Page 61 of The Games We Play
I was easy, go with the flow, but right now, I felt like I was being pulled so tight I was going to snap.
I reached the circulation desk and pulled up the hold list. First task: check if any of the returned books matched holds, and if so, make the calls. Usually, this was quick… unless I got stuck on the line with one of our chatty locals.
In those cases? I’d pretend someone just walked in, toss in a polite excuse, and hang up before getting roped into a thirty-minute debate over who made the best peach cobbler in town.
I spun around, arms full of returned books freshly collected from the bin, barely managing to keep them balanced in my grasp. Just as I turned back toward the desk, a figure appeared out of nowhere.
“Geez,” I gasped, clutching the books tighter as my heart jumped in my chest. I let out a shaky breath. “You scared me.”
Mac was popping up out of nowhere way too often lately.
He stood with that infuriatingly perfect grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. His hair was tousled like he’d just rolled out of bed, and those impossibly dreamy eyes locked onto mine like he had all the time in the world.
“I didn’t mean to,” he said smoothly. “I was going to say something, but you turned around too fast.”
I placed the stack of books on the counter a little harder than necessary and shifted my weight, cocking a hip with an exasperated sigh. My expression must have said it all—I didn’t have time for his games today.
“Look,” I said, my tone sharp. “Unless you’re here to help me set up for the craft show, run the circ desk, or read to a pack of hyper second graders, this is really not the time for you to be bothering me.”
My voice came out tight, clipped. Harsher than I’d intended, but I was hanging by a thread. My nerves were shot, my to-do list was growing by the minute, and my brain had officially reached maximum capacity.
Lately, it felt like I lived at the edge of a breakdown. Since… well, sinceeverythingbetween Mac and me, I hadn’t felt quite right. Like I was a coil wound too tightly, holding in more than I could manage.
“You’re in luck,” he said, sliding his hands casually into his jeans pockets, every inch of him relaxed while I was anything but. His eyes stayed fixed on mine, stubborn and steady. “I’m here for option three.”
I blinked, unsure if I’d heard him right. “What?”
He shifted his weight like this was no big deal. “I’m taking Boone’s spot.”
I stared at him, eyebrows shooting up so high they probably disappeared into my hairline. My jaw dropped—and then I laughed. It bubbled out before I could stop it, a mix of disbelief and the tiniest bit of unhinged amusement.
Mac Ridley?Reading to second graders?
I tried to picture it. Boone had flair—he used voices, exaggerated expressions, and dramatic pauses that had the kids hanging on every word. He turned story time into a whole performance. Mac… well, Mac had never struck me as theflairtype.
He had big cowboy boots to fill, and I wasn’t entirely sure he knew what he’d signed up for.
Before I could say as much, he held up a hand like he knew exactly what was coming.
“Before you hit me with some smartass comment, let me remind you we’ve already established I can read. Remember when I checked out those books last week?”
I folded my arms, watching him with wary amusement.
He grinned wider. “And really, how hard could it be?”
Mac satin the wooden-backed chair, the book propped open on his lap like it belonged there, like he belonged there.
I didn’t bother asking another question, didn’t hit him with a wise-ass comment or a reminder that this wasn’t some performance to wing—it didn’t matter. He showed up. That was enough. So I pointed him toward the reading corner and let him take over. If Mac Ridley believed he could handle a room full of second graders, who was I to tell a grown man no?
He got himself settled, long legs stretched out, cowboy boots on. His posture relaxed in a way only someone like him could pull off without looking lazy. As the kids arrived—backpacks bouncing, voices chirping—I guided them toward the man in the chair.
“Go sit with Mr. Ridley,” I said with a small smile. “He’s got a few books about dragons picked just for you.”
And then I left him to it. I didn’t have the time—or honestly, the energy—to babysit a bartender playing story time hero. There were tables to move, decorations to hang, and a group of silver-haired crafters bossing me around like drill sergeants. I didn’t mind; in fact, their take-no-prisoners attitude gave me something to focus on.
But now? Now I needed a breather. Five minutes of peace and a drink of water before I went back into the crafting trenches.
Maybe I wanted to check in on Mac, too.
