Page 107 of Unmanageable

Beside me, I hear a tiny, muffled snort.

I glance down. Scottie has her hand pressed flat over her mouth, her shoulders shaking with a sudden, vicious wave of silent laughter at my expense. Her eyes are crinkled at the corners, delighted by the fact that a six-foot-two professional athlete just got thoroughly intimidated by a small-town clerk.

“Don’t start, Sharky,” I murmur.

“SHHH!”

The librarian slams a massive palm flat against the desk. She glares directly past me, her eyes pinning Scottie to the spot.

“You. Miss. The giggling is entirely unnecessary. One more sound from either of you, and the network cable is being disconnected.”

Scottie’s laughter vanishes instantly, her face turning a bright, sudden pink as she straightens her shoulders. Her defenses are totally useless against a woman who looks like she could break a carbon-fiber stick over her thigh. She nods quickly, her mouth dropping into a tight, compliant line.

We grab the laminated password card and head straight for the back of the building, moving deep into the non-fiction stacks where the light is dim and the air is thick with the scent of old leather biographies.

In the furthest corner, tucked between two massive shelves of local history, we find a narrow table with two wooden chairs facing each other. It’s hidden from the front desk, isolated in a small pocket of shadow.

Scottie drops her laptop onto the dark wood, her movements incredibly careful. Her fingers barely make a sound as she types in the network key, her eyes darting toward the edge of the aisle like she’s expecting the librarian to drop from the ceiling.

I sit down across from her, leaning my elbows on the table. The silence between us is heavy, absolute, and suddenly competitive.

I slide my small notebook out of my back pocket—the one I usually use to track my training stats and crease angles—and lay a black pen on top of it.

I look straight across the table, my eyes locking onto hers, and raise an eyebrow.

No talking. First one to make a sound loses.

Scottie reads the challenge in my eyes instantly. Her mouth twists into a small, stubborn line, her gaze narrowing. She gives me a slow nod.

The first ten minutes are agonizingly slow.

The only sound in the entire corner is the faint click of her fingers against the keys as she navigates the regional hotel listings. The blue light from the screen hits her face, highlighting the sharp line of her jaw and the tiny, pale freckles across her nose.

I pick up my pen.

I write three words in large block letters, my pen scratching against the page with a sound that feels deafening in the silence.

I slide the notebook across the dark oak table until it rests right next to her mouse pad.

I WANT YOU.

Her fingers freeze. A tiny, faint flush of pink starts at the collar of her green sweater, creeping up her throat to her cheeks. She doesn’t look at me. She just reaches out, her hand steady, and slides the notebook back across the wood until it’s on my side of the table.

I smirk and flip the page.

I CAN STILL TASTE YOU.

I THINK ABOUT IT EVERY TIME I LOOK AT YOUR MOUTH IN THE VAN.

I slide it back.

This time, she glares at me across the table, her expression a mix of absolute fury and dark, dangerous heat. She takes her own pen from her bag, flips my notebook around, and writes in small, neat cursive right underneath my messy printing:

We are in a public library. Stop being a caveman and let me book the room.

I read it, my smile widening.

I don’t write anything back.