Page 2 of Let it Crackle (Playing with Fire #4)

Maddox

I should leave. Turn around and pretend I never saw her. Pretend this day didn’t just throw a full-blown wrench into my plans. But I don’t.

I stay standing by the desk, still staring at the spot she disappeared to—between the stacks, moving slow, but still sharp around the edges. Maya Gibbons. That name used to do something to me. Hell, it still does.

Back in high school, she was the quiet girl with the soft voice and the big eyes that always looked like they knew more than anyone else in the room.

The one who kept to herself, head down, shoulders tight, hiding behind books and that massive cardigan she wore like a shield.

She wasn’t loud. She wasn’t flashy. But she was. .. impossible to ignore.

And yeah—I noticed her. I noticed everything. The way she’d nibble the cap of her pen when she was thinking. The way her cheeks flushed when the teacher called on her. The way she always sat in the second-to-last row, never the back, like she wanted to disappear but not entirely.

I had a crush on her. A massive, full-blown, inconvenient, teenage-boy crush. So naturally, I did what all teenage idiots do when they don’t know how to handle their feelings.

I teased her. Called her Dictionary Girl. Asked if her sweater came with a retirement package. Made cracks about her boots, her glasses, her quiet. It was cruel. I know that now. I was a dumb fucking teenage boy and I know that it’s no excuse for the way I treated Maya.

Back then, it was camouflage. I had a reputation. I was Maddox Cole—varsity baseball, king of the hallway, too cool to care. My friends would’ve roasted me alive if they knew I had it bad for the quiet girl who always smelled like cinnamon and paperbacks.

So I buried it. And I buried her by being the biggest bully I could be. Because I couldn’t have her I made sure as hell no one else would.

And now here she is again, standing in front of me, all grown up, with a mouth that doesn’t hold back and eyes that still undo me.

I glance down at the library assignment sheet, the one pinned to the firehouse fridge two days ago.

We’re on a rotating outreach program, part of the fire station’s new community visibility initiative.

Chief Levi made it clear: no skipping shifts.

The mayor’s watching. Our funding is on the line.

So when I saw “Afternoon Assistance: Silvertown Hollow Library” next to my name, I thought I’d hit the easy gig jackpot.

Instead, I walked straight into karma.

She comes limping back into view on her crutches, a stack of books tucked under one arm and murder in her eyes when she sees me still standing there.

“Didn’t I tell you to leave?”

Her voice is sharper than I remember. Rougher. But somehow still soft in the places it always was.

“Yeah, you did,” I say. “I’m not great at following instructions.”

Her eyes narrow.

“I’m not here to bother you. I didn’t know you would be here. But I need this shift.”

She snorts. “What? So you can earn your Paw Patrol badge in community service and look good for the mayor?”

I nod. “Pretty much. There’s a grant we’re trying to lock down for the station. New gear, new trucks, all that. Part of getting it is showing up for the town. You’re part of the town.”

She crosses her arms, wobbling slightly. “So I’m a checkbox now?”

“No. You’re a stubborn librarian who clearly needs a a hand. And a leg,” I say, trying not to laugh.

She inhales slowly, clearly counting to ten before she says something she’ll regret. I can almost see the internal battle play out across her face. I flash her my most charming grin, which only seems to annoy her more.

“Lucky for you,” I add, flexing just a little as I lift the stack of books with one arm, “these hands come with excellent muscle definition. Legs do too, but you’ll just have to take my word on that one.”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes so hard I’m surprised she stays upright on one foot. “Fantastic. A walking gym membership who thinks that qualifies him to work in a library.”

“Ouch.” I clutch my chest. “That felt personal.”

“It was,” she mutters, turning on her crutch with a dramatic swish of her skirt.

I chuckle. “Come on. Let me stay. Just for today. If I suck, you can send me packing and request one of the less attractive firefighters. Like Levi.”

Her glare is unrelenting. “Fine. One day. But if I find Wuthering Heights in the horror section, I will call the mayor myself and have you reassigned to sewer duty.”

“Romance and horror aren’t that different,” I mutter.

She doesn’t look back, but I catch the faintest twitch of her lips.

I follow her slowly down the aisle, lugging the stack of books she handed over like they’re made of bricks. She stops at a cart near the end of the shelves, balancing on her crutches with practiced ease.

Without a word, she grabs a small device from the cart and holds it out to me. “Here. This’ll make sure you don’t completely screw it up.”

I take the scanner, turning it over in my hands. “What is it?”

“It’s a barcode scanner,” she says, already sounding tired of me. “You scan the book. It tells you exactly where it belongs. Saves us both the agony of you putting Shakespeare in the cooking section.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Is that a thing people do?”

“You’d be surprised.” She points to the small screen on top of the scanner. “Once you scan, it shows a Dewey number—three digits and maybe a decimal. That’s the category. Think of it like the book’s address. You put it back in its lane, nice and neat.”

She gestures at the labels on the shelves. “See that? 811 to 820. That means any book with a number between those two goes right here.”

I nod slowly, impressed despite myself. “Okay. That actually makes sense.”

She narrows her eyes. “Don’t sound so shocked. Libraries are built on logic. Unlike your entire high school personality.”

I smirk. “So this scanner is, what, my training wheels?”

She huffs. “No, it’s my safety net. Because I don’t have the time or energy to clean up your mess.”

I grin and lift the scanner like it’s a trophy. “Then let’s shelve some poetry, boss.”

She mutters something about testosterone and poor life choices and limps away down the row.

I scan the first book with a satisfying little beep . The screen flashes: 813.54 – American Fiction .

“Okay,” I mutter, more to myself than her. “Eight-thirteen point five-four. That’s somewhere… here?”

I find the nearest open spot in the general vicinity, slide the book in, and give her a proud look over my shoulder. “Boom. Nailed it.”

There’s a pause.

Then a sigh. “You did not nail it.”

I turn back. She’s frowning down at the shelf like I just committed literary murder.

She crutches closer and plucks the book from the slot.

“This says 813.54, yes. But you stuck it between 813.1 and 813.2.” She holds it up like she’s showing me a wounded animal.

“When you get an emergency call, are you ‘nailing it’ if you show up at a random house on the same block? No. It goes in exact numerical order.”

“I mean,” I hedge, “fires are pretty easy to see—”

“Maddox.” Her voice is flat. “Books are not fires. You need to know where to find them beforehand.”

“Noted.”

She puts the book in the right spot with a quick flick of her wrist. Then she turns to me, arms crossed, lips tight.

I try again. Scan. Get the number and then shelve.

Another sigh.

“Okay, you just put poetry next to science fiction,” she says.

I glance down. “They both had an eight in the front.”

“Maddox.”

“I’m trying!”

She narrows her eyes. “Try quieter, we in a library.”

I grin, but back off. “Alright, alright. I’ll double-check next time.”

She gestures at the next book in my stack. “Scan it. Read the number. Match the number. Don’t guess. Don’t improvise. This is not a jazz concert—it’s the Dewey Decimal System.”

I laugh under my breath, watching her fuss with the books already on the cart. The way she adjusts them, double-checks every label. She’s exacting. Focused. Kinda bossy.

And honestly? It’s hot as hell.

Fuck, she’s gorgeous.

Glasses slipping down her nose. Hair all undone from the humidity. That mouth—that sharp, gorgeous mouth—muttering under her breath as she tries to balance on one crutch and shelve a stack of books like the stubborn, infuriating, beautiful woman she is.

I should be focused on helping. I should be scanning barcodes and organizing spines like she asked.

But instead?

All I can think about is how those cute little glasses would fog up if I ever got her naked and panting beneath me.

How that prim librarian outfit would look wrinkled and inside out on the floor of the back office.

How she’d moan if I ever got the chance to run my hands over those curves she keeps pretending I haven’t noticed. Because I’ve noticed.

Back in high school, I was a dumbass. Said some stupid things to impress my friends. I thought pushing her away was safer than admitting how badly I wanted her.

But now?

Now I can’t stop looking at her. Can’t stop thinking about how it’d feel to make her smile. To make her trust me. To make her forget every single shitty thing I ever said.

But she’s still hurt. I can see it in the way she stiffens when I get too close. In the way she glares at me like she’s daring me to mess up again.

So yeah, maybe I’m walking a tightrope here. Half regret, half raging lust.

But if Maya Gibbons gives me even an inch of a second chance—I swear, I’ll crawl through broken glass to take it.

She catches me staring and shoots me a glare.

“What?”

I shrug, the scanner dangling from my hand. “Nothing. Just… didn’t know librarians could be this terrifying.”

“I’m not terrifying,” she snaps. “I’m just surrounded by incompetence.”

“Yeah?” I step a little closer. “And yet you let me stay.”

She opens her mouth—probably to tell me to get lost again—but something shifts in her eyes. Just for a second. Then it’s gone.

“Only for today,” she says firmly, turning away. “Then you’re someone else’s problem.”

I smile, already knowing she doesn’t mean that. Not really.

Because I’m not leaving. Not anytime soon.