by Olivia Dade
“Vix and a shitload of therapy,” she said. “I realized my parents will never understand me. I’ll never become what they want, even though we love each other. They don’t mean any harm. The emotional impact of what they say . . . they don’t comprehend it. There’s no point in arguing with them about it. They won’t change. All I can do is change my reaction to them.”
He didn’t know it, but she’d decided to deal with Grant the same way she dealt with her parents. Not so much the guzzling wine part, though that certainly played a role. More the acknowledgment that she couldn’t change their situation. No wave of a magic wand could make him her lover rather than her supervisor. She couldn’t travel back in time and decide not to create the Valentine’s Day sex-scene contest. All she could do was try to handle whatever came her way with humor and a small corner of her heart and spirit intact.
It was going to be a struggle. Angie knew this day would eventually hurt. Later tonight, when she climbed alone into an empty bed, the memory of her time by Grant’s side and in his arms would pain her. It would pile new anguish onto the days-old ache of knowing he wouldn’t be hers. Couldn’t be.
Right now, though, she didn’t give a fuck. To hell with it. If these moments by his side were all she’d have of him, she should savor them while she could and hoard them for the lonely days and nights ahead. Plus, she’d needed someone in her corner tonight.
“Changing your reaction to your parents . . . easier said than done, I imagine.” He very carefully didn’t look in her direction.
“Yes. Thus the rebellious teenager act. Not to mention the wine.”
“I can’t tell you how much I regretted offering to drive tonight,” he said, a small smile on his face. “By the end of the meal, I either wanted to drain the bottle or hit myself over the head with it. Anything to end the misery.”
She chuckled. “That urge sounds familiar.”
“So how did your parents react when you decided not to pursue accounting?” he asked. “Not well, I imagine.”
“Confused. Disappointed. But by that point, I didn’t care.”
He laid a gentle hand on her arm. “Really?”
“No. Not really,” she admitted softly. “But I tried not to care quite so much. Not to the point where it incapacitated me and drowned out my own instincts. When I started following my gurt”—she shot him a smile—“I became much happier. Instead of using my parents’ logic, I began making decisions based on what would bring me the most joy. I applied to library school instead of beginning a career in accounting. Best decision I ever made.”
His fingers on her arm slid slowly down to her hand. He intertwined their fingers for a moment, giving her hand a firm squeeze before letting go. Then, with a sigh, he set both hands back on the steering wheel.
“Okay,” he said. “Enough serious talk. Let’s change the subject.”
“Agreed.”
“Tell me more about your job at the bookstore,” he invited. “I know you love talking with people about books, so I’m guessing you enjoyed it.”
He smiled at her, and—despite her best efforts—her heart turned over. Just a little.
“Like I said earlier, I worked at Bannon’s part-time during high school, college, and grad school. I went full-time during the summers,” she said. “I loved it. Loved my boss, loved my coworkers. I met my friend Helen there. You know, the redhead from Adult Reference?”
“Yeah. You worked with her?”
“For a few years, until I got full-time work at the library and had to quit the bookstore. She became the queen of the science fiction and fantasy section, and I was the romance expert. Especially when it came to sexier romances.”
“I’ll bet.” His smile had changed into a smirk.
She gave him a light swat on the arm. “Smart-ass. Anyway, I didn’t know too much about romances or erotica when I started working there. I was only in high school, and my parents didn’t believe in reading frivolous novels. Their words, not mine.”
“I kind of figured that,” he said.
“We had several women who would come in looking for what they called spicy romances. I didn’t know of any particularly explicit authors offhand, so I eventually came up with a technique to check a book’s heat level. It only took seconds.”
“What did you do?”
“I’d flip quickly through the book, searching for key words and phrases that signified love scenes. Like throb. Moan. Moist.” She paused. “Which I associate more with towelettes than lovemaking. Authors use it in sex scenes more often than you’d think, though.”
“What else?” Grant’s hands clenched the steering wheel a bit tighter.
“Manhood. Sheath. Plunge. Those sorts of things. Then I could quickly skim the scene and see how explicit it was. Over time, I figured out which authors like a little more sex in their text. A little more riding in their writing. A little more shaft in their craft.”
He sighed, and his hands on the wheel relaxed. “You made a library display using those phrases at some point, didn’t you?”
“Maybe. And if I did—which I neither confirm nor deny—I can tell you it was incredible. Maybe the highlight of my year.”
He shook his head in feigned exasperation. But even in the dim light of the dashboard, she could see the flash of his teeth when he smiled.
“If you loved it there, why didn’t you keep working at the bookstore?” he asked.
“Not enough money to support myself comfortably. And I can tell you there was no way in hell I was moving back in with my parents.”
“How often do you see them?”
“Not very.” She sighed. “I know that seems odd to a man who changed jobs and uprooted his life to be near his family. But my family’s not like yours, Grant.”
“Not criticizing. Only asking,” he said, echoing his words from their first meeting.
Good, she thought. I’m glad he’s asking. No matter what Grant thinks of me by the end of this evening, at least he understands me better. Can I even remember the last time I allowed a man to know me? The real me, not just the parts I choose to show the world? Not just my brave face?
No. No, she couldn’t. Largely because it had never happened before.
Her eyes widened as a thought occurred to her. Again and again, she’d argued to her parents—and even to Grant, during their exercises yesterday—that a life led in pursuit of reason, rather than joy, proved empty in the end. Pointless. Unfulfilled. And she believed it.
What about her, though? What about a life led in pursuit of joy, but not connection? Not love? What about a life spent taking risks, but never ones that would reveal her heart and its vulnerabilities?
In her rush to flee the stifling confinement of her logic-filled childhood, had she somehow stumbled into another trap? One that would hobble her just as badly in the end?
Shit, she thought. I don’t know. I don’t know. God help me.
“You okay, Angie?” Grant asked.
“I’m fine,” she said automatically. But she wasn’t sure that was true. Not anymore.
18
As Angie exited her car early Friday evening, her phone chimed.
A text from Penny. We’re sitting at a table right near the bar. I saved a seat for you. Are you coming soon?
I’ll be right there, Angie texted back. I’m in the parking lot.
She put the phone in her purse and began to walk toward the freshly painted building, pausing when she read the new name on the sign. Nice Rack, the fluorescent letters spelled out, right above a pair of yellow billiard balls. Each ball featured a small white circle in the middle and a black number eight painted to look like a pierced nipple.
Holy shit. Angie grinned. She’d known that Tasha Mason, one of her favorite library patrons, had planned on making some modifications to the business after buying it. Tasha hadn’t warned her about the altered name and logo, though. Maybe scoring her amazing new girlfriend had made Tasha feel a little reckless.
Angie pulled ope
n the door to the building, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. The place was packed with wall-to-wall people, and the jukebox played at top volume. She stood on her tiptoes and searched for familiar faces. The sight of a waving hand caught her attention, and she saw Penny and several other friends clustered around a round table.
She squeezed through the crush of humanity. When she finally made it across the crowded bar to her friends, Sarah was telling the group about her work crush.
“. . . hasn’t noticed me. I mean, he knows my name, but he hasn’t paid much attention,” Sarah complained. “And it’s not like I’m a shy, retiring flower.”
Angie laughed as she found the empty bar stool they’d reserved for her between Penny and Mary. “True enough. If there’s anyone in the group louder than me, it’s definitely you.”
As soon as she spoke, the women all turned to her with expectant faces. She knew what they wanted, of course: the scoop on her hickey and her supervisor. Specifically, on how the two related to one another.
“Well?” Sarah asked. “Spill, woman. We’ve been waiting for you for hours.”
Angie snickered as she glanced at her watch. Fifteen minutes late. But for their resident Drama Queen, Sarah, fifteen minutes most likely seemed like an eternity.
“Hold your horses, DQ. I’ll tell you all about it in a few minutes. First, though, let me settle in, get a drink, and hear more about you ladies,” Angie said. “And I use the term ladies very loosely. Except when it comes to you, Mary. You qualify.”
Mary giggled. “I’m not sure whether to be flattered or disappointed.”
“Being a lady is a tough job, but someone has to do it, Mary,” Penny said. “God knows Angie left a slot available.”
“That’s what I hear,” Helen said. “Our little Angie’s slot is often available, just waiting to be filled. Or so it says on the stall doors in the library bathrooms.”
Angie raised a middle finger in Helen’s direction, but couldn’t help laughing again. This. This was what she needed after a long, lonely day spent without a single moment of contact with Grant. Not a text, a phone call, or a visit. Not even a group e-mail to all the branch managers. From what she heard, he’d made the rounds of all the other county branches today, visiting them each for an hour or two. Nothing like the five hours he’d spent at Battlefield on Tuesday. Then again, none of the other branches boasted a loose cannon as its manager.
She waved at Tasha, who was working behind the bar tonight. Tasha looked up with an automatic smile, which became a grin when she saw who’d flagged her down. Angie pointed to Constance’s beer. Then she pointed at herself and held up two fingers. Tasha’s grin widened, and she gave Angie a thumbs-up. Satisfied, Angie turned back to her friends.
“Back to you, Sarah,” Angie said. “Did Penny tell you we had to disqualify your entry in the sex-scene contest?”
“Yeah. It’s okay. She said the two of you liked the way I used the protractors, though.”
“Very innovative. Not to mention pointy,” Angie agreed. “But what were you saying when I got here? Are you crushing on one of the other teachers at school?”
“Ulysses Bollinger, our new gym teacher,” Sarah said.
Penny’s lips quirked. “Is he a Civil War general, or just a sailor who refuses to ask for directions?”
“Ha-ha. Very funny,” Sarah said. “He started this last fall. Dated the school secretary for a while, but they broke up a couple of months ago. He’s cute. Friendly. I think he’s into the outdoors, which is a strike against him. I’m willing to overlook it, though, as long as he doesn’t expect me to join him there. Nature sucks. One minute, you’re admiring a sunset. The next, a grizzly bear gobbles your head like a cake pop. Or a scarab beetle tries to scramble your brain from inside your ear. Or a malicious tree falls on you. You just never know.”
Mary leaned in closer to Constance. “She’s a teacher?” she whispered.
Constance whispered back, “Yes. An elementary school art teacher. A good one. A great friend too. You’ll be working with her once school lets out for the summer.”
Mary looked a little frightened at that prospect. But before Angie could offer her own reassurance, Tasha came by with the two beers. Angie tried to hand her a twenty, but the other woman waved it off. “On the house, babe. In gratitude for setting me up with Yolanda.”
Angie smiled. “Still going strong?”
“Ever since we met at that New Year’s event. Thanks to you,” Tasha said. With a final wave to Angie and the other women, she headed back to the bar.
One of her more shining moments, if Angie said so herself. Even if that New Year’s Eve singles’ night helped get her fired, she couldn’t regret it. Seeing the happy couples who’d met at the event—including Penny and Jack—made her prouder than she’d felt in years. She took a long drink from her first beer, considering the relationships that had resulted from that night. Tasha and Yolanda. Penny and Jack. Brenda and Carl. Even two or three others.
Maybe if she lost her job at the library, she could work as a matchmaker instead. Heartened by the thought, she turned to Helen. “What about you? Anything new and exciting in your life?”
“Unfortunately, no,” Helen said. “I need more hours, like usual. But I’m hearing rumors that a new position might be opening soon. Something about an interdepartmental liaison. I’m keeping my fingers crossed.”
“Any cute patrons come in recently?” Angie asked her.
“Just one, but he didn’t come to check out books. He was meeting with the director.” Helen pushed her glasses up onto the bridge of her nose and took a sip of her strawberry daiquiri.
“Who?” Constance asked.
“Doesn’t matter. He’s not interested. No matter how badly I want to grab hold of that ass and squeeze it like a ripe peach at a grocery store,” Helen said.
“Whose?” Angie persisted. “Whose peachy ass?”
Helen slumped forward in defeat. “The mayor’s.”
Around the table, five sets of mouths dropped open.
“Wesley Ramirez?” Penny sputtered. “Damn, Helen.”
“He’s an old acquaintance, that’s all,” Helen said. “We grew up together.”
“Can’t fault her for her taste. Man’s hot as hell. Though I think I’d compare his ass more to an apple,” Constance said.
“Maybe you could make the cheeks of that apple blush, Hel,” Sarah said, giving the table a saucy little slap.
“Look, it’s not happening. Let’s drop it,” Helen said. “And don’t think I don’t see your little game, Angela Burrowes. You think if you divert all the attention to our love lives, we’ll forget about yours.”
Angie turned to Penny and gave her a questioning look, asking without words whether her friend had told the other women anything. Penny shook her head.
“Good point, Helen.” Constance turned to Angie. “So tell us. When did your new supervisor give you a hickey? And what sort of team-building activities did you do together?”
“Is that what we’re calling it? Team-building?” Sarah asked with a smirk.
“I hear they tweaked the usual activities,” Helen said. “Apparently the trust falls involved his penis falling into her vagina. And the ropes course was, shall we say, untraditional.”
The women all laughed, though Mary looked guilty about it. But Constance quickly sobered and reached out a hand to grasp Angie’s.
“Do you think pursuing a relationship with your supervisor is such a good idea, Angie?” she asked.
Angie rested her other hand on Constance’s, enjoying the sense of comfort her friend’s touch gave her. “I’m not,” she said. “We’re not. And I’ll tell you about it, but you have to promise that none of this goes any further than our table.”
“We promise,” all the women chorused.
“There. We promised. Now explain,” Sarah ordered.
So Angie did, telling her friends everything. And by the time she finished talking about the evening at her par
ents’ house and her revelations during the ride home with Grant, her thoughts no longer felt as scattered. The simple act of sharing the situation with her friends brought an almost unbelievable sense of relief and comfort.
“I understand what you’re saying, but I’m not sure you’re being fair to yourself. You might not like to reveal everything, but you do let your friends know you,” Penny said.
“Maybe you don’t pursue connections with men, but you do with us,” Constance added.
“That said, your relationships with men have seemed kind of . . .” Penny hesitated.
“Superficial,” Angie supplied. “I know. I’m not entirely sure why, though.”
“Are you afraid if they truly knew you, you’d disappoint them?” Penny asked softly.
Angie closed her eyes, fighting sudden tears.
“Maybe she hasn’t met the right man,” Mary said with unwonted firmness.
“Maybe she did meet the right man,” Constance said. “Maybe she just can’t date him. Because he’s her supervisor.”
When Angie opened her eyes, all the other women were looking at her with sadness etched on their faces.
“Maybe. But I’ll never know,” Angie said.
“Never know what?” a masculine voice asked from behind Angie.
She turned around to find Blaine Markov, the library’s fund-raising coordinator, standing behind her. His blond hair swept perfectly away from his handsome face, and the rectangular frames of his glasses emphasized his warm brown eyes. Together, the hair and glasses neatly captured part of who he was: serious and stylish. What they didn’t indicate was how affectionate and loyal a friend he’d become over the years, to her and the library both.
“Are you here to rescue me from this enclave of estrogen?” she asked him. “I hope so. Any moment now, I think we’re going to become cycle sisters.”
“I’m here to ask you to dance,” he said with a smile.
After taking a good gulp of her second beer, Angie got to her feet. “I’d love to.”