pull out of the other man was that she was the town librarian and that everyone loved her. He didn’t really need much more. She’d most likely be inside and when she saw him, they’d talk.
He smoothed his hand through his hair, then took the steps two at a time. As he opened the front door, two younger boys slipped inside before him and he noticed a crowd gathered in the lobby. Mac had expected a quiet interior where people spoke in hushed tones. But instead, the place was bustling with noise and activity.
Scattered about was a display of model cars and trucks, made from the kits he’d enjoyed as a kid. Mac smiled as he wandered around the room, remembering the times he’d spent meticulously piecing each model together, then painting it. It was one of the after-school activities at the local Boys and Girls Club. After the disappearance of his parents, he’d been put into the foster care program and had spent most afternoons at the club, finishing his homework and working on models with a few friends.
The models had kept him off the streets and out of the gangs. And when he finished one, he’d gather up the money he made on his paper route and buy another. They’d been stacked from floor to ceiling in their boxes, tucked inside his closet.
On the day he’d turned eighteen, he’d packed his bags and walked away from foster care, leaving the cars and the memories of his boyhood behind. In a single day, he’d become a man, wholly responsible for his own life. He could no longer busy himself with childish things.
He’d found a job, a cheap room at a local boardinghouse and had begun his life, scraping together money for flying lessons and a few classes on engine repair. He taught himself to weld and though he couldn’t afford college, he’d gotten a library card and begun to educate himself.
“It’s a ’57 Chevy! Not a ’56. See?”
He glanced down at a young boy who was pointing at a model. “You’re right. You can tell by the trim. But I prefer the ’56. There’s just something about it. The softer fin or the trim piece that curves down.”
The little boy smiled. “I prefer it, too.”
“We both have excellent taste.” Mac winked at him, then moved on through the crowd to the circulation desk. He scanned the counter for Emma’s pretty face, but didn’t find her. He decided to get a library card first and make a casual inquiry about Emma at the same time.
“I’d like to get a library card,” he said to the woman at the front desk.
“Do you have identification?”
“I do, but it doesn’t have my local address on it.”
“Do you have a utility bill or something to prove you’re a resident of San Coronado?”
“I don’t,” he said.
“Anyone who could vouch for you?”
“Yes. Emma Bryant could. I understand she works here.”
The woman smiled. “She does.”
“Is she working today?”
“Yes, she’s downstairs in our archives cataloguing some items that were bequeathed to the library last week.”
Mac took the form. “I’ll just go get her signature and be right back.”
“Down the hall and through the door on the right, then down the stairs,” the librarian said.
As he followed the directions, Mac felt an odd rush of anticipation. Women had always been a commodity in his life. Though he appreciated each for their individual attributes, Mac found it difficult to make any long-lasting connections.
When the time was right, he made sure he was the one who walked away first. There had been a few women who had been difficult to leave, but he could never truly believe they had any kind of future together. Without trust, any deeper emotions were impossible.
He already knew ending things with Emma would be painful. He was already obsessed with her. She was unique, intriguing, wildly sexy and smart—a deadly combination. It would take a careful approach to charm her, a disciplined plan to hold her and every ounce of his determination to leave her.
The basement of the library was dark and musty and he followed the sound of music through the rows of shelves and storage cabinets. Finally, he reached a central area of tables illuminated by florescent lights. Mac stood in the shadows and observed her for a moment, taking in the scene in greater detail.
An old gramophone sat on one end of the table and it played a classical piece that sounded like a Mozart string quartet. Emma was seated with her back to him, her legs tucked up beneath her, her attention fixed on a paper she was reading.
The dark waves of her hair fell around her face and his fingers twitched as he imagined how it would feel to smooth a curl from her temple and tuck it behind her ear. He’d touched her once, when he’d held her hand, but it hadn’t been enough.
He’d known a lot of women whom he’d considered beautiful, Mac mused. But now, he realized that they hadn’t really been beautiful at all. They’d made themselves up to reflect what society considered beautiful—blond hair, full lips, high cheekbones, striking eyes.
As he looked at Emma, he saw something simpler, much more pure. There was no need for paint or artifice. It was all there in its natural form. A shiver skittered through his body and his breath caught in his throat.
Emma jumped, then turned around in her chair to find him watching her. She scrambled to her feet, dropping the letter on the table and struggling with the chair. “Wha-what are you doing here?”
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Mac said.
“You did! Why are you here?”
He held up the application for a library card. “I need you to sign this. I wanted to get a card but I don’t have the proper identification with me. If you vouch for me, they’ll give me one.”
“But I don’t know you.”
He grinned. “Sure you do. I’m the guy who’s working for Buddy while he recovers from his surgery.”
“And that’s all I know. That’s not enough to get you a library card. Where do you live?”
“Right now, I’m staying out at the hangar. But I’ve been trying to find a place in town.” That wasn’t exactly the truth, but it sounded good. He had a cot, a bathroom and a makeshift kitchen at the hangar. It was rent-free and enough to meet his needs.
“But where do you come from? Where do you live when you’re not here?”
Mac wished that he had a better story to tell her, but he’d accepted the reality of his life long ago. “The last time I had a permanent address was the day before my eighteenth birthday. That was nearly ten years ago. I suppose I could give you that address.”
“Where was that?”
“Boulder, Colorado. It’s where my foster parents live. At least it was. I haven’t talked to them since I left, so they might have moved.”
She gave him a grudging smile, then held out her hand. Emma grabbed the paper
