Checked Out

by Hazel James

  That was my last serious relationship.

  “The library was my safe place when I was younger. No one expected me to talk and no one made fun of me for spending hours reading or looking up synonyms for the words I had a hard time saying. It’s not a glamourous job by any means, but I want to be a part of creating that type of environment for other people.”

  I held my breath and waited for Tuesday’s response. Her opinion of my job—and me, by extension—mattered more than it should for a woman I’d only met a few days ago. Was that good or bad?

  “Wait, you said Cara has worked there for fifteen years. Does that mean you’ve known her since you were a teenager?”

  I nodded. “She’s the one who encouraged me to apply for the job.” She’s also the one who kicked Ricky out of the library the day I had my first kiss, but I wasn’t going to mention that.

  “I think that’s really sweet. And any man who’s passionate about what he does and wants to give back to his community gets a gold star in my book.” She raised her glass in a casual toast and took a drink.

  I followed suit, confidence ballooning in my chest. “What about you? What made you want to be a reporter?”

  “Oh gosh.” Her entire face lit up. “Traveling and meeting all kinds of people and being in the heart of the action and literally, no two days are ever the same. Everything about it excites me. I can’t remember a time I wanted to be anything else.” She glanced at her legs, which were dangling over the edge of the counter. “That probably sounds silly.”

  “I don’t think it sounds silly at all. Having a goal and a plan to achieve it is kind of sexy.” I didn’t mean to say that last part out loud, but there was nothing I could do about it now.

  “Thanks.” She toyed with a frayed edge on her jeans. When she met my gaze again, her cheeks were pink and she was smiling. I loved that I was the cause of it. “Guess what?”

  “What?”

  “I started looking for jobs at local stations.”

  “Yeah? I thought you wanted out of Idaho.” Not that I was complaining. Quite the opposite, actually.

  She shrugged. “I’m starting to see the benefits of staying, like building a relationship with my niece. She’s a pretty cool kid.”

  “Have you applied for anything?”

  “A couple of entry-level jobs, but at least I’d be working in a news station instead of at the lingerie store at the mall.”

  This night kept getting better—in addition to Tuesday possibly staying here, I now had the perfect image of her in a lacy bra and thong. I did a mental victory dance across the kitchen floor.

  “How old are you?” she asked.

  “Twenty-six.”

  “Did you go to Newcastle High?”

  I nodded.

  “Do you remember Blaine Stavros? I think he’s around your age. He went to NHS and now he works at Channel 3.”

  Wait, Channel 3? When she said local, I figured she meant Newcastle. Boise’s an hour away. “Is that where you applied?” Please say no.

  “Yep.” Her eyes flashed with excitement. “I could learn so much from Blaine. He’s such an incredible journalist. A few weeks ago, he did a story about a little girl who…”

  Tuesday’s words turned into buckets of ice water, each one bigger and colder than the last. Richard Blaine Stavroulidakis was a boil on the asshole of humanity. It was just my luck that the one woman I was interested in was talking about him like he was God’s gift to television.

  Newsflash: He fucking wasn’t.

  Tuesday

  Have you ever been in a situation where you realized five seconds too late that you shouldn’t’ve done what you just did?

  Yeah.

  Gushing about Blaine was one of those things, even if it was strictly in a professional capacity.

  As soon as his name left my mouth, Jack’s shoulders tensed and the muscles in his jaw started flexing in regular intervals. He’d gone from carefree to brooding in seconds and it was all my fault.

  I felt like such a jerk.

  After he excused himself to the bathroom, I pulled the alfredo out of the oven and replayed our conversation in my head. Jack was happy when I told him I was applying for local jobs and got mad when I brought up Blaine. Why would he—

  Ohhhh.

  A wave of clarity washed over me, and suddenly I was smiling.

  Jack wasn’t mad. He was jealous.

  And what made one man jealous of another man?

  A woman he had feelings for.

  Jack. Price. Liked. Me.

  I was still grinning like an idiot when he returned to the kitchen, his mouth curved up on one side. “Looks like I’m interrupting a private moment with the casserole. Should I give you two another minute?”

  Grateful I hadn’t accidentally sabotaged our non-date, I played along, glancing at the dish, then back at him. “I mean, it’s a fantastic casserole. Might be the best I’ve ever made.” His deep baritone laugh erased the lingering tension in the room. I wanted to press my ear against his chest to hear it up close.

  “A beautiful woman and a five-star meal. Guess that makes me doubly lucky tonight.” He popped the cork on the wine bottle and topped off our glasses like he didn’t just turn me into a puddle of goo on the tile.

  How was I supposed to sit at the table and eat dinner like a normal person when my bones were jelly, my eyes were cartoon hearts, and my stomach was a rollercoaster of cute little butterflies?

  I was such a goner.

  Jack stopped in the hallway outside my studio and gestured to the canvas hanging on the wall. “That’s the painting you did for your blog.”

  My mouth fell open. “You checked out my blog?”

  Nodding, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and glanced at the floor. When his eyes met mine again, he was wearing a shy smile that added “boyish charm” to his growing list of attributes.

  “Well I hope you liked what you saw.”

  “I do,” he said, slowly scanning my face.

  As someone whose career revolved around proper grammar, his use of present tense didn’t go unnoticed. As a result, I went from a puddle of goo to a pile of dust because now I was dead.

  Deceased.

  RIP me.

  Biting my lip, I turned and led us into my studio. It started as a consolation prize—if I was moving back home, at least I’d have a dedicated space for my blog instead of a makeshift setup in the corner of my room. With simple furniture and bright colors, it was my favorite place to reflect on the successes I’d already achieved and the goals I had for the future. Goals that had recently shifted, partly from the new developments in my love life.

  The independent, career-driven side of me shook her fist and warned me not to base my aspirations on a six-foot-four stack of testosterone. The idealist shushed her just as quickly, reminding her that there was nothing wrong with applying for jobs close to home.

  And then there was Aunt Alma’s voice telling me I’d be stupid to pass up an opportunity with a man as sexy as Jack regardless of where I ended up working. Guess whose voice was the loudest?

  Jack stopped beside my desk and brushed a finger along the shabby-chic lampshade I made out of scraps of ribbons and fabric. I’d suffered a few hot glue gun burns in the process, but the pain had been worth it. “You were right, the light purple looks better than the dark purple.”

  My jaw hinged open like a broken puppet. When he said he checked out my blog, I figured he watched a couple of recent videos. But I made that lampshade in January. That was ten months ago.

  Holy Moses in a handwoven basket, did he fall down a Try It Tuesday rabbit hole forty episodes deep? I mean, each one was only about five minutes long, but still. “Thanks,” I finally sputtered, trying to make sense of the man in front of me.

  “You’d love Diego’s wife, Erin. She jokes that her Patronus is a shopping cart at the craft store.”

  My giggle sounded like it came from a teenage girl with lungs full of helium. I knew my hormones were sec
onds away from making me say something stupid, like, “You’re hilarious and your butt looks amazing in those jeans.” It was true, the man’s backside was made for denim, but it was time to focus on learning sign language, not ogling body parts.

  With renewed determination, I stepped around Jack and opened the drawer to grab my notebook when something darted out from under my desk. I shrieked and instantly felt a pair of muscular arms scooping me in the air.

  “What the hell was that?” Jack asked, twisting around to scan the floor.

  My shoulders bounced with laughter for a good ten seconds before I could eke out, “my cat, Taylor.”

  By that point, he was chuckling too. “Thank God, I thought a raccoon broke in.”

  I blotted my cheeks with the back of my hand and took a calming breath. “I forgot that the desk is her new hideout. It used to be behind the curtain, but the window’s too cold for her now.”

  He was still holding me snug against his chest as the last notes of our laughter evaporated. If this was a movie, the director would cue the background music for the scene where the hero and the heroine stare at each other longingly, sexual tension rolling off their bodies like hot waves.

  There was no music in my studio, but there was sexual tension in spades and a silent conversation to go along with it.

  Him: I’d like to kiss you.

  Me: That’s a fantastic idea.

  Him: I’m glad you agree.

  I’d wanted him to kiss me in the kitchen but I wasn’t sure how he felt. Now that I knew he liked me, it was game on. Full speed ahead. Do not pass Go and collect two hundred dollars. His icy blues darkened, and he lowered his head. I closed my eyes. Angels sang somewhere in the distance.

  And then Taylor was meowing in my face, zapping the magic of being in Jack’s arms with her ill-timed leap from the carpet onto my stomach. “Really?” I asked, glaring at her. “Why are you acting like you don’t get enough attention?” Never in my life had I been clam jammed by a cat, but I guess there was a first time for everything.

  Jack’s mouth curved into an amused, albeit slightly disappointed smile. “I guess it’s safe to put you down now.”

  I let out a defeated sigh when my feet met the floor. “Well thanks for rescuing me. And you,” I held Taylor at eye level, “are not getting treats tonight.”

  I set her down and retrieved my notebook, then begrudgingly led Jack to the loveseat so we could get back to the original purpose of him coming over. I still had a blog post to make, hormones or not. “So this is what I’d like to say for my intro. I tried to keep it short and simple.”

  Instead of taking my notebook from me, he scooted closer, reigniting all the nerves on the right half of my body—the one that’d gotten up close and personal with his torso. It was an act of congress not to take a deep whiff of his cologne because doing so would turn me into an addict. Before I knew it, I’d be at the men’s counter in the perfume department to hunt down a bottle of Hot Male Librarian.

  “You’ll have a mix of signs and fingerspelling, but it shouldn’t be too hard. I’ll run through it once and then we’ll break it down until you’ve got it.” He set the notepad aside and shifted to face me.

  Hi everyone, it’s Tuesday Collins. In this week’s episode of Try It Tuesday, I tried learning some American Sign Language sentences at the library. While I was there, the director talked to me about the Deaf community and how hearing people can get involved.

  Although he’d demonstrated some signs during our first interview, watching his hands now was mesmerizing. A little intimidating, too, if I was being honest. “Oookay, maybe I was wrong about it being simple.”

  “You’ll be fine, I promise.” His smile formed little crinkles at the outer corners of his eyes. I liked those crinkles.

  “Let’s start with the first sentence. ‘Hello’ is like an open-palmed salute off your right eyebrow. Then, keep your hand in the same position and touch your chest for the word ‘my.’”

  I’d love to touch his chest, but I settled for staring at his hand, which was pressed between his pecs. He had long fingers and smooth, flat nails. I wanted to rub the pad of my thumb over them. Or maybe my lips. Both, I decided.

  Taylor wanted some of the action too and jumped up on Jack’s lap like she owned the darn thing. What was it about having four legs and fur that made it okay to snuggle up to a man’s crotch?

  “Taylor, get down. I’m sure Jack doesn’t want hair all over his pants.” Of course in reality, it was more like, “Taylor get down because this is clearly an abuse of power and I’m beyond jealous of you right now.”

  Ever the nice guy, Jack stroked the fur behind her ears and said, “It’s okay, she’s not bothering me.” There was a dirty joke in there somewhere about him petting my you-know-what.

  Focus, Tuesday. I re-signed “hello” and “my” and looked to him for the next step.

  “Okay, to sign ‘name,’ you extend both index and middle fingers and tap your right fingers on your left fingers twice.”

  “Like this?” I mirrored the movement of his hands.

  “Exactly. And you don’t say ‘is’ in ASL, you just go right into spelling your name.”

  Jack went through all fourteen letters of my first and last name, pausing after each one to make sure I had the right placement. It took me a few tries to get it on my own, but when I did, he smiled and squeezed my knee. I wanted to get everything else right too, just to see what else he’d squeeze.

  “I know you probably get this all the time, but is there a story behind your name?”

  He was right—all my life, people have asked me about it with varying degrees of ridicule.

  Did your parents run out of ideas?

  Why do you have a Hollywood name?

  Do you wish you could change it to something normal?

  Leave it to the librarian to simply ask for the story, no heat or judgement behind his request. “My mom was in labor for almost two days and she was miserable. It was nearing midnight on Tuesday and she told the doctor if he got me out before then, that’s what she’d name me.”

  Jack treated me to another laugh. “That’s kind of awesome. What about siblings? Do you have any?”

  “Just my brother, Tag. He’s named after my grandfather’s initials—Thomas Alan Grant. My mom didn’t have any brothers, so it was her way of honoring his last name.”

  Jack playfully sulked. “And here I am, an only child with a boring name.”

  “I like you. It! I like it. Your name. It suits you.” Redness blanketed my face like velvet theater curtains. “Not that I’m saying I don’t like you. Or that I don’t not like you…”

  I swallowed a groan. Why couldn’t I get my crap together? He was just a person. A very hot, intelligent, single person, if I was being specific. Desperate for a change of topic, I pointed to an inch-long scar on the side of his left thumb. “What’s that from?”

  He glanced down, a smile tugging at his lips. “I had a misunderstanding with a pocket knife when I was fourteen.”

  “A misunderstanding?” I felt bad for chuckling, but I couldn’t help it.

  “I was whittling a bear and the blade slipped.” He made a slicing motion against his thumb with his other hand that made my stomach draw tight in empathy.

  “That sounds painful.”

  “The injury to my pride was worse. Earlier that day, I’d told my mom carving gloves were stupid and I didn’t need one. She said, ‘I told you so,’ all the way to the hospital.”

  “Did you ever finish the bear?”

  “Once the stitches came out. And yes, before you ask, I wore the glove.”

  Those eye-crinkles were back, and I felt my grin widening to match his. “So how does a fourteen-year-old boy get into whittling? That doesn’t seem like a popular hobby.”

  “My grandpa. He thought I wouldn’t stutter as bad if I had something else to concentrate on. I’m not sure how much it helped, but I got to play with sharp objects.”

  Laughing, I
took his hands in mine, one at a time. His palms were rougher than I expected, and his fingers were a study in opposites—solid and strong, yet capable of making ASL look like storytelling in ballet. Jesus, even his knuckles were sexy. Who knew that was a thing?

  “Well,” I reluctantly brought my hands back to my lap, “I don’t see any other scars, so it looks like you got better as you went.”

  Jack shifted on the loveseat and quietly cleared his throat. “Do you remember the wolf sculpture you used in my interview at the library?”

  “Yeah?”

  “That’s mine. I mean… I made it.” His expression was equal parts embarrassment and pride, but mine was a hundred percent awe.

  “Are you kidding me?” I leaned forward. “That’s incredible! How long did it take you?”

  “A few weeks. My grandpa was a carpenter and I worked with him during my summer vacations through high school and college. In between framing houses and building furniture, he taught me about whittling and carving.”

  Before I could blink, I’d conjured an image of shirtless Jack, toolbelt slung low around his hips, muscles straining and flexing as he wrangled hammers and saws under the blazing sun. I needed to lock that mental picture in my Things-To-Fantasize-About-Later box, and I would—right after I watched Dream Jack douse himself with water to cool off.

  Lord. Have. Mercy.

  I gathered what wits I had left and turned my attention back to our conversation. “What’s the difference between them?”

  “Whittling uses knives, and carving uses knives and a bunch of other tools like chisels, gouges, mallets… Anyway, you get the point.” Jack gripped the back of his neck like felt bad for rambling about something he enjoyed. “Sorry to get us off track.”

  “Don’t apologize. I love learning about people.” I cupped my hand beside my mouth and loudly whispered, “It’s one of the reasons I want to be a reporter, remember?”