Logan (Carolina Reapers #4) Page 2

  “Guilty,” he said with a nod as he took his books.

  “Give me your license,” she said to me, holding out her hand with expectation.

  “I’m sorry?” Was this some new kind of scam?

  “I need it to give you a library card because something tells me that you don’t already have one.”

  “Uh. Sure.” I slipped my wallet from my back pocket and handed over my license.

  “Huh,” she said as she typed into the computer. “You guys live on the same street. That’s cute.”

  Cannon and I traded a glance, and he subtly shook his head.

  “Yeah, that’s why we carpooled this morning.” God, that even sounded stupid to me, and it came out of my mouth.

  “Logical,” she determined while her fingers flew. She reached for a card and then scanned it with the beige gun that rested next to her computer. “Keys,” she demanded.

  I blinked. That was a step too far.

  But for some reason, I gave them to her.

  She snapped the card in her hand, and I realized there had been a smaller card attached to the bigger one. She worked her fingers over my keys, and suddenly I had a tiny library card sitting next to the four keys I kept on the chain.

  “Here you go!” She handed over my new library card and my keys.

  “Thanks?” What was the appropriate response for being given something you’d never asked for or particularly wanted?

  “You’re very welcome.” She took the book she’d chosen and clutched it to her chest, her hand splaying over the cover so I couldn’t see it. “Okay. I am willing to bet my life that you’ll love this book.” She tilted her head to the side. “Well, maybe not my life, but definitely something precious. I’m very good at recommending books. Just ask that one.” She nodded toward Cannon.

  “She is,” he acknowledged. “But Ward here isn’t a bookworm, Delaney. You might have bitten off more than you can chew with this one.”

  She looked back to me, and our eyes locked.

  Fuck. Words. Fuck. Something. Yada. Yada. Words. Yeah. Fuck me, she did it again.

  “If you’re willing to bet something precious, I’ll take you up on it.” The words left my mouth before my brain got control again.

  “Oh?” She cocked an eyebrow at me. “I like bets.”

  “If you’re wrong, and I don’t like the book, then I get your phone number.” Fuck, there went my mouth again. Why the fuck wasn’t Cannon stopping me?

  Her eyes flew impossibly wide, and her strawberry-colored lips parted. “My...number.”

  “Yep.”

  “And if you do like it?” She clutched the book even tighter.

  “Then I don’t get your number.” I shrugged.

  “And what’s to keep you from lying and getting it anyway? Because I really am that damn good.” She smirked.

  “Ward doesn’t lie. He’s pretty much the boy scout where we work,” Cannon noted.

  “You don’t?” She didn’t look away as she asked me.

  “I don’t lie. A man isn’t worth anything without his word—doesn’t matter how much he has in the bank account.” Dad taught me that from an early age.

  She weighed her options for a second and then sighed. “Okay, Logan Ward. If you don’t like that book—if I’m honestly wrong, then I’ll give you my number. And if you do like it, then all you get is another book.”

  “Challenge accepted.”

  “Enjoy.” She grinned and handed over a thick book titled American Gods.

  “I’ll be back when it’s finished,” I promised her as I slipped my license back into my wallet and tucked it away.

  “I bet you will.”

  We said our goodbyes as we walked toward the back door. I took one last look at Delaney as she closed the door, locking it behind us.

  The second the lock twisted, my brain came back online.

  “What the fuck did I just do?” I asked Cannon as we climbed into the car. I’d sworn off women. I was still fucked up from Blaire’s head games and I’d just bet a woman for her number?

  “I have no clue, but I’m telling you right now that it took me months to find someone who would open the library during hours where I could visit alone.” He glared at me. “I like Delaney. She’s smart and funny—”

  “Wait, are you into her?” My stomach dropped. Please say no. Please, God, say no.

  “Delaney? Hell no. She’s a friend.”

  Thank you, God.

  “Does she know you’re a Reaper? That we both are?” I had to know.

  “No. She’s never asked what I do, and it never matters when I’m in there.”

  A surge of relief hit me so hard I sagged in my seat. “Okay.”

  “If you fuck this up, I swear I will do unkind things to you. Do you understand me, Ward?” His eyes took on that look that sent most of the other Reapers running.

  “Yeah, I got it. Damn. You’d think I’d cut you off from your drug dealer or something.” I fired up the ignition and calmed at the light rumble.

  “You cut me off from my book dealer, and I’ll start cutting off—”

  “Point made, relax. Don’t stress.”

  He laughed. “I’m honestly not stressed. Because you’re going to love that damn book, and she’s not going to give you her number. She’s not a big dater. But it’s going to be fun to watch you struggle.”

  “You think she’s that good at picking out books?” I questioned as we pulled out onto the street.

  “It’s not about picking out books. It’s about reading people, and yeah, she’s that good at reading people. Way better than you are, actually.”

  I snorted. “Not hard to do. Apparently, I’m a shitty judge of character.”

  “You’re not. You’re just…trusting. At least you were. Now you’re jaded and a little bit salty. And I’ll tell you one thing—not only is she an excellent judge of character, but she’s smarter than both of us, so just be prepared.” He cracked his book and settled in.

  I shrugged it off as we pulled into the airport, and even as we boarded our chartered flight.

  But as we touched down in North Carolina, I knew I was fucked.

  This book had sucked me right in, and I didn’t want to put it down...which meant I’d just lost my only way of getting Delaney’s number.

  And now I wanted it twice as badly.

  2

  Delaney

  A faint scent of mildew clung to the air in the southern wing of the library. Dark spots stained the concrete floor, the sporadic pools like blood splatter on a crime scene—though, in this case, the blood of the books had drenched the floor.

  Sadness sucked at the bottom of my heart, heavy and draining.

  I’d spent countless hours of my free time doing my best to haul away the ruined books and furniture from this wing, but I’d barely made a dent. The library wouldn’t grant me the funding necessary to repair it, despite my asking every week for a year—since the hurricane.

  Chills burst across my skin at the memory, at the high winds and severe downpour, the damage the storm had inflicted. I scanned the southern wing, partially grateful it had been the only casualty of the storm, but equally disappointed at my lack of power to fix it.

  The once rich mahogany shelves had housed hundreds of titles, an endless array of historical fiction, mystery, romance. And now? The water damage rotted the beautiful wood and made the pages bleed. Ruined leather spines. The vibrancy of the room drowned and drained of life.

  I raked my fingers through my hair, sighing.

  One haul at a time. That’s all I’d been capable of, and there was still so much to do.

  Beyond clearing the last little bits of debris, I needed to rebuild the wing completely—floors and shelves and electrical—and then I had the challenge of stocking it. Not an impossible task, but when left alone to do it? It was enough to shove me down the giant well of loneliness I tried desperately to ignore.

  A devastatingly beautiful face popped behind my vision—dark eyes
and hair, strong jaw and full lips.

  Logan Ward.

  With his plethora of muscles, I was sure he could help me rebuild this place in half the time it would take me to do it alone.

  A warm shiver ran down my spine at the thought of him swinging a hammer—shirtless, of course.

  I shook away the image, rolling my eyes at myself. I’d met him once, and already I plotted how I could rope him into helping me with this daunting task. Shame on me.

  Though, Cannon had become somewhat of a friend with how much he frequented the library. And who was to say Cannon wouldn’t bring Logan back in here?

  My heart raced at the thought. After all, Logan had been the one to challenge me. To prick that need to find the perfect book for each individual who claimed they didn’t love to read. I didn’t believe in that—those people had simply yet to find the perfect book for them. I took pride in converting “non-readers” into avid-readers. With the right genre? Anyone could escape the real world for a few hours and sink into the unmatched pleasure of losing oneself between the pages of a book.

  I threw myself into the work of gathering the last of the now-dried-out, ruined books in the box I’d hauled to the wing, hoping this last load would finally clear out the wing. Every time I thought I made progress, I swore a new crop of damaged books popped up in another corner. But, after weeks and weeks of spare minutes and hours, I was nearly done with step one.

  Now, if I ever made it to step two, I could really celebrate. Maybe with a brownie. Or four. My mouth watered at the thought, and I pushed myself a little farther, picking up the speed with a renewed energy this section did everything to smother.

  “Delaney!” Quinn hollered from the entryway behind me.

  “Yeah?” I called over my shoulder.

  “I need you.”

  I chuckled to myself. “I’m a little busy, can it wait?”

  “Nope. Absolutely not.”

  I huffed, eying the box filled to the brim with what used to be beautiful works of art—leather and binding and page upon page of words—now a pile of crumbling, unreadable, muck. Hefting the box onto my hip, I made my way to where Quinn hovered in the entryway, a smirk on her lips.

  I arched a brow at her. “Lock yourself out of the system again?” I teased as I moved past her.

  “Nope,” she said from my side as she followed me back to the front desk. “Special delivery,” she whispered in my ear.

  “You are perfectly capable of handling—”

  “Not this one,” she cut me off.

  I nearly dropped the massive box as I rounded the corner.

  There, at my front desk, stood Logan freaking Ward. Like my thoughts had conjured him from thin air. A pair of athletic pants hugged his strong legs, and a skin-tight thermal covered his muscled chest. I swallowed hard, tightening my grip on the box.

  “See,” Quinn said, nudging me.

  Her voice drew Logan’s attention, his dark eyes sparking as they locked on me. Then he eyed the box, and in two blinks, he’d spanned the distance between us.

  “Let me take that for you,” he said, arms outstretched.

  I turned the box out of his reach. “I’ve got it,” I said, hustling behind my desk and setting it down. “But thanks.” I’d have to haul it to my car later to take it to recycling, but he didn’t need to know that.

  He pursed his lips before resuming his lean against my desk.

  “So?” I asked, eying the thick book he’d left on the counter. The one I’d told him to read. The one he’d bet me my phone number he wouldn’t like it.

  A muscle in his jaw ticked, his lips pressed in a line. “I hate…” he sighed, raking his fingers through that mop of dark hair.

  My heart sank at hate, my shoulders dropping. I was certain that would be the book for him—

  “That I can’t tell you I hated it,” he finally finished, blowing out a breath like simply thinking about lying gave him physical strain.

  Well, that’s adorable.

  He tossed his hands in the air. “I loved it,” he admitted, shaking his head. “Started it on the plane, then finished it on the way back.”

  I beamed, my smile unstoppable as I clapped my hands together. “Yay!” I cheered. “I knew you would love it.”

  He leaned against the counter, those dark eyes locking on mine. “How did you know that? I told you, I’ve never been into reading.”

  I smirked, shrugging. “It’s my superpower.”

  That and his explanation for movie preferences had told me all I needed to know.

  He laughed, the sound surprising and free, and it tickled my skin. The laughter quickly died, his face falling. “I kind of do hate the book, though,” he said, and I tilted my head. “Because I loved it, I don’t get your phone number.”

  I adjusted my glasses, narrowing my gaze as I searched for surface-level interest in his eyes—the look I’d seen countless times that shouted you’re new and shiny, and I’ve always had the librarian fantasy…

  I found nothing but genuine disappointment, and perhaps a bit of…loneliness? I could only recognize the semi-hollow look because I saw it in the mirror nearly every morning. Not that loneliness was bad…it wasn’t. It was a far cry better than the opposite—falling for the wrong person and having him crush your soul.

  Still, there was something about Logan that called to me, made me want to dig deeper and uncover the source of pain behind those luscious eyes.

  Then it dawned on me—what his look really shouted.

  Friend.

  He needed a friend.

  My heart warmed at the thought, and I mustered up a genuine smile. “Well,” I said, leaning forward. “You can’t have my number. Those were the rules you set.”

  He nodded, waiting.

  “But,” I continued. “You can take me to dinner. If you want?” The last part came out in a tangle of sudden and unexpected nerves. “As friends,” I clarified, probably a little too quickly.

  Quinn audibly huffed behind me, but I did my best to ignore her.

  A slow, easy grin shaped Logan’s lips. “Dinner. Friends. Sounds absolutely perfect.”

  “Great,” I said, searching for something to look at on my desk, anything to keep me from looking at that mouth of his. “I’m free tonight?”

  “Are you?” he teased, clearly noting how all my statements sounded like questions at the moment.

  I blamed him for my sudden inability to speak properly. Friends or no, he was the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen. Surely, he was used to this kind of response from women. My stomach turned with the thought of just how many there had to have been—or currently were—in his life.

  Friends, remember?

  Right. It didn’t matter if he was currently sleeping with six different women. I wouldn’t be one of them, anyway. But companionship? That I could easily do.

  That was safe.

  And safe is all I’d hoped for these last two years.

  “I am,” I finally said. “Are you?”

  “What time do you want me to pick you up?”

  “I’ll meet you there,” I said, keeping it casual.

  “Fair enough,” he said. “Where are we going?”

  I bit my bottom lip, flipping through my mental list of favorite restaurants. “Let me think on it,” I said. “I’ll text you the info.”

  He cocked an eyebrow at me. “Then you’ll need my number.”

  “I suppose I will.” I fished my cell from the drawer on my right and handed it to him. He plugged in his info quickly before handing it back to me.

  “Now that that is settled,” he said, a serious look coloring his features. I held my breath, wondering what fresh hell he was about to drop on me. “I need a new book. Any suggestions?”

  I couldn’t stop my smile as I pushed back from my desk, rounding it to stand next to him. “Oh, you have no idea.”

  A crisp bite chilled the Charleston air as I hurried into my favorite Italian restaurant—an internal dilemma on what to wear to
this non-date the source of my tardiness. I’d ultimately settled on a pair of warm, black cotton pants, a royal-blue sweater of softest cotton, and my cream trench. The outfit was comfortable while flattering, and unlike the dress I’d contemplated donning, it didn’t scream sex.

  Not that I didn’t love sex.

  I did.

  But there would be no thoughts of that tonight.

  The hostess guided me through the warm interior of the restaurant, forgoing the tables and heading through a set of double glass doors to the patio. Lush greenery in terracotta pots peppered the space, stand-up heaters flickering buttery flames to warm the outdoor space. Twinkle lights strung from the dogwood trees that hugged the restaurant’s property.

  And, at a lone table tucked in the back corner near one of the glorious heaters, sat Logan. He looked sinfully delicious in a pair of dark jeans and a brick-red sweater, his fingers wrapped around a small glass tumbler of amber liquid that glistened under the lights.

  Well, there goes my whole don’t think about sex theory.

  He didn’t help matters when he glanced up, spotting me heading his way, and immediately stood to greet me. Damn me to hell, the man was tall as he did the cute little awkward dance of hug or handshake, and I tried not to laugh as I made the decision for him, wrapping my arms around his middle as if we were the oldest and dearest of friends.

  Huge mistake.

  Because not only did he feel good—all his hard parts against the softer pieces of me—but he smelled good. Like citrus and dark spice and something woodsy. The mere breath of his scent made my heart flutter, heat pooling low in my belly.

  I quickly released him, laid my coat over the chair, and took my seat.

  “This is a beautiful spot,” he said, sitting across from me. “You know how to pick them.”

  “Thank you,” I said before ordering a drink from the waitress who hurried to our table. She barely laid eyes on me, instead electing to take my order while firmly focused on Logan. After ensuring Logan was happy with his drink, twice—to Logan’s obvious discomfort—she rushed off to work on my order.

  I crossed one leg over the other, settling into the chair and basking in the warmth from the outdoor heater, wondering why the attention of the waitress had seemed to bother him. Didn’t he have to be used to it by now? The way he looked. Or, perhaps, that was the problem. Maybe too many people noticed his looks instead of the man underneath.