“Let’s talk about this username,” Lina said, drawing my attention away from him and back to the topic at hand.
Nash peered over her shoulder, his hands settling on her hips. “Four-EyedCatLibrarian?”
I winced. Okay, even I had to admit that wasn’t my finest moment of creativity. “What do I want my username to say about me?”
“That you’re not crazy,” Knox said, settling himself on the couch. Waylon hopped up next to him and flopped over on his back.
While my friends decided on a new username, I sipped bourbon in a wingback chair by the fire and wondered why I was so bad at this. I could rock a grant application like a boss. Put me in a social situation, and I could charm the pants off a cute, single guy in record time. But having to market myself in profile form felt overwhelming and stupid.
“You’re holding your wrist,” Lucian said, his voice low and grave.
I jolted. I’d been so lost in thought I hadn’t felt him approach.
“What?” I glanced down and realized I was absentmindedly rubbing my right wrist with my opposite hand.
“Does it still bother you?” His voice was soft, but there was something brittle about the words.
“No. Of course not,” I said, dropping my hands.
Naomi reappeared. “Did you hurt yourself?” she asked, proving that becoming Waylay’s guardian had given her superhuman hearing.
“Is it carpal tunnel?” Lina asked.
“I, uh, broke my wrist in high school. It was no big deal,” I added quickly.
Knox frowned. “I don’t remember that.”
“You had already graduated. It happened right before summer break.”
“I forgot about that,” Nash mused. He pinned me with a long, inscrutable look. As chief of police, Nash would have access to all those old records.
“How did you break it?” Waylay asked.
I purposely didn’t look at Lucian, but I could still feel his attention on me. “The same way a teenager breaks anything. With a lot of clumsiness and a flair for drama.”
“And it still bothers you?” Naomi asked me.
“No. I barely think about it anymore.”
Lina hooted. “Guess who just got three matches and two DMs?”
“Who?” I asked, perking up.
“BlondDirtyBookReader,” she said and triumphantly tossed me my phone.
Three photos of reasonably attractive, not insane men stared back at me.
“You guys are miracle workers,” I told them.
“Look at that. You’re practically married already,” Naomi teased.
On a low growl, Lucian abruptly left the room.
“What the hell crawled up his ass?” Knox wondered as he stole Waylay’s spoon and helped himself to some of her cobbler.
“Maybe he had to fart,” Waylay suggested.
15
Prison Lot Strip Tease
Lucian
Istarted my day at 5:00 a.m. I’d worked out, had breakfast, handled three conference calls—two from the car—fired three people, and closed an eight-figure deal. All before noon.
I had two in-house meetings that couldn’t be rescheduled, so I did the thing I really didn’t want to do and offloaded them onto Nolan with strict instructions not to fuck anything up.
All so I could beat her here.
Sloane’s little “I’ll do some research” might have fooled everyone else, but not me.
Sergeant Grave Hopper was only too happy to agree to fire off a text when he saw the underhanded little librarian pulling out of the parking lot on her way to a mysterious Wednesday afternoon “meeting.”
“Here she is,” Hank, my driver, announced when the Jeep roared into the parking lot of the Fraus Correctional Center.
“I’ll call you back, Nolan,” I said and disconnected.
Sloane had her music loud and sunglasses on. Not a care in the world. Thinking she could just ride to someone’s rescue without bothering to think of her own safety first. I wasn’t going to stand for that again.
She was frantically digging through her gigantic I’d Rather Be Reading tote on the passenger seat when I approached her Jeep window. I peered in and caught a glimpse of her phone screen in her lap. It was an internet search for “what not to bring to prison visiting hours.”
With an eye roll, I rapped on her window.
Startled, Sloane jolted, and the contents of her bag exploded everywhere.
On an aggrieved sigh, I opened her door. She stared up at me, her jaw slack, her sunglasses askew.
I waited.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, finally regaining the power of speech.