Page 1 of Taming Grumpy Dr. Beast
Chapter One
Lily
Icouldn’t shake thesense that every metaphorical ball I’m juggling —each one an impossible situation in my life—was about to come crashing down around me. Once they split into jagged little shards, there would be no way to piece them back together.
It took me three tries to close the damn text message from Dad's neurologist. Like I didn't know I needed to fill out the check-in form before his appointment today. This was only the third reminder, and if I had more than ten seconds to breathe, I'd have already done it.
I barely had enough time to grab the one book I needed from the university’s archives and get home in time to pick him up and make it to the appointment on time. Getting him into this experimental treatment was the only thing that could possibly stall Dad’s rapidly progressing disease and save his job. Alzheimer's could suck it. I hated that the phrase “last hope” kept spinning in my mind like a broken record.
I burst through the front entrance of the library, as the theme song fromMission Impossiblerang out from my phone. I gave a stiff nod and mouthedsorryto the nearby librarian who shushed me. I turned off the alarm I’d set and picked up my pace. My smartwatch immediately began to beep warning messages at me like a lunatic. The fucking thing thought I was on the verge of a heart attack.
This is why I don’t run. A leisurely stroll, taking in the scenery, was more my style.
I took a deep breath. I’d be in and out of the library in a flash with the book I needed for my research paper and make it to the appointment on time.
I will not fail.
I only had to make it through the remaining eight months until graduation for a degree I could have taught the courses for. Then, no one would need to know I'd been lying all along. No one would need to know my father couldn't restore books anymore. And no one would ever find out about our lies.
Then we’d have what we needed to survive. An income and the health insurance we needed to pay for Dad’s care. Tears burned at the back of my eyes. If anyone found out I was covering for him, I’d be kicked out of my doctoral program—the very degree I needed to keep this farce going.
In the past year and a half since Dad shared his diagnosis with me, I’d become an expert at two things: deceit and keeping my life as separate as Supergirl and Kara Danvers. By day I took classes and worked at my best friend’s bookstore, by night I juggled caring for Dad and completing the restoration projects his contract demanded he fulfill.
I made it to the staircase that led down to the archived books in record time. My breath puffed out in short pants from my jog across campus, reminding me it had been a while since I last exercised. I regretted the pretty blue tea-length skirt I’d thrown on at the last minute. While cute—and flattering on my larger than average, curvy body—it made nothing faster than a walk easy.
Finally reaching the archives, I stepped onto the shiny tiled floor, my low-heeled black pumps tapping out a staccato as I continued my brisk pace. I drew in a deep breath, letting the familiar musty smell of the books encourage my body to release my tense muscles on my exhale.
Books were my happy place. Each manuscript, whether it be fiction or nonfiction, held a promise to the reader: the ability to see parts of the world through the author’s eyes. Losing myself in books was when I felt most comfortable and truly myself. While the world was constantly changing, books stayed the same. And they would always connect me to my father.
My mood instantly lifted.Everything will work out. I know it.
After this last degree, I’d be legitimately employed by my father’s book restoration business and assisting with his contracts through the local ivy league university. While I was well versed in restoration after working with Dad all these years, I knew the university would not see my experience as legitimate until I held the useless piece of paper in my hands.
A slight pang gnawed at my gut. I was a genius. I could have studied anything. Instead, I’d frivolously pursued my passion for foreign dialects. Now, I had six foreign language degrees and one in linguistics that were worthless. My dream to work alongside my father interpreting various foreign language books was dead in the water.
If I’d at least gotten a medical degree, maybe I could have worked on a cure for Alzheimer’s. I needed to shelf my melancholy. Life changed and my dreams needed to change with it. I did what needed to be done when we realized the disease was slowly stealing his mind and ability to work. In order to keep his health insurance, I’d stepped in to run his restoration business as though he were still at the helm, which effectively dismantled my dreams and placed them in a box that read ‘Do not open.’
I glared as my phone alarm played the damn song again. Three minutes lost. I’d thought when I programmed the constant alarms with a song, it would encourage me to not linger. Instead, it was just annoying the hell out of me.
I needed that book.
A muted laugh escaped my lips. Who else but a book nerd like me would find a course on the history of conservation techniques fascinating? My paper on the merits of using animal products, like leather, for bookbinding versus the synthetic materials available today was due in one week. I had to have this last resource before I could finish the paper.
I broke into a slow jog toward the exact location of the volume I needed. When I came across this book, I knew immediately that I had to have it for the paper I was writing for my doctoral class in book conservation.
My heartbeat quickened, matching the rhythm of my pace as I raced toward my goal. This was the only chance I had to get that particular manuscript. My schedule was packed for the rest of this week with obligations I couldn’t shift or avoid. It was now or never.
I slid in between the large metal stacks, each one on a rotating mechanical system. I let my eyes wander, gazing at the titles around me like I was visiting long-lost friends.
Reluctantly, I pulled my eyes from the tempting tomes and reminded myself again that I had limited time. With military precision, I snapped back into focus, not giving into the temptation to peek between the pages of every book that caught my eye, which was far too easy to do. Books of all kinds were my kryptonite, maybe I wasn’t so far removed from being Supergirl.
The familiar mechanical whirl filled the room as the section slowly shifted into place, allowing me to walk between the shelves. I shivered at the tingle that ran through my fingers as I grazed the spines of the books I passed. My hand slowed as I approached the location I sought, and I froze.
Where is it?
My brow furrowed as I read the call numbers to the left and right of the spot where it should’ve been. My pointer finger began a slow tap against the book it rested on, while my mind and heart raced to figure out where it was.
It had to be here. According to the library’s records, the book hadn’t been checked out in a year, and there was no telltale space in the jam-packed row to indicate a book was missing.
