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R ory paused on the threshold of the Hazard Community Library, drawing in the scent of old, well-read books.

He loved this smell. Nowadays, so many libraries shared their books with other libraries, the interlibrary system all the rage, that there weren’t always that many books lining shelves.

With electronic versions of new books now the norm, he missed the days of his childhood, when he would come to the library every week to browse the stacks and choose seven books to take home, one exciting adventure for every day of the week.

He’d spent countless hours reading growing up.

He missed it. But life interfered now. Adulting took precedence.

But today was not for browsing novels, as he had in his youth.

Today was for tackling the historical archives.

Well, that is, if he could convince stodgy old Mrs. Winegarden, intrepid librarian, to permit him within the locked room stationed at the very back of the library.

That locked door had tantalized him for years.

Forbidden access had been a definite draw.

He wouldn’t have stood a chance as a youth—not without Seymour paving the way—but he was hoping he could now charm his way in. He’d developed some skills in that respect, things he’d learned from marketing his band. He could be persuasive.

Expecting to have to deal with old Mrs. Winegarden, he was surprised to see Whitney Hopewell at the information desk. What’s more, she didn’t recognize him. What fun. His former classmate peered at him through her stylish Saint Laurent eyeglasses. “Can I help you?”

Rory smiled and put on the charm. “Good morning. I was hoping I could visit the historical archives to research some of the older buildings in Hazard. The ones remaining from the 1700s.”

Whitney shook her head. “I’m sorry…you’re welcome to put in a request for a document. We have a computer there where you can search,” she motioned to it, “but we don’t just open up the room. Is there something in particular you’re looking for? I’m quite familiar with the history of the town.”

Rory leaned on the counter and gave his most irresistible smile. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

Whitney paused and eyed him. She tilted her head and gave him a thorough appraisal. “Should I?” Her raised brow was just what one would expect from a librarian. Rory bet Astrid Winegarden had given her lessons.

“You’re Marjorie’s granddaughter, right?”

“Ye-es.” She stepped back and tucked a wayward strand of sandy brown hair behind one ear.

“Rory Throckmorton,” he pointed to his chest.

“Seymour’s grandson! Oh my gosh, yes. I didn’t recognize the new you.”

Rory grinned. “I’m doing research on the old inn, that one Kate Mayfield bought.”

“The inn where you got locked in? Weren’t you always researching that inn?”

It threw Rory that Whitney would remember that.

He hadn’t known her well at the time. She ran with a different crowd.

Back then Whitney was athletic, ran track, and had been involved in student government.

At graduation, she’d been valedictorian.

All through school, she’d been a straight A student, while he’d been more on the social fringe, especially after what had come to be known as “The Incident.” The days after his experience had been rough.

He’d separated himself socially and dived into research, but hadn’t been able to find what he was looking for.

He was hoping he would have better luck this time around, being older and having a better sense of where to focus his search. “Why do you even remember that?”

“This town is important to me, both the current state of the community and the past.”

“As a librarian.” It wasn’t a question. Still, he didn’t see Whitney as a person to just take over the reins of the Hazard Historical Society when Marjorie decided to retire from it, which would likely be a decade or more.

Whitney was such a go-getter; Rory was stunned to see her still living and working in Hazard at all.

She leaned forward. “You haven’t seen the signs?”

Rory blinked, trying to fathom what she meant. “Signs?” He imagined something paranormal and mysterious and wondered if Whitney Hopewell, Hazard High’s darling, really could have changed that much.

“The signs around town.”

Rory frowned, for a moment lost in his own visions from the tunnel, where past meant present. “You mean omens?”

Whitney’s face eased into amusement. “No, silly, I mean literal signs, in people’s yards and in windows all over town. I’m running for mayor.”

He blinked at her. “Wow, congratulations.”

Whitney tightened her lips and gave a self-deprecating head tilt. “I haven’t won yet .”

“I have no doubts. You’ll be amazing.”

“Thanks. So, I’m not supposed to do this, but…” Whitney opened a drawer and pulled out an impressive set of keys, “as the chatelaine of Hazard’s one and only public library, I’ll sneak you in.”

“I won’t tell Marjorie if you won’t.”

“Oh, it isn’t Marjorie who will mind.”

“Seymour has my back, so is it Lydia? She always seems so dour.”

“Lydia can be formidable, true, but under that she’s all about fun, so no, Lydia won’t disapprove. She’s currently on a mission to inspire us young bloods to join the Hazard Historical Society. No, it’s…”

“Hazel,” said Rory, picturing in his mind the tiny, spunky president of the Hazard Historical Society, whose bizarre penchant for hats was renowned.

Whitney brandished the keys and gave him a pointed gaze. “She has a definite idea of what is and isn’t appropriate.”

Rory gave a nod. “Ah, one must abide by Robert’s Rules of Order.” He followed Whitney to the door of the archives.

“That’s right, because rules are meant to be etched in glass.”

“Not sundial sands?”

Whitney flashed a grin over her shoulder and stopped in front of the door.

“And here I thought rules are meant to be trampled underfoot,” Rory teased. “Really, I won’t tell a soul.”

Whitney gave a conspiratorial smile as she let him into a room smelling of aged parchment and mildew. Rory breathed it all in and coughed.

“You aren’t allergic to dust, are you?” Whitney frowned in concern.

“Me? No, I’m allergic to sunshine.”

She laughed, “I remember.”

“You remember everything?”

“Well, I am a librarian and the keeper of the historical archives.” With a smile, she left him to it.

Rory shut the door behind him and paused to take it all in.

He took another long breath and let it out, giving his system a moment to adjust to everything old and wonderful.

All the scents of the room flooded his senses.

So much history, and all here and available to anyone who was willing to take the time.

But that was the issue, as always. Time was a commodity and easily eaten up by what was urgent instead of what was important.

History was important. History held the answers to now.

But he could wax philosophical until…the prodigal musician came home to stay?

That wasn’t happening.

Right now, he needed to get to work. Rory made his way to the very back of the room where the oldest documents were stored.

He spotted the computer where items had been scanned in, and while that was interesting, it was not what he wanted today.

He took the gloves Whitney had given him and slipped them on.

He studied the years listed on containers before him and pulled down the one that said 1776, setting it on a long table reverently.

Holding his breath, he flipped the lid open.

It was packed tight with folders and family trees.

Rory pulled out a straight-back chair, sat, and began to read.

*

Kate leaned back, disconcerted by what she had found.

Rory Throckmorton was clearly Rory Rollins.

There was no mistaking the pictures she found online.

Oh, he looked different in his rock keyboardist garb, true enough.

His hair all spiked up instead of flopping adorably on his forehead, his bare arms showcasing those fabulous biceps she had felt through his long-sleeved tee when she had nearly climbed his body in her fright in the tunnel.

Tight leather jeans showcased that perfect derriere, instead of the relaxed denim he wore around her at the inn, but it was definitely him.

And Rory Rollins had a notable career as a musician.

He had worked his way up, working as a keyboardist for a number of small rock bands that had played locally in the greater Manhattan area at venues she was well familiar with.

She was certain their paths had never crossed prior.

She wouldn’t have forgotten meeting him, of that she was certain.

Kate had spent eight years working in her father’s business fixing the messes wealthy socialites and local celebrities found themselves in.

She had covered up indiscretions and paid off blackmailers and provided cover stories to the media explaining away the DUIs and property damages and broken hearts wreaked by her father’s clientele.

She had cleaned up hotel rooms and worked with concierges and hotel staff to maintain their discretion.

She had greased many a palm. She was grateful it had not been on Rory’s behalf.

That small blessing aside, she did not like what she read about Rory’s band.

One former member had quite a scandalous history, leaving substantial turmoil in his wake.

The current band members weren’t wild partiers, though, and that was a relief.

They had the occasional mention in the tabloids, sure, but none of the circumspection resulted in hardcore evidence.

But in her experience, where there was smoke…

One particular account of a crazed fan disturbed her. She had seen how quickly that type of situation could go awry.