Page 4 of Lucky Haven

And now she works across the street for me. She’s still smart, probably still religious…and still fucking hot.

So yeah, I go to the library once a week. Take out some books. Return the ones I read. Talk to the pretty librarian about them, because that’s allowed, even if it gets some side-eye from the Dragonfly Creek gossips.

Don’t stare at her tits too much.

What is the acceptable amount of time to stare at a librarian’s cleavage? Ten seconds? Only one?

I couldn’t survive on only a single second, I think.

This week, she’s wearing a new bra. I can tell, because her breasts have a new wobble to them. That required a few extra seconds just to be sure.

But when she lifts her face to greet me, all thoughts of how lush her breasts are vanish, because her face is blotchy and she looks fucking scared.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she says quickly. “Returning books?”

I set the two novels I read last week on the counter and vault over it so I can take a closer look at her face. “Did someone hurt you?”

“Cash!” She lets out a nervous little laugh. “What are you doing?”

“You were crying.”

“No.”

“And now you’re lying to me.”

“You can’t be behind the counter. You’re a patron.”

“I’m a cowboy.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m an outlaw.”

She laughs. “Oh, Cash.”

“All cops are bad, Haven. Including library cops.”

Now the laugh reaches her eyes. “I’m fine, really. Just cranky library patrons sometimes get under my skin. It’s a part of the job. People lie about damaging books, they take out their rage at the world on me, and—” She pokes her finger in the air in my general direction. “They refuse to follow the rules of the library.”

“But I’ve never made you cry.”

“You don’t send me nasty emails about our Pride display.”

“What the fuck?” I sit in her chair and reach for her computer. “Show me this message.”

“I purged it already. We have a zero tolerance policy for abuse of staff, so I deleted it without reading it fully.”

I don’t bother to point out that a more effective zero tolerance policy would be saving the emails so people can be properly named and shamed for such bullshit. What’s done is done, and she’s right to have protected her eyeballs from reading that kind of hate.

I spin around on her surprisingly comfortable work chair. “You want me to have a private talk with anyone?”

Her eyes flare wide in alarm.

Despite the seriousness of the moment, I still notice the wobble of her tits again. From this vantage point, they’ve got some bounce, too. I’m so much taller than her that usually I’m looking down at her cleavage, which is real nice, but this face-on view is distractingly good, too.

Does she know how much fun could be had with her tits? How good it might feel for someone—me—to suck on her nipples as she grinds against my thigh, for example.