Page 233 of Things We Left Behind

I hopped up from the chair and marched to the window overlooking the front porch. Besides the team of securityexperts on ladders, it looked like a going out of business sale at a bookstore. The fire department had gone through the building and brought every book that looked rescuable to the only place I could think of: my house.

Now I had a few thousand books airing out in the spring breeze on the wraparound porch.

Thanks to backup servers, our collection of ebooks and audiobooks was still available for patrons to download. But as a community library, we were so much more than just the books we provided.

People depended on us. We were part of daily life in Knockemout. I wasn’t about to let a little arson change that.

The drilling started again, and I glared at the team installing the James Bond–­level security system outside. My six-­foot-­four shadow, Lucian, had deemed my Wi-­Fi cameras “inadequate” and stubbornly insisted on upgrading the technology. I still wasn’t sure how I’d lost that argument. I also wasn’t sure how the man was still here. Or how he’d gotten a closet organizer named Miguel past me.

Jamal poked his head in the doorway, waving his phone. “Good news. The GoFundMe to replace the children’s books just hit $30,000.”

“Seriously?” I asked, momentarily forgetting my frustration. Thatwasgood news.

“In more good news, the synagogue and Unitarian church volunteered to join forces and cover all the June free breakfasts for the kids. They’re willing to cover July as well if we’re not open by then,” Naomi said chipperly.

“I love this town,” Jamal sang as he headed back to his workstation in my dining room.

The thump and scrape of chairs came from above.

“Are they still up there?” Naomi asked.

“Yes,” I said grimly. “They” were Lucian and several of his employees. The man hadn’t left my side since he’d climbed through my bedroom window the night of the fire. He also hadn’t dropped the charade of being committed to a relationship with me. My patience was wearing thin.

The doorbell rang, and I ignored Lucian’s distant “I’ll get it.”

I opened my front door to find Lucian’s driver holding several dry-­cleaning bags in each hand. “Morning, Ms. Sloane. Where can I put these?” Hank asked.

“If you were your employer, I’d be happy to tell you where you can put them, Hank. But I’m not mad at you.”

“You can put them upstairs in the last bedroom to the right,” Lucian said, appearing behind me. I turned to glare at him. He looked the way he always did, unfairly gorgeous. He was keeping things casual around here, sticking to tailored trousers and well-­fitting button-­downs rather than an entire suit. Meanwhile I was still wearing my cat pajamas.

“I don’t have room for you in my bedroom,” I insisted, crossing my arms as Hank marched across the threshold.

“That’s why I hired Miguel. Ah, here come the groceries,” Lucian observed as yet another vehicle pulled into my driveway.

“Groceries?”

“I invited your family to dinner tonight. We’re cooking.”

“Have you lost your damn mind?” I demanded.

“On the contrary, I finally came to my senses,” he said before kissing me on the top of the head.

“Maybe I’m losing mine,” I muttered to myself as he met the grocery delivery guy on the walkway.

“Or maybe he’s just showing you how he really feels for the first time,” Naomi said, joining me in the doorway. “By the way, he invited Knox and Waylay and me for dinner next week.”

“I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I am not lying to my family and telling them we’re in a relationship,” I said as I violently massaged the kale. We were in the kitchen working around Meow Meow, who decided the island was the perfect place to sprawl out for a nap. Candles were lit, music was playing, and whatever we were making smelled good enough to make my stomach growl.

Lucian drowned out the rest of my concerns by turning on the blender and smoldering at me until I closed my mouth.

“I’m not playing any games, Pix,” he said, abandoning the blender to open a bottle of wine.

Still grumbling, I handed him two glasses. “You can’t just pretend your way into a relationship.”

“You’re the one who’s pretending,” he said, setting a glass of wine in front of the bowl of kale. “By the way, the instructions say massage, not murder.”

“I’m pretending it’s your face.”