Page 21 of Someone to Have (Skylark #3)

TAYLOR

Rhett shows up at the library alone the next day, and a pang of disappointment hits me ridiculously hard.

It’s stupid because Eric did the same thing last weekend, but now the absence feels pointed and I can’t help wondering if he’s avoiding me after what happened between us in the workshop last night.

The pleasure blew my mind, but the way he touched me did more than curl my toes. It felt like he was giving me something of himself along with that earth-shattering release.

Even better, I slept like a baby last night. No naked stage nightmares. Not even a random sex dream featuring my confidence coach. Instead, I got a restful nine hours and woke with more energy than I've had since volunteering to be the next bucket list victim.

Okay, victim isn't the right word, but that's how I've been feeling. In the past few days, my mind has been racing with all the ways I could fail, disappointing not just Sloane but confirming every doubt I've ever had about myself. Only this morning, everything feels fantastic.

Don, who runs the library with about as much subtlety as Dwight Schrute in The Office , meanders over to the children's area just before I’m about to start reading the first picture book.

I spot him from the corner of my eye, his perpetual scowl zeroed in on me like a dark cloud.

He has two of the library's biggest donors flanking him—Iris's future grandfather-in-law, Gilbert Byrne, and Gloria Johnson, a local celebrity thanks to her tenure as a popular U.S. Senator decades earlier.

I know from Iris that Gloria and Mr. Byrne have recently started dating, and it's cute the way the older man looks at her with total, unabashed adoration.

Don knows about my difficulty reading out loud in front of adults, but he seems to think that if he keeps putting me on the spot, I'll get over my fear. It’s about as effective as waterboarding as a positive reinforcement tactic, but he doesn't care.

My shoulders instinctively tense as he approaches.

The children sit cross-legged on the rainbow-colored rug, their expectant faces turned up toward me.

Normally, I'll either stutter my way through or recruit a parent to read instead of me.

I'm pretty good at diverting attention from myself, and this morning I could have used Rhett, who's great with the kids.

But I don't have to. My body is relaxed, and I still have those big-O endorphins swirling through me. So I manage it on my own. Maybe I could have used more inflection, but overall, I handled it great—like a fucking champ, as Eric would tell me.

The two guests smile while my boss frowns. I can't wait for Don to retire.

The thought brings a rush of excitement that I quickly tamp down.

Until Eric suggested it, I hadn't considered applying for the library director position.

It's not a role for someone who wants to stay in the shadows.

But if I can harness the feeling of last night's O, maybe I can get over this fear of being seen once and for all.

Don doesn't like to be upstaged in his domain.

Although it's not my intention, the positive attention my initiatives receive seem to do just that. I want the Skylark library to flourish, and I’m more than happy to let Don take credit for my success.

Not exactly happy, but I'm used to helping from the shadows, so it isn't a big deal.

Years of shrinking myself to keep the peace has become as natural as breathing.

Rhett checks his phone as we start the clean up after the craft session finishes. The children’s area smells faintly of glue and construction paper—evidence of another story time well spent.

“Dude, my ride is here.” He gives me a sheepish smile. “Sorry about calling you dude. Is it okay if I head out? The team captain wants me at varsity warm ups in case they need me to go in during the game.”

“Of course,” I tell him, punctuating my enthusiasm with a hug and ignoring the part of me that wants to follow him out of the building and say hi to his ride.

I need to keep the focus on Rhett. He's not quite as rigid as last week, which I take as a win.

“I hope you know it's a big deal to have you suit up for a game. My brother has strong feelings about how talented a kid has to be to take the ice as a freshman.”

“I doubt I'll get a chance.” His voice wavers, betraying the insecurity beneath his casual shrug.

“You should still feel proud, and also because you did a great job again with the kids. I appreciate your help.” I mean every word, my heart warm with affection for this boy who's working so hard to find his place.

He shrugs, pink tinging his cheeks. “It's no big deal. I'll see you later.”

“Good luck today.”

He starts to walk away, then glances back over his shoulder at me. “I know the game isn't a big deal, but if you don't have stuff going on this afternoon and you want to watch…since the coach is your brother and he said your dad comes to all the games...”

Something twists in my chest and I do my best to make sure my smile doesn't waver.

My dad goes to every game my brother coaches, just like he went to every game Toby and Elise played growing up.

All of us attend my nieces' volleyball games and swim meets, even though swimming might be the most boring couple of hours in all of youth sports—other than the heats when Gracie is swimming.

But Marty Maxwell has never once stepped foot in the library in all my years working here.

The familiar sting of being the forgotten Maxwell child rises up like bile, but I swallow it down, just like I always do.

“I'll be there,” I tell him.

His face lights up. “Okay, great.” His fingers pick at the strap of his backpack as he continues, “Do you think you could record a video if I end up going in? I want to show my mom when we visit her tomorrow. Eric tried filming at practice last week but kept jiggling the camera, and all you could hear was him cursing.”

“My dad could never record my brother's games either,” I assure him with a smile. “I'd be happy to film you.”

He doesn't bristle at the fact that I've compared Eric's role to that of a father, but his grin widens. “Thanks, Taylor,” he says, then walks away, almost bouncing as he navigates through the rows of bookshelves toward the exit.

“Somebody's got a crush,” Molly says, causing me to whirl around in shock. I'm wondering if she somehow read my mind or infiltrated my thoughts. Heat rushes to my face as I try to banish the mental image of Eric's hands on my body.

She gives me an assessing look, and I wonder what she reads on my face. “For the record, I'm talking about the kid,” she says, pointing to Rhett's retreating back.

I busy myself straightening already-neat stacks of construction paper, avoiding her gaze. “I'm helping him stay eligible for the hockey season. He's grateful.”

“Okay,” she says slowly, “but now I'm curious who you thought I was talking about when I mentioned the word crush.” Her mouth quirks up at one corner. “Do you have a secret , Taylor?”

“My feelings for Bryan are no secret,” I say, before she can venture a guess. “Old news. ”

She doesn't look convinced, but right then, seven-year-old Laurel pops her head out of the row where she's been searching for a book to check out.

Her braid swings as she steps from between the tall shelves, her expression comically outraged.

“Mom, Luke farted into his hand and covered my nose and mouth with it.”

“It's a cup fart,” Luke says as he joins his sister at the edge of the row. His freckled face bears the satisfied smirk of a brother who’s succeeded at his mission.

“No cup farts or Dutch ovens or crop dusting.” Molly recites the list of tricks her son likes to employ as if she's reading from her grocery list. This clearly isn’t her first flatulence conversation.

“Grab your books and let's go.” She checks the time.

“Kyle's birthday party starts in fifteen minutes. You don't want to be late.”

She winks at me when her kids disappear back into the stacks. “I don't want them to be late because that's less time I have for my solo Target run. Big Saturday plans.”

I fist bump her with a laugh. The sound draws a stern look from Don across the library. “Behold the power of the red circle.”

“You want to come?” she asks. “We can grab a coffee and a cake pop, then pretend like we're teenagers hanging out at the mall. Like we're regular people.”

“We are regular people.”

“You are. I'm not. I'm a single mom. There's nothing regular about that.” The shadows under her eyes tell the tale of carrying the weight of two parents' responsibilities on one person's shoulders.

“Because you're special.” I squeeze her hand.

“So is Tar-gét.” She pronounces it with the pretend French accent that makes me smile.

“Let me grab my purse and coat from the break room and tell Don I'm taking an early lunch.” Escaping the library suddenly feels like exactly what I need. Fresh air to clear my head of thoughts about Eric.

Molly pumps her fist. “I'll meet you by check out.”

·

“That's a lot of credit to give one orgasm,” Molly tells me twenty minutes later as we're meandering down the detergent aisle with our coffees in hand. I probably shouldn’t have shared what happened between Eric and me—blame it on the scent of cleaning products hanging in the air around us—but I needed someone to know about the subsequent magic that occurred.

“Keep your voice down,” I command on a hiss of breath. I glance at a woman examining fabric softeners nearby, my cheeks flaming. “The last thing I need is somebody overhearing this conversation.”

“Spring burst or mountain rain?” Molly asks in an overly loud tone as she points to the shelves of laundry detergent. She’s clearly enjoying my discomfort.