Meet Cute Chronicles Box Set

Chapter 1I notice him immediately when I return to my desk. He’s hard to miss, a big hulking man with a shaved head, huge gauges in both ears, and strong arms covered in tattoos. But his looks aren’t what draws my attention. No, it’s his pale face, rivaling the freshly fallen snow outside the windows. And the way he barely moves at all, not even a slight rise and fall of his chest. Is he even breathing? The only thing not frozen is his gaze. It darts over the library, from one bookshelf to the next, and he’s looking at them like they’re wolves ready to strike. Knitting my eyebrows together, I look closer. He’s swaying a little and he really isn’t breathing, so I round my desk and hurry across the floor, slowing my steps as I approach so I won’t scare him. “Sir? Are you all right?” I ask. His eyes keep flitting around as though he hasn’t heard me. He’s tense; I could cut glass on the cords of his neck. I soften my voice. “Sir?” He tears his gaze away from one of the many book displays—I’m looking for a book and the cover was blue—and looks at me, but I’m not sure he realizes I’m a human being. His eyes are glassy and unfocused and wild. Pleading for help. He looks terrified, reminding me a little about a visitor who had a panic attack right here in the library a couple years back. “Sir?” I keep my voice low, soothing. “Sir, you’re worrying me. If you don’t take a breath, I’ll have to call the ambulance.” No reaction. I take a couple steps closer and touch his arm as I scan his face, looking for clues. He’s perspiring and his pulse flutters frantically in his neck. He’s holding his coat in one huge hand and the grip is so tight, his knuckles are whitening. This man is scared to death, and if I don’t do something quickly, he’ll pass out. I gently squeeze his arm. “Sir? You’re safe here with me. I won’t leave you. Would you please breathe for me?” There’s a glint of recognition in his eyes, as though my words are getting through to him, as though he realizes I’m a fellow human and not a dangerous predator ready to attack. His chest rises and falls, and he dips his chin once. The acknowledgment—and the breathing—makes me relax, so I smile at him. “My name is Adrian, and I work here. Would you please come with me? My desk is just over there.” I point. “You can sit down for a second and I’ll get you a glass of water, okay?” Another dip to his chin. “Great. Are you all right to walk to my desk on your own, or would you like me to help you?” Without a word, he holds out his elbow; I link my arm through his and coax him toward my desk. After just a couple steps, he speaks. “There are so many books. I don’t know what I was thinking, coming here. I can’t do this. I can’t. There are so many books.” His voice is fervent. Agitated. I give his arm a little squeeze, reminding him that I’m here. “Yes, sir. We have a lot of books here. A little too many if you ask me, at least when it’s time to put them all back.” I’m hoping my words and a little humor will divert his attention from whatever scares him about the books and bring him out of his state. The little huff he lets out tells me I’m onto something, so I continue to babble. I’m very good at babbling, after all. “Just a few more steps and we’ll be there. I’m the boss of the information desk, but don’t tell my coworkers I said that. They’ll try to tell you I’m wrong. That we’re all equals here at the library. But you and I know that’s not the case, right? Only someone wearing a bowtie can be the boss of the information desk, that’s an old rule.” I bump my shoulder to his to show I’m kidding and get another huff as a reward. I pull out the visitor’s chair. “Please sit, sir.” He collapses into the rickety old wooden thing that’s seen better days—every year, the city council cuts funding to our little library, so we can’t splurge on stuff like furniture—and it groans underneath him. He’s way too big for the tiny thing; he’s spilling out of it, as though someone poured him into it and didn’t stop when he started flowing over. The man is muscle upon muscle—easily double my width—and tall, maybe even a bit taller than my own six feet four inches. I hope the chair won’t collapse underneath him. I pour a glass of water from the carafe standing on my desk and hand it to him. And unwilling to put distance between us by sitting in my chair, I half sit on the edge. His hand shakes as he brings the glass to his mouth, but he manages without spilling. He gulps every last drop of the water, then hands the glass to me. “More?” I ask. He shakes his head. “Can you tell me your name?” “Manne. Uh. Simon Mandelberg, but everyone calls me Manne.” “It’s very nice to meet you, Manne.” “Uh, you, too.” “Are you all right?” He shrugs. “Are you ill? Do you need a doctor?” A head shake. Color is slowly returning to his face and he’s breathing regularly. The tension is seeping away from his shoulders and his face, and he doesn’t look scared to death anymore, so I’ll take him at his word. When I don’t have to worry about him passing out, I allow myself to look at him. He’s got lines at the corners of his eyes, and salt-and-pepper stubble covering his cheeks and chin. A closer inspection reveals more piercings; tiny rings in both his tragi and a long bar across the upper cartilage of his right ear. The ends of a black tattoo peek over the neckline of his T-shirt. Despite the bad-boy appearance, his huge brown eyes, with remnants of the earlier panic lingering, makes him look like a teddy bear. A huge, tattooed, and pierced teddy bear, but still. I shouldn’t be drooling over someone who isn’t feeling well, but gaaaawd, he ticks all my boxes. I give myself a mental shake and focus on making sure he’s all right. “If you want to tell me why you’re here, maybe I can help you? Or if you’d prefer to just sit and collect yourself for a few minutes, that’s okay, too. I have emails to answer so I wouldn’t bother you.” His gaze zips around the library again, then zeroes in on me. He nods. “I’d like to sit. If you’re sure it’s okay.” “I’m sure.” I refill the glass and set it in front of him. “In case you change your mind.” I don’t wait for a reply; I retake my seat and open the e-mail program, going back to work as I keep a close look at him out of the corner of my eye. Slowly, he relaxes. He avoids looking around and instead keeps his focus on my workspace. On the brass sign with “INFORMATION” written on it, on the glass of water, on the cup full of pens. On me. With every breath, his shoulders lower from around his ears. After a couple minutes, he straightens his back, adjusts himself on the chair, making it groan underneath him, and picks up the glass and empties it a second time, but much slower. A short while later, he clears his throat. “Uh, you said your name is Adrian, right?” I turn my attention to him, with a smile. “Yes, that’s right.” “I guess you must really love books to work here.” “I do. You should see my apartment,” I say, deciding more babbling won’t hurt since he responded so well to it earlier. Saturdays are always slow in our little neighborhood library anyway, so it’s not like I’m busy. The email thing was mostly an excuse to help him relax. “It’s the smallest apartment imaginable, a studio with a kitchenette, barely bigger than a closet, but it’s bursting with books. I have a daybed doubling as a couch with a bedside table groaning under the mountain of books piled on top of it. I also have the smallest coffee table in the history of mankind, but the rest of my place is…books. My sisters think I’m crazy.” My smile widens. He listens with his head c****d and nods in all the right places. He casts a glance around the mostly empty library and leans forward, keeping his voice low as though he’s letting me in on a secret. “I, uh, can’t read.” He frowns and shakes his head. “I’m not supposed to say that. I’m supposed to say I have dyslexia, so reading is very difficult for me. Charlie, my niece, says I shouldn’t put myself down or be too hard on myself. She says lots of people have the same problem as I do, but I don’t know. I feel stupid. I’ve been told repeatedly I’m stupid for not being able to read like a normal person. I shouldn’t be here. I’m usually not afraid of anything, but the books scare the s**t out of me.” His shoulders slump and he sounds so defeated that my heart aches for him. His explanation clears up his earlier panic; I’d be terrified being surrounded by something I feared, too. And whoever told him he’s stupid because he’s dyslexic deserves a book slung at their head. A thick, heavy one. “Charlie sounds like a very smart person. She’s right, you know. Lots of people are dyslexic. My cousin, for example. And don’t forget about our king; he’s dyslexic, too. He even misspelled his name once. But it doesn’t mean you’re incapable. It doesn’t mean you’re stupid. I do understand it’s hard in a world where everyone is expected to be able to read. But I agree with your niece, you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. She seems wise.” It seems like praising his niece is the way to his heart, because he nods and smiles, revealing deep dimples in both cheeks, making my heart stumble. Dimples are my kryptonite, especially when they transform a face completely like they do Manne’s. But I straighten my back and force myself to be professional. No swooning over the visitors, no matter how cute. Or nice. Or sexy. “She’s really smart,” he says. “She’s the reason I’m here. She’s been teaching me several techniques to make it easier for me to read, and somehow managed to convince me to go back and finish high school. So that’s why I’m here. I need books. But they scare me.” I nod. “Yeah, I’ve read some pretty badly written books over the years that have scared me, too. But no matter how bad, I can promise they won’t attack you.” I grin. He snorts. “Funny guy.” “That’s me. The comedian at the information desk. I can point out the worst books so you know to avoid them. You can even hide behind me if it makes you feel better.” His smile widens, stretching across his face, making the lines by his eyes more prominent. Making him even more attractive. “You’re ridiculous.” “I know. My sisters tell me all the time. They have no respect for their older, distinguished brother.” He snorts again. “Right. You’re what? Twenty-three? Very distinguished.” His tone is teasing and his eyes twinkle. I’m happy to see the terrified man from before replaced with this smiley one. And not only because he’s hot and funny and seems to get my silly humor, but because I don’t want visitors fainting in the library. We got rid of the smelling salts ages ago, after all. “I’m thirty, thank you very much.” “You’re still a baby.” He leans back in his chair and looks at me, slowly dragging his gaze over my body, at least everything that’s not hidden behind the desk. His eyes linger on my mouth. Oh. So maybe swooning over visitors—at least this particular one—isn’t such a terrible idea after all? “How old are you then? Seventy-five?” I ask. “Hey! That’s uncalled for!” He grins. “That’s what you get for calling me a baby.” I grin back. “Mmm. That was a bit harsh.” His eyes are wandering again. “Apology accepted.” After a few seconds, Manne lets out a deep sigh. “Thank you.” I don’t need to ask what for. “You’re welcome.” He shoves his big hand into his jacket pocket and pulls out a wrinkled sheet of paper. “Charlie gave me this list of books. Maybe you can help me?” “Of course.” I accept it and read it over, nodding. “This is a very sensible list. It won’t be a problem.” “Charlie’s a sensible girl. Too sensible, if you ask me, even if she has her reasons. Eleven-year-olds shouldn’t have to help their uncles to read, but she has a dyslexic friend in school, who’s gotten all the support from parents and teachers I never got. Charlie’s been helping her, passes on what she’s learned to me. It’s possible this kind of assistance was available back when I went to school. But not for me.” He says it so matter-of-factly, and it makes many questions burn my head. Why was he excluded? Was it because no one detected his learning disability? Or was it because whoever called him stupid refused him the help? I swallow my questions, and instead say, “She sounds amazing. I bet you’re proud of her.” “I am.” “Good. Tell her Adrian, the information desk boss, approves one-hundred-fifty percent of her methods. Do you want to check out all of these at once?” I wave the list of books. His eyes widen in horror. “God, no! One will be enough for now.” I chuckle. “All right. Any preferences?” “Anything science-y? I love science.” I eye the list again, pick out a book that matches his request, and check the computer if it’s in. It is. “All right. Ready to brave the shelves and go find your book?” “Ha ha. Very funny,” he says, but stands, which I’m taking as a “yes.” “Come on, big guy. Stay behind me. I’ll protect you.” I wink to let him know I’m kidding. He harrumphs but a smile dances in his eyes and he follows me down the aisles like an obedient puppy. He’s too cute to be true. I find the book and we return to my desk, where I issue him a library card—Simon Mandelberg, age forty-one—and show him how to check out the book. As soon as the book is in his hand, the color disappears from his face. When it’s checked out, he clutches it to his chest like a first-grader nervous about the first day of school. “You know how I told you I’d protect you against evil books?” He nods. “That one isn’t one of them. I wouldn’t have picked it for you if it had been.” It’s a silly thing to say to a grown man but being silly distracted him before so I’m hoping it’ll work again. “You promise?” I nod. “I do. May I make a suggestion?” “Yeah?” I hurry to grab the tote bag I keep in one of the desk drawers, one I use for books I borrow. Gently, I wiggle the book out of Manne’s iron grip, put it into the tote, and hand it to him, hoping that “out of sight, out of mind” will calm him. “Bring this to Charlie,” I say. “Make her some hot chocolate or whatever she likes. Ask her to help you get started, ask her to remind you of the techniques you’ve learned. You can do it. You braved your fear and came here today. I know we just met and don’t know each other, but I’m proud of you for doing that. You can do this, too.” “You think so?” “I know so. My mom always says ‘you can do anything if you set your mind to it,’ and since she also says that she’s never wrong, it’d be in our best interest not to question that nugget of wisdom.” Finally, he cracks a smile. “Is that so?” I nod. “She’s very…” I tap my chin and pretend to think. “Let’s go with ‘determined’; that won’t get me into too much trouble. I hope.” He laughs. It starts as a chuckle, but it evolves into an honest-to-goodness knee-melting, belly-tingle-inducing laughter, and now I do wish we’d had smelling salts on hand because I’m about to go down like a medieval maiden with a too-tight corset. “Thank you, Adrian.” “What for?” “For being extremely helpful and kind to a pathetic middle-aged man who’s afraid of books.” “Forty-one isn’t middle-aged,” I blurt. His smile turns into a cocky grin. “Aha. You looked!” “Oops?” I go for wide-eyed innocence, but hurry to cover my tracks. “I mean, it’s part of my job. I just did my professional duty. Nothing else.” “Mhm.” His eyes are wandering again, from the top of my head down to my feet, and his gaze sort of feels like the red beam from Superman’s eyes in the old Christopher Reeve movies, but in a less destructive way. I resist the urge to squirm and straighten my clothing. I love the old tweed jacket with leather elbow patches I found at a yard sale; it’s very British-professor-chic. The slacks I’m wearing are on the tighter side, carefully chosen to show off my long legs shaped by riding my bicycle to work every day, at least when the ground isn’t covered in a thick layer of snow like today. The shirt I wear underneath the jacket is nothing special, but the accompanying bowtie is a bit much for some people. And it makes my coworker call me stuff like “dapper” and other old-timey adjectives. I don’t care, though; I love bowties and wear them all the time. But if the half-lowered lids and his slow smile is something to go by, Manne appreciates what he sees. “Let’s go with ‘professional,’” he says. “That won’t get you into too much trouble.” “Who’s the funny one now?” I mumble, trying to ignore the flame low in my abdomen he ignited with his naked inspection. He’s about to say something when he jumps. He pulls out a phone from the back pocket of his too-tight and seriously drool-worthy jeans. “Dammit,” he mutters and shoves it back into his pocket. “I’m sorry but I have to go.” I’d be lying if I said I’m not disappointed, but I smile and nod. “Sure. Real life waits for no one. Not even in libraries.” “Unfortunately not.” We grin at each other and he offers me his hand to shake. I accept it and can’t suppress the shiver that spreads like fire through my body at the touch of his rough palm against mine. “I am grateful for your help. And not just for finding the book. Anyone could have helped with that. But for…you know…talking me down from my panic.” I indulge myself in the feeling of long, thick fingers wrapped around my hand in perfect pressure, then I force myself to focus and answer his heartfelt words. “You’re welcome. I was worried for a while when I thought you weren’t breathing. I’m just glad you responded to my particular brand of quirk. Not everyone is a fan.” “Then they’re idiots,” he says, then grimaces again and pats the pocket where his phone is. “Someone really wants to talk to me.” I nod and let go of his hand, neither of us showing any remorse for standing there in the middle of the library, clasped in a handshake for much longer than socially acceptable between strangers. “Have a great rest of the day and say ‘hi’ to Charlie from me.” “I will. Thanks again.” With a last glance at me, specifically my legs, he turns to leave. “Hey, Manne,” I call after him. “Put on the damned jacket. It’s freezing outside.” He turns around and tuts at me. Then he puts on the jacket, eyes twinkling the entire time. “Yelling in the library! Kids these days have no manners.” He winks and struts out. And if I stand there longer than I should, staring at his ass—round muscular globes flexing and dancing under the tight jeans—well, no one will know.