and the pain he must have suffered. Heck, the pain he might still be suffering. But here he stood in front of her, vibrant and full of leashed energy. Alive and healthy, albeit missing most of his left arm. She’d take that over the alternatives she’d envisioned any day.