Page 11 of The Librarian and the Rock Star

I stared at him, impressed. “That’s bloody clever,” I exclaimed.

“Did I just impress the librarian?”

I smiled. “A little bit, yes.”

“So what kind of library do you work in? I bet you’d be really good with kids.”

“Actually, a few months ago I was promoted to head librarian at the Denson College library.”

“Holy shit.” His eyes were wide and he looked completely impressed. “Congratulations. That means,” he looked at me carefully. “You’re probably at least five years older than you look.”

“Does that matter?”

He shook his head. “Not at all. In fact, I much prefer women who are over twenty-five or so. I don’t know, I like a girl who has her head on her shoulders and her own opinion. Younger girls just seem to say yes to everything without having as many thoughts and ideas of their own.”

“Holy shit,” I laughed. “You’re a feminist.”

“Damn right, and proud of it.”

“You were raised with sisters,” I said. It was a statement, not a question.

He looked a bit startled. “How the hell would you know that?”

I smiled saucily. “Remember, I just know things.”

He laughed, then took my arm, looked both ways, and propelled us across the street. “Right or left?” he asked.

“Left,” I said.

I didn’t notice for a second when he took my hand again. It just seemed completely natural, as if we walked like this all the time. His fingers were warm, entwined with mine, and he stroked the back of my hand gently with his thumb. It was the softest touch, but I felt it in the backs of my knees.

“There’s a twenty-four hour diner on the way if you’re hungry. All night breakfast.”

His eyes lit up. “Actually, that would be great if you don’t mind. I was too nervous to eat before.”

“Nervous about the show?” We had fallen into a comfortable rhythm of walking side by side.

“No, I’m fine with shows. I know exactly what to say on stage. It’s making up small talk for interviews, and then having it be made permanent. It’s like… You know all of the stupid little things we say all day, when we trip over our own words and make no sense? During an interview, those are recorded forever, and I just feel like the potential for making myself sound like an idiot is terribly high.”

He suddenly looked shocked. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Damn, I’ve just never told anyone that before, and never explained it so well.”

“That’s good! Expressing your problems helps you to see them clearly so that you can piece together a solution.”

He chuckled. “What’s the solution for not wanting to look like an ass?”

“Well,” I said quite seriously, “If you know what interviewers want to hear, you can give them what they want. If you know what the publication focuses on, and how their most popular interviews turn out, you’ll know exactly what to say. Plus, if you get tips from your publicist, or know what the band is promoting and how, you just put your spin on it.”

We had stopped walking and were standing under a streetlight. Jack’s arms slid around my shoulders and he held me close. “Go on,” he said softly.

He smelled like spice and leather. Those dark eyes were peering into mine, and his strange energy was settling over me like a thick blanket pressing into my skin. “Um,” I tried to focus. “Most media also likes a bit of fun personality to bring life to the piece. Something unexpected.”

Jack leaned in very slowly, as if giving me every opportunity to pull away. His eyes locked with mine, searching. I shocked myself by leaning forward, gently pressing my lips against his. The softest kiss overtook us, as his arms pulled me close and we melted into each other. His full lips parted, welcoming my tongue against his. I tried not to shiver as a thrill flew through me, his breath mixed with mine, raw and intimate.

His hand pressed against the base of my spine, warmth spreading through me. He tilted his head slightly to explore my mouth more deeply, the immediate passion flaring through us both. Stifling a moan, I wrapped my hands around the back of Jack’s neck, pulling him in, caressing his skin and winding my fingers into his hair. Biting my bottom lip gently, he finally leaned back.

The look that passed between us was startling. “Elvis, take the wheel,” he muttered. “What the hell was that?”

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