Page 54 of People Like Us

I sat cross-legged on a wheeled stool, feigning busy work with a row of returned books while my phone lay hidden in my lap, my thumbs flicking over the keyboard.

Come to the library.

Three little dots bloomed almost instantly: Why?

Because I said so.

The dots danced around again before they vanished. I thought maybe he was ignoring me on purpose but then the device vibrated again: Bossy.

A delicious shiver slid down my spine. I stuffed the phone into my cardigan pocket just as Mrs. Morgan looked up.

Tick. Tick. Tick. The clock above the biography shelves dug at my nerves. I’d reorganized the same stack three times by the time the library door whined open.

August stepped inside, dripping rain water and wet-leaf musk behind him. His dark green hoodie clung damply to his form, his rolled-up sleeves, revealing lean forearms. His curls were plastered at the edges, each strand glinting rain-dark. His eyes found mine easily.

For a moment I felt as if I were Jay Gatsby, staring out at that hopeful green beacon. My pulse fluttered to a frantic staccato.

Mrs. Morgan peered over her glasses. “Need help finding something, hun?”

August didn’t break his stare. “Probably.”

My stomach tightened as I shot upright so fast the stool shot out beneath me, spinning itself across the floor. “I’ve got it,” I blurted.

I didn’t give her a chance to interject—not that she would have, the old bat hated getting up—before weaving my way through the shelves, knowing August would follow.

The media room was a shoebox wedged between nonfiction stacks—outdated equipment, boxes of laminating sheets crammed on the floor. The copier radiated a plasticky heat that made my skin prickle. VHS tapes sagged on dust covered metal shelves above.

August ducked inside behind me and pushed the door shut. I whirled, grabbed the front of his hoodie, and yanked him forward. He stumbled in close until his palms fit to my waist, thumbs pressing into the fabric of my white blouse. His chest grazed mine with heavy breaths.

The copier’s warmth seeped through my denim skirt, only adding to the sudden heat in my body as I leaned back against it. He froze, breath husky, eyes dark and focused. I could feel the quick beat of his pulse under my fingertips.

“Jesus,” he murmured, voice rough around the edges. He leaned in, nose grazing my jawline. “You drag your boyfriend around this aggressively?”

I clutched his hoodie tighter, my voice dropping to a hiss. “You brought me lunch in front of everybody.”

He exhaled slowly, thumbs flexing. “I brought you lunch.”

“With little coded love notes attached.” I tried to sound severe, but the words came out laced with amusement.

A crooked smile curved his lips as he leaned back to look at me. “I just want to see you eat something that isn’t green.”

I pressed my lips into a thin line. “Pickles are green.”

“Not when they’re coated in greasy batter.” He arched an amused brow, his hips pushing into mine.

My eyes rolled, busily resisting the flutter in my chest. The copier hummed, as if it approved of the weight being pressed against it.

“Did you eat them?” he asked, voice softer now.

“Yeah.”

That slow, crooked smirk tugged at his mouth. I hated how much I loved it. “Then just say thank you, Sin.”

His nickname hit me low—hot and sudden. I stared at him, breath catching. He studied my lips like he wanted to lean in and insert the words into my mouth, making me taste it.

I exhaled, bracing myself. “Thank you.”

His face softened, no teasing glint, just warmth. “You’re welcome.”