Royally Matched (Royally #2)(10)
Annie leans forward. “But, since we’re on the subject, tell us, Willard, are your manly parts . . . proportional?”
Willard is just over four feet ten inches tall, only slightly above the height threshold for dwarfism. But his personality is seven feet high—bold and direct, with clever sarcastic wit to spare. He reminds me of Tyrion Lannister from Game of Thrones—only kinder and more handsome.
“Annie!” I gasp, blushing.
She pushes my shoulder. “You know you want to know.”
No, I don’t. But Willard wants to answer.
“I’m blessedly unproportioned. Just as a blind man’s other senses are more developed, God overcompensated me in that department.” He wiggles his eyebrows.
She nods. “I’ll be sure to tell Clarice when I’m convincing her to let you take her out this Saturday.”
Annie is a notoriously bad matchmaker. Though Willard’s gotten the business end of her attempts more than once, he keeps letting her try.
What’s the definition of insanity again?
Annie looks toward me. “Now, back to your mystery balls, Sarah.”
“Mr. Haverstrom—”
She gags. “Mr. Haverstrom? Gross! I bet his bits smell like overcooked green vegetables. You can just tell by that permanently unhappy face. Definitely broccoli balls.”
Damn. And I really liked broccoli.
“Sarah wasn’t referring to Mr. Haverstrom’s literal balls, Annie,” Willard explains.
Annie flaps her hands. “Then why’d she bring them up?”
I take off my glasses, cleaning them with the cloth from my pocket. “Mr. Haverstrom sent me an email. I’m to go directly to his office after lunch. It sounds serious.”
Saying the words makes my anxiety kick into overdrive. My heart pounds, my head goes light, adrenaline rushes through my veins, and I can feel my pulse in my throat. Even when I know it’s silly, even when my brain recognizes there’s nothing to be panicked about, in unpredictable situations or when I’m the center of attention, my body reacts like I’m the next victim in a slasher film. The one who’s stumbling through the woods with the mask-wearing, machete-wielding psycho just steps behind her. I hate it, but it’s unavoidable.
“Remember to breathe slow and steady, Sarah,” Willard says. “If anything, he’s probably going to offer you a promotion. You’re the best in the building; everyone knows that.”
Annie and Willard aren’t just my friends, they’re my coworkers here at Concordia Library. Willard works downstairs in Restoration and Preservation, Annie in the Children’s department, while I spend my days in Literature and Fiction. Everyone thinks library science is all about shelving books and sending out overdue notices—but it’s so much more.
It’s about fostering community and information technology, organization, helping others find the needle in whatever haystack they’re looking in. In the same way emergency-room physicians must have diagnoses and treatments at their fingertips, librarians, at least the good ones, need to be familiar with an array of topics.
“I’ve got the flask I stole from Elliot down in my locker,” Annie says.
Time: three minutes, forty-two seconds. And the record of nine minutes, seven seconds continues to hold strong.
“You want a nip before you head over?” Annie offers sweetly.
She’s a good friend—like Helen to Jane in Jane Eyre. As kind as she is pretty.
I shake my head. Then I pull my big-girl knickers up all the way to my neck. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”
Annie gives me a thumbs-up with both hands and Willard nods, his brown, wavy hair falling over his forehead like a romance-novel rogue. With a final wave to them both, I leave the small outdoor stone patio where we meet each day for lunch and head inside.
In the cool, shadowed atrium, I close my eyes and breathe in the familiar, comforting scent of books and leather, paper and ink. Before Wessco was its own country, this building was a Scottish cathedral, Concordia Cathedral. There have been updates through the centuries, but wonderfully, the original structure remains—three floors; thick, grand marble columns; arched entryways and high, intricately muraled ceilings. Working here sometimes makes me feel like a priestess—the strong and powerful kind. Especially when I track down a hard-to-find book for someone and the person’s face lights up. Or when I introduce a reader to a new series or author. There’s privilege and honor in this work—showing people a whole new world, filled with characters and places and emotions they wouldn’t have experienced without me. It’s magical.
Mark Twain said, “Find a job you enjoy doing, and you will never have to work a day in your life.”
At Concordia Library, I’ve yet to work a single day.
My heels click on the stone floor as I head toward the back spiral stairs. I pass the circulation desk, waving to old Maud, who’s been volunteering here twenty hours a week since her husband, Melvin, passed away two months ago. Then I spot George at his usual table—he’s a regular, a retiree, and lifelong bachelor. I grab two of the local papers off the stack, sliding them in front of him as I go.
“Good afternoon, George.”
“It is now, darling,” he calls after me.
Along the side wall are a row of computer desks, lined up like soldiers, and I see Timmy Frazier’s bright red head bent over a keyboard, where he’s typing furiously. Timmy’s thirteen years old and a good lad, in the way that good lads still do naughty things. He’s got five younger siblings, a longshoreman dad, and a mum who cleans part-time at the estate on top of the hill.