AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Blaze, fires—”
“Walden, literacy!” I snap. “Look, I get that the fire department is very important, but it shouldn’t be an either-or thing. The library does important things too. Tax revenue for the town is going up, not down—”
“Expenses are going up, too—”
“And the need for library services is going up. If you can’t give me the Addison, at least give me the budget to fix the building we’re in now!”
Walden presses his lips together like he’s sorry he has to deliver bad news. “That’s a big ask, Blaze. The fact is, the library really should be under the county system.”
Calming breath, calming breath… “I’d like that too, for so many reasons, but we’re a money pit right now, and the county library system doesn’t want us. If we can either fix the building or get a new one, the county will take us on and the town won’t have to worry about us ever again.”
Walden makes that face like he’s thinking deeply about how to solve the issue but I know that whatever he says is something he came up with days ago. “Honestly, Blaze, isn’t part of your job finding money? Getting grants? Talking rich people into making donations? Maybe your friend Joyce could do one of those fundraiser days at the cafe?”
I resist the urge to bang my head against Walden’s cherry wood desk. I’m so furious that for a moment, I literally can’t speak, then I unglue my jaw just enough to be able to reply.
“I’ve gotten grants, Wally.” He winces; he hates being called Wally. “They’re the only reason we’ve kept the lights on as long as we have, but there aren’t that many grants out there for helping tiny local libraries replace their fifty-year-old roofs and elevators. And we get donations, but in case you hadn’t noticed, Welkins Ridge is mostly working class, except for the tourists. There just aren’t that many people or businesses in the area who can make big donations. Our Friends of the Library group used to do some fundraising for us, but Betsy Martin was in charge, and she moved to Virginia after she went out of business. And a Flying Saucer fundraiser is not going to pay for a new roof!”
“What about Bailey’s fiancé, the chef? He’s rich.”
Now I actually do hit my head on the desk. Not very professional of me, but it beats breaking a vase over Walden’s head. Hitting up my friends for cash is not part of my job description.
“Cut to the chase, Walden,” I reply, my voice muffled because my head is still on the desk. “Is this a done deal? Or do I still have a chance?”
“You have a chance,” he says, using his conciliatory voice now. “The council will take feedback from the public over the next couple of months and then vote on it. But, I mean, the chief himself pointed out that you guys don’t really need a whole new building—”
I snap my head back up and lean forward. The steam that’s been building up between my ears suddenly comes to a head. “The fire chief said we don’t need it?” Walden recognizes my dangerous voice. Normally, I’d get a little satisfaction at the expression of worry that flits across his face, but right now, I barely notice. “My budget helped pay for his hook and ladder, and he thinks he can make assumptions about what I need to run my library?” My voice is building dangerously now.
What does the fire chief know about the library? He’s never even set foot in it as far as I know. He only moved to town something like six months ago, and he thinks he knows what other departments need to do their jobs?
Me, I grew up here. I know the community and what it needs and I know how important the library is, and that idiot has no right to my building!
“We’re done here.” I stand up and grab my purse. “I’ll talk to you later, Wally,” I say over my shoulder as I head for the door.
“You coming to Mom and Dad’s for brunch?” he calls after me. “I’ll see you on Sunday!”
I reply with something that sounds like, “Gaghrr!” and stomp down the hall to the semi-circular stairway to the ground floor of the town hall building, my heels echoing on the worn marble.
By the time I push open the front door into the bright spring sunlight downstairs, I’m absolutely furious. Over and over again, I’ve been promised more staff, a bigger operations budget, and a new building, and over and over again, I’ve had the rug pulled out from under me.
I head down the front steps of the town hall. The smart thing would be to head over to Flying Saucer, grab a latte, bitch about the situation with Joyce, then go back to the library, think carefully about my next steps, and wait until I am feeling calm before doing anything I might regret later.
I do not do the smart thing.
* * *
I storm down Main Street, past the library, past the Addison building, push open the door to the fire station and step into the cavernous room beyond. Men in blue uniforms are standing around different parts of a large, open room. A handful of them are polishing the hook and ladder. I give it a dirty look before turning to face the room.
“I’m looking for Jeremy Wainwright,” I announce loudly.
On the far side of the room, a man stands up from behind a desk and walks toward me with a slow, measured pace that feels like he’s deliberately trying to waste my time.
He stops a couple of feet away from me, and for a moment I forget why I’m there.
He is stupidly handsome. He has wavy dark brown hair, dark brown eyes, a lightly bearded jaw that looks like it came off the cover of one of the romance novels we keep in the paperback section, and the tan skin of someone who spends time outside.
Instead of the standard dark blue firefighter uniform, he’s wearing a button-down shirt with a tie and jeans. He’s a big guy, a good four inches taller than me, even in my heels, with a broad chest, wide shoulders, and enormous biceps. He looks like he might have played football in college or even in the pros—that kind of body. My gaze slides over that chest and I take in the way his shirt stretches across it, wondering tangentially if he has to have his shirts custom-made.
I’m suddenly very aware of my very not-athletic figure. I make a point of dressing well, but no amount of polish can hide my plus-sized hips or my cantaloupe-sized breasts. Self-consciously, I cross my arms over my too-ample chest.
