And computer three needs to move on so the next patron can take over.” Happy for an excuse to escape, Carrie went to the computer section and quietly reminded the bearded man that his time was up.
He scowled, thick eyebrows coming together. “I’m not done.”
“You’re playing a game, sir.” “Zombie Zap,” for pity’s sake. “Other patrons are waiting for the computer. So please, log out.”
With a growl, the man logged out, shoved back his chair and stalked out of the library. If he’d been a real zombie, she’d be toast right now.
Carrie tooled through the library, shelving a book here and there, stopping to point out the biography section to a woman in shorts and flip-flops before returning to the front.
She was sliding a weathered copy of Wuthering Heights into its exact spot—823.8—when her sister rounded the end of the stack.
“I thought you left,” Carrie said.
“Isn’t it cool having a famous novelist staying in Honey Ridge? At Julia’s inn, no less.”
A little jitter danced in Carrie’s stomach. “He’s researching a book.”
“Really? Then I guess that explains why he just walked in the door.”
“Here? In the library?” From her spot behind several rows of books she couldn’t see the front, but she craned her head in that direction anyway.
“He’s not a rock star, Carrie. I didn’t even recognize him.”
He was a star in the literary world, though Nikki wouldn’t know that.
“Most people wouldn’t recognize John Grisham or Nicholas Sparks if they met them on the street, either. Authors’ names and books, yes, but their faces? Not so much.”
“I guess that’s true.”
“Have you ever read one of his novels?”
Nikki looked shocked at the very idea. “All that violence? Not on your life. Valery had to tell me who he was. She thinks he’s hot.”
“Valery thinks anyone with testosterone is hot.” So what if Carrie had thought the same thing the other night in Julia’s kitchen. She had an excuse. The storm had rattled her nerves and he’d been kind, not only to her but to Brody. He’d given up his bed and his rest for the pitiful little boy. In Carrie’s book, a man who showed kindness was hot with a capital H.
Nikki, still standing at the end of the stack, gaped toward the entrance. “Oh, my goodness.”
“What?”
“Ferragamo!”
“Who?”
Nikki tossed her head and made a disgusted noise. “I swear, sometimes I wonder if we share any DNA at all. The man is wearing Ferragamo loafers.”
“What man?”
“Hayden Winters! The man we’re discussing.” Nikki let out a long sigh. “Ferragamo. Such fabulous taste. His hotness rating has officially sailed off the meter.”
“He’s more than a pair of shoes, Nikki. He’s a nice, ordinary guy who likes strong coffee and Oreo cookies and isn’t afraid of storms.”
Nikki eyed her sister with speculation. A perfectly groomed pair of black eyebrows rose in a higher arch.
Carrie could never get her eyebrows to look that good.
“I thought you were busy rescuing the drenched boy.”
“Before that. The storm scared me. Don’t roll your eyes. I can’t help it. I came downstairs to watch the weather on TV.”
“And your hottie writer pal was already there?”
“He was trying to find the coffeepot. I showed him. We made coffee.”
“You must have nearly fainted when you learned who he is. I mean, you being a bookworm and all. Valery’s right. He’s not hard to look at, even if he’s older by a few years.”
Late thirties. Maybe even forty. When a guy looked that good, age didn’t matter.
“It was storming, Nikki,” Carrie said in exasperation. “You know how I feel about storms. I would have hung out with anyone wearing skin. I didn’t care if the guy was a writer or a skid-row bum.”
She might be stretching the truth a little, but she had been deeply relieved at finding a living, breathing, unterrified human in the kitchen. The fact that he was Hayden Winters was icing on the cake.
“Are you ever going to stop being a ninny about a little thunder and lightning?”
“One can only hope.” But how could she, when she lived with memories of that one particular stormy day, of the helpless dread and shattering humiliation that came with every thunderclap? All her life, she’d known something terrible would eventually happen during a storm. She’d been right.
Her sister glanced at her cell phone. “Aren’t you going up there? See what he wants?”
“Tawny’s got the front desk. She can assist him.”
Nikki made a hissing noise and shook her head in dismay. “You are the most hopeless female in Honey Ridge.”
Carrie laughed. “Bye, Nikki. See you.”
Her sister rolled her eyes for the tenth time, tossed her sleek hair and departed, eggplant stilettos tip-tapping on the indoor-outdoor carpet.
As Nikki disappeared from sight, Tawny whipped around the end of the stacks. “Someone wants to see you at the desk.”
Carrie suffered a little swell of energy, quickly tamped down.
He might be Hayden Winters, the most celebrated name in killer thrillers, but to Carrie, he was the guy who liked bold coffee and books and kept the tornadoes away. A pleasant and passing acquaintance.
Keep telling yourself that, and maybe you’ll believe it.
“Be right there.”
Libraries raised me.
—Ray Bradbury
Hayden scanned the library, taking in the small computer bay, the cozy sections of brown vinyl couches and chairs, the study tables, and the rows and rows of books tidily divided into sections. Along the east wall, a rack of current magazines overlooked round tables littered with various newspapers.
With each breath, he drew in the redemptive smell of books. Places like this had saved his life.
At the circulation desk Hayden asked for Carrie. A tiny blonde librarian, after giving him a puzzled stare as if she couldn’t quite place him but knew she should, took off toward the rows
