Make Me Bad(12)

“I’m coming! I’m coming!” a feminine voice calls out.

I catch movement to my right and look over just in time to see a brunette pop out from behind one of the shelves with a dozen children’s books piled in her arms. She blows a few strands of hair out of her face and then announces in an annoyed voice, “Eli, if that’s you—”

Then her green eyes glance up and her sentence cuts off sharply when she sees it’s me.





6





Madison





Well, it turns out, I’m a witch. It’s the only possible explanation for the turn of events currently taking place in my life. There I was, just a few moments ago, re-shelving books and daydreaming about Ben Rosenberg, as I’ve often done in the weeks since I last saw him. I was lost in thought trying to recall the exact shade of his eyes—amber or more of a pale honey?—when the bell rang at my desk and low and behold, here he is, in the library, waiting for me.

I must have conjured him up out of thin air, and I did an excellent job recreating him from memory. He’s wearing dark jeans and a gray crewneck t-shirt. His brown hair is shorter than it was the last time I saw him and styled like he came straight from the office. He looks severe, daunting, beautiful. He’s not smiling. No, in fact, he looks sort of annoyed, I think. His features—the strong brow, sharp cheekbones, and pronounced jaw—are so easily swayed to look menacing. I could faint from the sheer shock of seeing him again, but I square my shoulders and try to affect a cool, calm exterior.

“Ben Rosenberg. Come to take the library back from us once and for all?” I quip as I round the corner and start to walk toward him. I take a very quick, very thorough stock of my appearance, trying to visualize how I look to him in this moment. My jersey dress is a pale shade of blue, long-sleeved and knee-length. The top is fitted across my chest, but the skirt flows around my hips and thighs. All in all, it’s more comfortable than cute, as is much of my wardrobe. My hair is in a loose braid, and damn it all to hell, would it have killed me to apply a little makeup before work this morning? A swipe of daring lipstick? Some false eyelashes? A smoky eye? I want to turn back around and pinch my cheeks—or better yet, slap them—in the hopes that I’ll appear youthful and glowing rather than tired and overworked.

“Retake the library? Eli did mention something about all these books belonging to me.”

Oh good, his tone is hard and emotionless. Maybe he’s trying to seem as unflustered by our reunion as I am—or, you know, maybe he actually is unflustered.

I step closer and drop the children’s books onto my desk, working up the courage to glance up at him. He really is tall. If I had to look up at him for long, I’d get a crick in my neck. “He was exaggerating. They belong to the city.” I frown. “At least I think they do. Now, what can I do for you?”

His eyes assess me coolly for a moment. Ah yes, they’re amber, and so intimidating my palms are sweating. He takes me in from top to toes, and I swear if I dug deep enough, I’d find a hint of appreciation behind his gaze, but I can’t be certain. He’s so much more in control of his features than I am. If I ever found myself across from him at a poker table, I’d lose my entire life savings.

“I’m here to volunteer my services.”

My eyes widen and my cheeks burn red hot. It sounds like a sexy euphemism: his services. I immediately imagine him kissing his way across my body, burning a path down my skin. This jersey dress would be so simple to rip right in two. Then my brain kicks in and I realize the true meaning of his words. Of course he catches my reaction and seems mildly amused by it.

I clear my throat and finger the top book on the stack on my desk. “Why? Er—” I clear my throat. “Why are you wanting to volunteer here?”

“Court-ordered community service. It’s mandatory thanks to that fight I got into a few weeks ago. You remember?”

“Ah, right.” I glance back up at him. Do I remember? I have every second of that night permanently ingrained in my memory. His words, his appearance. I remember the swollen eye and red, busted lip. His lips are fine now—in tiptop shape, in fact. I’m staring at them as I say dumbly, “Your eye has healed up nicely.”

His fingers reach up to touch the corner of his eye and I’m forced to look there, at the bright amber hue and black lashes.

I’m aware that one of us should speak soon. We can’t just continue to stare at each other like this, so I give myself a mental kick and paste on a weak smile. “Shame you didn’t scar—could have given you some major street cred.”

Then I plop myself down in my desk chair and click my mouse three times, trying to wake up my computer. I want to show him that I’m a busy gal. I have work things to attend to: emails, and conference calls, and mergers, and financial documents. Oh right, I’m a children’s librarian. A child screams a few feet away and I’m reminded that I’m about as intimidating as a church mouse. The things on my agenda for today include things like Princess Story Time and Toddler Play Hour.

I still make a real show of typing a bunch of meaningless gibberish on my keyboard, just in case, but then my computer doesn’t feel like playing along. It locks me out because I’ve entered the wrong login password too many times. A loud, angry noise blares like an alarm and I frown at the stupid thing.