Page 3 of Let it Crackle (Playing with Fire #4)

Maya

I don’t know why I’m surprised when I hear a knock at the library door the next morning. Especially since the closed sign is up. Scratch that. I do know why.

Because I told Maddox Cole—former high school menace and current walking distraction—to stay away. I said it clearly, with crutches under my arms and the kind of biting sarcasm only forged by years of emotional calluses. I meant it. Or at least, I thought I did. But here he is.

Waltzing in like he owns the place, carrying two coffees and a box of donuts like this is some kind of twisted apology tour. Like caffeine and sugar can fix the years of teasing, or the way his friends used to laugh behind their hands while I tried to disappear.

“For you,” he says, lifting the box with a grin that’s too damn easy.

I cross my arms. Or try to. It’s awkward with my crutch jammed under one arm and my pride taking up the rest of the space. “I told you not to come back. It was a one-off thing. Besides, you were only supposed to be here this afternoon.”

He shrugs, one of those maddeningly casual movements that draws attention to how absurdly broad his shoulders are. I hate that I notice it. Worse, I hate that I like it.

“Yeah,” he says. “But like I said I’ve never been great at following instructions. Classic Maddox, remember?”

God, do I remember.

“Yes, as you keep reminding me.”

“I just thought you would like something sweet before I head to the station. Remember how you always liked sweet stuff in high school.”

“Whatever.” I sigh.

I remember the way he used to walk down the school halls like he owned them, all swagger and smirks, surrounded by people who followed him like he was some kind of teenage royalty.

I remember the way I used to look at him when I thought no one was watching—when I was sixteen and hopeless and already halfway in love with someone who didn’t know my name. Except he did know my name.

I glare at him now, then snatch the coffee and doughnuts from his outstretched hand like I’m doing him a favor by accepting it. He doesn’t stop smiling, and that infuriates me more than it should.

He follows me to the front desk without being asked, like some golden retriever with tattoos. I try to limp-walk faster, but my ankle protests. He casually grabs the returns cart before I can. I shoot him a look so sharp it could slice through a hardcover.

“No,” I snap.

He lifts both hands in surrender, grin widening. “Touchy. Got it.”

“You’re not staff,” I remind him through clenched teeth.

“I’m volunteer-adjacent, ” he says with a wink that does completely inappropriate things to my hormones.

I’m not blind. I never was. Even back in high school, I knew he was beautiful in that effortless, infuriating way. But now? Now he’s a grown man.

Broad, tall, tattooed and built. Built like he could carry me and a burning bookshelf without breaking a sweat.

And it doesn’t help that he smells like something warm and woodsy and male, and that I keep catching myself watching the way his shirt clings when he moves.

And fuck me if he looks even more fuckable than he ever did.

Is fuckable even a word? Okay that’s not important now Maya. Attraction doesn’t erase history.

“Are you planning to just stand there all day and look me?” I ask, fighting the part of me that wants him to say yes.

He smiles. “I’m here to help, remember?”

“You’re here to annoy me.”

“Can’t it be both?”

I roll my eyes and turn my back on him, which is the safest thing I can do. Because if I keep staring, I’ll forget why I’m mad. And I am mad. I should be. Maddox Cole is an asshole and probably still is.

And now he’s showing up here, when I told him not to. Bringing me coffee. Keeping his distance but still in my space. I don’t know what to make of this. If I tell the fire department we don’t need the help, it might look like we don’t need any extra funding.

So I say nothing and limp toward the returns shelf, pretending not to notice the heat that flushes my cheeks when he trails behind me, when he glances down and catches the way my dress hugs my hips, or when his eyes linger just a second too long.

I don’t like it.

Except… I do.

And that might be the most dangerous thing of all. That said… he could be useful. I need to use the bathroom, which has been an ordeal the last few days, thanks to my crutches, so he might as well help me out.

“I need to go to the bathroom. Can you put a couple of books on the display table? Oh, and there might be a couple of people outside, but don’t let them in yet. The library doesn’t open for another half hour, and we don’t want people thinking the rules are bendable.”

Maddox grins like I just handed him the keys to the kingdom. He leans his elbow on the desk, biceps flexing beneath that obscenely tight T-shirt, and salutes. “Consider it done, boss.”

I hobble off, muttering something under my breath about smug firefighters and former jocks.

My ankle aches, but not half as much as my pride.I take my time in the staff bathroom, splashing water on my face and trying to cool the flush that always creeps in when he’s around.

It’s ridiculous. I’ve had crushes before.

I’ve even had a few flings that made my toes curl and my brain short-circuit.

But nothing—and I mean nothing—compares to the way Maddox looks at me.

It’s not casual or polite. It’s possessive.

Intense. Like he’s imagining what I’d sound like moaning his name.

Like he wants to ruin me in the best possible way and take his sweet time doing it.

It’s unsettling, sure, but only because of what it does to my body.

My nipples tighten under my bra. My pussy clenches with needy heat, soaking through the lace of my panties.

I shift, trying to ignore the ache building low in my belly, but it’s no use.

That cocky smile, those tattooed arms, the way his voice drops when he says my name—it’s like he knows exactly how to short-circuit my self-control.

And the worst part? I want him to keep going. Keep watching me like that. Keep making me feel like I’m worthy of feeling this way.

It’s time to get back to work and I hope he leaves soon.

When I step back into the main room, I freeze.

Maddox isn’t at the front. He’s sitting in my chair. In front of my open laptop. Completely still. Eyes fixed on the screen. Then I remember what I was doing before he got here.

I know that look. I’ve worn it. It’s the look of someone reading something they shouldn’t.

My heart free-falls.

No. No, no, no. Please don’t let it be—

“Maddox,” I croak, already limping faster toward him. “What are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just scrolls. One finger. Slow. Measured. Like he’s taking his time.

I round the desk and see it. The paragraph I was working on. My little side hobby of writing romance novels.

His voice is low, amused at first—until it isn’t. He starts reading aloud, his tone shifting as the words swirl around me and sound hollow in my ears. Surely this is not real. Maddox isn’t reading the silly novel I was writing. But then the words start making sense, my words as he reads on.

His tattooed arms circled her head, a cage she never wanted to escape.

His mouth crushed hers, as one hand trailed between her thighs.

He didn’t ask permission. He didn’t need to.

Fingers slipped into her panties, stroking her wet pussy, coaxing soft, helpless sounds from her lips. “You’re so wet for me,” —

“How dare you?” I snap, slamming the laptop shut with trembling hands, my voice a pathetic squeak.

My stomach nosedives. The heat creeps up my neck, staining my cheeks.

I feel it in my chest, my ears, the tips of my fingers.

That scene—the one with the wall, the hands, the growl.

That scene. My throat tightens. I expect him to laugh, to make some crude joke like he used to.

But he doesn’t. He just stares. Like he sees me.

Really sees me. And that’s somehow worse.

Mortified, I shove my laptop in my bag, spin on my crutches and bolt toward the back office, slamming the door shut behind me before the shame eats me alive.

Why did Maddox Cole come back into my life now?