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3
Six
Henley
I haven’t beenthis busy since college. Since graduation, my life has consisted mainly of helping my mother organize charity functions and society luncheons, in between marathon shopping sessions and spa days.
It’s nice to spend time doing something useful. Worthwhile. Something that doesn’t include trying on shoes that cost as much as a used car or having my face coated in whale sperm.
Conner said he’d meet me out front at five o’clock, so I’m surprised when I see him waltz through the main doors at a quarter after four. In beat-up jeans and a black T-shirt that looks new, tattoos stretched over the kind of body that ties your tongue in knots, he breezes past the information desk without so much as a glance in my direction while every woman within shouting distance openly stares. I think I heard more than one of them sigh. The bruises his brother parked on his face last night do absolutely nothing to detract from the perfection of his features. As a matter of fact, they intensify it. Somehow make him even more beautiful, which is as annoying as it is confounding.
“I was wondering when he’d show up.”
I look up and over to find Margo standing next to me, helping someone fill out an application for a library card. She’s not looking at me, but she’s smiling.
“That’s not Patrick Gilroy,” I tell her, thinking she must have them confused. Most people can’t tell them apart. “That’s his cousin, Conner.”
“I know who it is.” Now she laughs like I’m the one who’s confused. “And he took longer than I thought.”
I watch as he rounds the corner, heading toward the back of the library.
He wouldn’t…
“Excuse me,” I say to her, standing to push my chair in. “I’ll be right back.”
“Mind the cameras.”
What’s that suppose to—I feel my cheeks go hot.
“I’ll be right back.” I say it again, jerking my tailored jacket off the back of my chair to pull it on, like an extra layer of clothes will make my point clear.
Margo makes a mournful sound in the back of her throat. “That’s too bad.”
The woman she’s helping nods like I just said the saddest thing she’s ever heard. I skirt the desk and start after him without replying. I’ll be right back. They’ll see.
“Plenty of blind spots in Reference.”
I stumble and stop to shoot a glare over my shoulder at the older librarian I’d always looked up to when I was a girl. “Who are you?”
That one earns me a laugh and enough time to escape around the corner without further comment which is good because there’s Conner, sprawled out in a faded, tie-dyed beanbag chair, book held up in front of his face.
My book.
I have to bite my tongue to keep myself from saying it. Instead, I stop in front of him and stack my hands on my hips. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Splitting atoms.” He says, his face still hidden by the book in his hand. When I don’t react to his smartass answer, he turns the page. “What are you doing?”
“You can’t be in here,” I say instead of answering him. “I’m going to have to ask you to split your atoms elsewhere.”
Now he looks up at me and smiles. “Why?”
That one catches me off guard. “Why?”
“Yeah.” He marks his place in the book with his finger and drops his hands into his lap. “Why?”
“Because—” I’m struggling to keep my temper in check. I have one and it can be ugly, but it takes a lot to get me there. Talking to Conner is like taking the Temper Express. Always has been. He’s the only person I’ve ever met who can get under my skin without even trying. “This is the teen reading center.”
“So?”