Caitlyn Santi
“I’m returning this one.”
A large hand reaches across the circulation desk toward me and holds out a familiar book. My own book, Deadly Obsession, to be exact.
I gaze up at ocean-blue eyes, beautifully framed by wire-rimmed glasses. The gorgeous man holding my book is none other than New York Times bestselling thriller author Dallas Whitford.
Oh, and in case you’re wondering, he’s also completely out of my league and the guy I’ve had a secret crush on since high school. The guy who’s never known I exist.
My heart wedges itself into my throat. He returned a book I wrote only two hours after he borrowed it. Attraction collides with the sting of rejection. I snatch the book from his fingers and quickly scan the barcode.
“I guess you weren’t too impressed with this one, huh? Since you brought it back so soon and all.”
Dallas plants both palms on the desk and leans toward me, smirking and smoldering like a hot model in a library furniture catalog. They have those, right?
“Quite the contrary, Miss Librarian. The story was so enthralling I couldn’t put it down, and the author’s voice is incomparable.”
Oh, heaven help me! His voice is deep and irresistible. Gah, I can’t think when he’s this close to me. I involuntarily lean back in my office chair and raise the barcode scanner like it’s a weapon to protect me from his charm.
I know I should say something, but . . . Dallas Whitford likes my writing! How am I supposed to speak? Or breathe? Should I tell him it’s me, that I’m the author? I didn’t use a pen name, but remember the whole “he doesn’t know I exist” scenario?
“It’s such a shame you don’t seem to have any other books by her.” There’s a twinkle in his eye as he shoots me a devilish wink.
A blush burns my face, and I blink to break the lovestruck spell his gaze has cast on me.
“W-We do have one other book by her, actually. It’s shelved in the romance section rather than suspense.”
“Ah! Wonderful. Would you be so kind as to help me locate it?”
His smirk ratchets up a notch, and it’s clear he knows exactly the effect he’s having on me and he’s not sorry about it one bit. He folds both muscular forearms on the desk and leans close enough that his intoxicating, masculine scent short-circuits my brain.
“Please, Miss Librarian?”
Lord, take me now!
I stammer something in the affirmative that sounds a lot like, “Book yes me find.”
Shoving my chair back, I somehow manage to stand, despite my knees that are just aching to swoon, and jerkily propel myself out from behind the circulation desk like a library robot.
I make a beeline for the best part of the library, leaving him to follow me like a puppy. The towering romance shelves form a secluded, three-sided nook. There’s a rolling ladder affixed to one side à la Belle’s library, and nestled in the opposite corner is a cozy armchair with a small table next to it, upon which rests a glass dome containing a red rose that appears to be floating in midair. I had the privilege of designing this part of the library, and it just so happens to be my favorite place on earth.
I crouch down and run my fingers along the book spines until I come to my own name. I grab my first book from the shelf and spin around to place it in Dallas’s waiting hands, but he’s much closer than I expected. In fact, he’s standing close enough that I’m effectively trapped in the corner. Not that I mind.
The book in my hand droops toward the floor, but Dallas grabs it just as it’s about to slip from my fingers and reverently places it on the side table. “You, Paisley Booker, are an incredible writer.”
I don’t know which is more disarming, the compliment or my name on his lips.
The scoundrel! He knew all along I was the author in question.
“You know my name.”
“I’ve admired you from afar since high school. I’ve always assumed you’re too good, too smart, and too beautiful to ever give a man like me more than a passing glance. But I must ask, would you do me the extraordinary honor of going out with me?”
I’m suddenly very grateful for the bookshelves that are currently propping up my body, which is threatening to melt into a puddle.
“Dallas, I never thought you even knew I existed. And right now, I feel like I’m living in a dream, but I’d love nothing more than to go out with you.”
His face lights up like it probably does when he figures out the perfect ending for his next novel.
He places one hand on either side of me and leans toward me until his face is just inches from mine.
“Believe me, Miss Librarian, I very much knew you existed, and I only wish I’d had the courage to ask you out back then.”
What romance novel did this man escape from? Oh, right—my own. He’s inspired every swoon-worthy hero I’ve ever written. But reality always trumps fiction, and Dallas, himself, is the hero I’ve been holding out for. Perhaps my story will indeed have a happily ever after.
His voice lowers to a soft murmur. “Paisley, I’ve been waiting eleven years to ask you this, and I know it might sound forward, but may I kiss you?”
“Please do,” I whisper breathlessly. They’re the only words I can string together.
Dallas gently wraps one hand around my waist, pulling me even closer to him. His other hand cups my chin, and he gazes at me with an expression that I can only describe as smitten.
And then he kisses me, right here in the romance section.
Caitlyn loves Jesus, audiobooks, dark chocolate, bookish characters, glasses-wearing heroes, happy endings, and all things clean romance.
She’s an indie published author of two novellas and three short stories.
Connect with Caitlyn on Instagram, Goodreads or her YouTube channel.
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