Check Her Out (His Curvy Librarian Book 2)

by Frankie Love

  “Ty,” I snap, using the Stern Adult voice I so rarely employ. “Not cool. Apologize to Miss Hart.”

  He looks guiltily at me, then back at Brooklyn. “I’m sorry. I was just having fun.”

  “It’s okay,” she says, then hands him a book off the shelf. “You can make it up to me by giving Ender’s Game a try.”

  He takes the book and I shoo him and Jaxon away, then turn to Brooklyn. “Sorry about that. I thought I taught them better than that.”

  But Brooklyn is stifling a laugh. She smiles wide and says, “I’m used to library puns, it’s fine.”

  I give her a nod, an I see what you did there, and then admit, “Well, maybe I’m just a little jealous because I wish I’d tried that pickup line.”

  “Oh yeah?” she says, an eyebrow raised. “You want to pick me up?”

  “Maybe,” I say. “Would it have worked.”

  “No,” she says. “I don’t like lines.” Then she quirks her lips into a smile and adds, “But a sincere invitation might work.”

  “Well, in that case, Brooklyn Hart, I would love to take you out on a date,” I say, barely believing that we’ve gone from meeting about half an hour ago to this. I never move this fast—and with the outreach center, I rarely have time to even think of women. But this one is different—I knew that from the moment I saw her. “How about tonight?”

  3

  Brooklyn

  “Tonight?”

  My heart sinks, because the Casablanca screening is tonight, and the carnival. And I already promised Cassidy and Nora a girls’ night. On the other hand…

  I can’t imagine Cassidy would be particularly happy with me if she found out I turned down a date with a guy like Prescott. She’s been all about fate and soulmates and happy ever after since she found Chuck, and she keeps telling Nora and me that it’ll happen for us too.

  When we least expect it.

  “Okay,” I tell Prescott. “But only if you don’t mind making it kind of a group thing.”

  Prescott arches an eyebrow and I laugh.

  “Not like that!” I say, then explain, “I promised my two best friends I’d go to the movies and then the street festival tonight. Do you want to come with us?”

  He smiles. “What’s playing?”

  “Casablanca.”

  His smile widens. “Of all the gin joints in all the world… I love that movie. Used to watch it with my mom whenever I got sick and had to stay home from school.”

  “So it’s a date?” I ask, butterflies taking flight in my belly. I’m also hoping that I haven’t misjudged and Cassidy and Nora won’t be mad.

  But right now, as Prescott says yes, I can’t bring myself to care. There’s just something about him that makes it impossible to turn down the chance to get a little closer.

  We exchange phone numbers and I give him my address, and he says he’ll pick me up at six-thirty. I walk out of the teen outreach center on a few inches of air, and immediately group text my besties. This news won’t even wait until I drive back to the library.

  Getting ready for a night out sure feels different without Cassidy as my roommate. We used to make a whole event out of primping and wardrobe selection—her in the vintage dresses she prefers and me in slinky little numbers that hug my curves.

  Tonight, I’m flying solo.

  I’m standing at the bathroom mirror, applying mascara and pumping dance music into the apartment to try and recreate some of that old energy, but it mostly just feels sad. I’ve never lived alone before, and I’m not a fan. I loved living in the Baker house after my parents died, feeling like a part of a big, loving family. I loved having my best friend around 24/7. I even loved the poorly insulated trailer that I grew up in with my mom and dad, because it felt like home.

  This place just feels temporary and empty now that Cassidy is gone.

  Luckily, it doesn’t stay that way for long. I’m mid-swipe when the doorbell rings, and very nearly drag a messy black line of mascara across my cheek. Crisis averted, I go to the door to let Cassidy and Nora in.

  “Hey,” I say over the music, “come in. I’m almost ready.”

  “Ugh, what is this noise?” Nora asks. She goes over to my phone to swap out my dance music for classic rock, and I just shake my head.

  “You have your dad’s taste in music.”

  “Yup, and proud of it,” she says as a Rolling Stones song comes on. “Anyway, I can’t help myself—I’ve had ‘Start Me Up’ stuck in my head for days. I think I will forever associate that song with drywall.”

  “Huh?” I ask. Cassidy doesn’t look nearly as perplexed as I am, and I think I must have missed something. “Drywall?”

  “For the renovation?” Nora says. “Dad and I were hanging that heavy stuff all day on my day off. Times like these, I wish he’d had a son or two.”

  Cassidy chuckles, but I’m still confused. “Where were you hanging drywall?”

  “At the house,” she says. “Didn’t Mom and Dad tell you about the renovations they’ve been planning?”

  Welp, now I just feel like I’ve been kicked in the shins because no, they haven’t. Martha and Cory Baker let me live with them from fifteen to eighteen, and I was over at their house so often before and since that they feel like my second set of parents… but they’re still Martha and Cory to me, not Mom and Dad. And apparently they feel the same, because this is the first I’m hearing about renovations.

  I put on a brave face and say, “Oh? What are they changing?”

  “Well, for starters, they’re replacing all that old, cracked plaster in the upstairs bedrooms,” Nora says, then makes a big show of flexing her biceps. “I’m telling you, I’m gonna be both an expert carpenter and totally ripped by the end.”

  “Umm, cool,” I say, trying not to let the hurt creep into my voice. It’s not a big deal, I tell myself. Just a little updating. But the truth is, that house—and the Bakers—means as much to me as it does to Nora and Cassidy, and their younger sisters. “Anyway, can you help me pick something out to wear? I can’t decide if I should go with my LBD or something more casual, more festival-appropriate.”

  “Uh, none of the above,” Cassidy says. With a flourish, she produces a garment bag that I hadn’t noticed was draped over her shoulder. “I brought you the red dress.”

  “The red dress?” I’m practically drooling, and I’ve got hearts in my eyes. “Really?”

  “This is obviously a special night,” she says. “I’ve never heard you get so excited about a guy so fast before.”

  She goes over to my bedroom, acting right at home like she never left, and hooks the garment bag over the back of the door. The red dress is a strappy little thing that Cassidy bought for her parents’ twenty-fifth anniversary party a few years ago, and I fell in love at first sight.

  Ever since that party, the dress has been imbued with love magic in my mind, like a talisman, and I’ve made no secret out of how much I like it. The fact that Cassidy brought it tonight… well, she must be as excited about my date with Prescott as I am.

  “Please don’t make this something more than it is,” I say, even as I’m gently lifting the dress out of the garment bag. “He’s just tagging along with a girl and her friends to a movie.”

  “Yeah, about that…” Nora smiles mischievously.

  “What?” I ask.

  “We’re ditching you,” she says.

  “What?”

  Cassidy takes over. She takes the dress from my hands, slipping it off its hanger as she says, “You’re going to put on this sexy little number and have a romantic evening with a handsome stranger who just happens to have read all your favorite books, and you’re not going to have your two best friends tagging along, ruining the moment.”

  “But–” I start to object, but honestly, there’s no use. When these girls have made up their minds about something, there’s nothing anyone can say to change them.

  Besides… the butterflies are starting to awaken in my stomach again, and I actually
really love the idea of having Prescott all to myself.

  “What will you two do tonight?” I ask.

  “We’re commandeering your apartment for the time being,” Nora said, producing a bottle of champagne from the depths of her enormous sack of a purse. “We’re going to stay in and have our own little girls’ night, and when this bottle is empty… who knows? Maybe we’ll end up at the festival after all.”

  “You mean you’ll come spy on Prescott and me,” I say with a laugh. I’ve known these two since preschool—I can read everything they say, and everything they don’t say.

  “Exactly,” Cassidy says.

  “But don’t worry—we won’t intervene unless it’s some kind of dating disaster,” Nora promises.

  “Which it won’t be,” Cassidy chimes in, a twinkle in her eyes.

  Nora disappears into the kitchen to fetch a few glasses for the champagne. I get changed into the red dress, which fits like a second skin and looks even better than I remembered, and Nora is just pouring me a glass of bubbly when the doorbell rings again.

  “He’s here!” Cassidy sing-songs. “Quick, let’s do a toast.”

  “A toast?” I ask.

  “To finding storybook love,” she says, “wherever it may be.”

  We clink glasses and I end up downing my champagne in one gulp because I don’t want to keep Prescott waiting—and I could use a dose of liquid courage anyway.

  Then I go to the door, waving the girls away as I open it.

  Prescott is standing there with a bouquet of delicate white and yellow frangipani, expensive flowers done up in a silk ribbon. He’s done up himself, in a finely tailored black suit. And his mouth drops open in blatant admiration as his eyes drink me in.

  Score one for the red dress.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hi. You look stunning.”

  He gives me the flowers, and his eyes go over my shoulder as I realize that Nora and Cassidy have crowded behind me in the doorway.

  “We’ll take those,” Cassidy says, reaching for the flowers. “We’ll put them in water for you.”

  “The best friends, I presume?” Prescott asks. “Are you two coming with us?”

  Nora shakes her head and pulls Cassidy away from the door, and I grab my clutch off a nearby table. “You get me all to yourself tonight,” I say, looking into those smoldering, dark eyes and nearly falling in.

  “I’m a lucky man,” he says, and offers me his arm.

  4

  Prescott

  “Seriously,” I tell Brooklyn as I lead her outside to my car. “You look amazing. I practically had to scoop my jaw off the floor when you opened that door.”

  She’s blushing again, the color creeping across her exposed collarbones and up into her cheeks, and my mind is already going to filthy places, wondering where else I can make her heat up.

  “So you’re not disappointed that my friends won’t be tagging along tonight?” she asks with a coy smile.

  “Devastated,” I tell her, opening the passenger door for her.

  She slides into my gunmetal gray Lexus, low to the ground with soft leather seats that I can’t help picturing her thighs sliding across.

  “Nice ride,” she says. “I expected something a little more… modest.”

  “Yeah, I get that a lot,” I say, running my hand along the roof of the car. “This car’s my weakness though—one little luxury.”

  If only she knew what I was driving around a few years ago. Audis, Porsches, I even rented a Lamborghini once just so I could show up in style to a party my parents were throwing. It disgusts me now, how much flash and extravagance I used to think I needed. I’m glad Brooklyn is meeting me now because I have a feeling she wouldn’t have liked me then.

  “Well, it’s beautiful,” she says, running her palm over the leather.

  “Hey, don’t get too familiar or I’m bound to be jealous,” I say, then close the door and come around to the driver’s side.

  We head over to the theater in Golden Creek’s quaint, walkable downtown area. The festival is in full swing by the time we get there, with a carousel, food trucks and carnival games set up all along the street, and a stage for live music at the other end.

  I buy a couple movie tickets for the two of us, plus a bag of popcorn and a couple of soft drinks, and we go into the theater. I hold the door for Brooklyn on the way in, letting my hand graze along the small of her back as she passes me, and honestly, I have no idea how I’m gonna get through this entire movie with Brooklyn just inches away from me… in a dark theater…

  Damn, maybe this would have been easier if her friends tagged along.

  The theater has a bar area at the back, and people can sit in traditional theater seats near the front or around tables in a large, open space near the bar. The place is packed and we find theater seats near the front. The lights have already been dimmed, and previews for the theater’s regular showings are playing. I hold the popcorn out to Brooklyn and ask, “So, what did you think of the outreach center?”

  “It was great,” she says. “I wish I had more time to look around—seems like you do some really great things for those kids.”

  “Yeah, I just wish they were better behaved,” I say. “Sorry again about Jaxon and Ty.”

  I want to explain that Jaxon is in the foster system, that he’s been having a lot of trouble finding a stable home and so he acts out, but Brooklyn just smiles, needing no justification.

  “That’s okay,” she laughs. “Who knows? If they hadn’t pulled out a corny librarian pickup line, we might not be here together now.”

  “No, I definitely wasn’t letting you out of there without some kind of plan to see you again,” I say, and I can see her smiling brightly even in the dark.

  God, she’s gorgeous, and it’s a real struggle to keep my eyes from wandering down her body in that dress, which I’m starting to think she wore just to torture me.

  “How long have you worked at the outreach center?” she asks, our hands meeting inside the popcorn bag. I don’t withdraw mine right away, and she lets her fingers linger over mine before pulling out a handful of kernels.

  “Since the beginning,” I say. “We’ve been open for two years now.”

  “I’m impressed,” she says. “You’ve done a lot in just two years, and the kids obviously love you, Mr. P.”

  I let out a chuckle. “Oh, please don’t call me that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Next time one of the kids calls me that, all I’ll be able to think about is you in this dress.” Now, I’m completely brazen in allowing my eyes to travel down over the swell of her breasts and her supple hips.

  “Shh!” Someone a couple rows ahead of us hisses as the opening credits to Casablanca begin, and I guess that’s my cue to shut the hell up.

  We settle down in our seats, the popcorn bag wedged between us. Our hands find each other a couple more times inside the bag, and a few minutes into the movie, I can feel Brooklyn’s body quivering where her shoulder meets mine.

  “Cold?” I whisper.

  She nods. “Yeah, I forgot how intense the air conditioning is in here.”

  I shimmy out of my suit jacket and slide it over her shoulders, and then because the popcorn bag is empty and I’m feeling bold like Humphrey Bogart, I wrap my arm around her shoulders too. She snuggles into me, and I catch the scent of her perfume, sweet and lively, just like her.

  We walk out of the theater an hour and a half later, hands linked and reminiscing about the old movies we like. I’m partial to Apocalypse Now, but her favorite Marlon Brando is On the Waterfront. We agree that everything Hitchcock is fantastic, and when I confess that I’ve never seen Citizen Kane, Brooklyn promises to track down the DVD at the library and introduce me to it.

  “What now?” she asks as we wander down the sidewalk toward the festival, my jacket slung over my shoulder and her red dress back on full display in the late August air.

  “Let’s ride the carousel,” I say. “I ha
ven’t seen Casablanca in years, and I probably haven’t ridden a carousel in at least a decade. You want to?”

  “I’m game,” she says.

  We buy a couple tickets and I take her hips in my hands to lift her up to sit side-saddle on a unicorn. Then I climb onto a mighty steed beside her, feeling ridiculous and euphoric and strangely in love. It can’t happen this fast… can it?

  Brooklyn yelps when the carousel starts and grabs onto the pole in front of her. She’s unsteady, trying to ride in that little dress, and I can’t wait to come to her rescue. I reach across the aisle, take her hand, tell her I’ve got her, hold her steady.

  “Thanks,” she says, catching her breath.

  “Was this a dumb idea?” I ask, but she shakes her head adamantly.

  “No, this is perfect.” Her expression darkens for just a second—a flash and then it’s gone—and she adds, “I told you and the teens back at the outreach center that my life hasn’t been very easy… the truth is I haven’t had a lot of happy memories, but this is definitely one of them. Tonight has been amazing, Prescott.”

  “Yes, it has,” I agree. “And you deserve as many happy memories as you can handle.”

  What I’m thinking, but I don’t say because I don’t want to scare this poor woman off, is that the more time I spend with her, the more I want to be the one to make those happy memories for her.

  When the ride ends, I lift her down off the unicorn, her curves brushing against my body and sending a powerful jolt of primal need through me. If I wasn’t sure it was a crime, I’d take her right here, pin her between my mighty steed and my mighty… well, you get the idea.

  I clear my throat and say, “Corn dog?”

  “Yummy.”

  We track down some good, old-fashioned fried foods, then sit at a picnic table to enjoy a smorgasbord of not only corn dogs but cotton candy, waffle fries and a funnel cake, which leaves a cute little dot of powdered sugar right on the tip of Brooklyn’s nose.