The Fake Out: Chapter 7

“You cannot be serious.” I stared down at the new proposed budget Peter had slid across his desk.

He leaned forward in his ridiculous oversized leather chair and steepled his fingers under his chin like he was the freaking Godfather. “I think you’ll find we’ve been fair.”

“Fair? You want to cut the library to twenty-five hours a week.” Which was also reflected in my new proposed salary.

“Do we really need it to be open more than that?” He took a sip from the coffee mug on his desk which read WORLD’S BEST BOSS. He’d probably bought it for himself.

I was momentarily stunned into silence. Don’t worry. It didn’t last long. “Plus cutting my book budget by half?”

He frowned and ran a finger over his soul patch. No one should wear a soul patch, least of all a man-child with a weak chin. If I could go back to the day when I decided Peter was the man for me, I would kick my own ass for being infatuated with this guy.

“Maebell, everyone has to give a little.” He directed my attention to the oversized, full-color blueprint for the high school football stadium he had on an easel beside his desk. “This football stadium will put our little town on the map.”

I hated him and his stupid stadium.

“You cannot cut my budget.” I crossed my arms. “This is asking too much. Especially after last year.”

“Look, everyone is chipping in. The police department is willing to cut back on overtime.”

“I feel safer already.”

He scowled. “The city maintenance department has come up with some cost-saving measures.”

“Great. I bet it will take twice as long to get a light bulb replaced now. Is the city going to cut back on drinking water, too? I mean, who really needs to stay hydrated? That’s junk science.”

“Are you done?” he snapped.

I smiled. At least I’d gotten under his skin.

“Not by a long shot.” I stood and snatched his idiotic budget proposal from the desk.

“It’s pretty much a done deal. City council will vote on it in eight weeks.”

I leaned over his desk and was pleasantly surprised to see him shrink back in his seat. “I guess I have eight weeks to figure out how I’m going to make sure this doesn’t happen.”

Then I dumped the entire contents of his coffee mug on his lap.

“He didn’t,” Ali said with a justifiable amount of outrage. “I hate him.”

“Thank you,” I said into the phone. “I don’t know what I’m going to do if the library hours get cut.”

I’d gone straight back to the library after my meeting with Peter, fuming mad. But as the anger had worn off, it had been replaced with overwhelming anxiety. The kind that had forced me to sit down and take slow steady breaths. It hadn’t worked; I still felt like either throwing up or throwing something.

“I know a guy who can help me get my hands on an ostrich,” Ali offered. “We could put it in his office and, you know, let it play out.”

“That’s very kind of you, but I’ll pass.” I hesitated, picturing a terrified Peter cowering under an evil-eyed ostrich. The scene had real merit. “Who exactly is this guy? No, never mind.”

“You’re going to figure it out,” Ali said, her voice sure.

I appreciated the vote of confidence, but sometimes I wished people didn’t think I was so competent. It would be nice, just once, for someone else to swoop in and solve my problems.

“Yeah, I’ll figure it out. Somehow.”

The library door burst open, and Chris Dreamboat Sterns was suddenly standing in front of me.

He was very… sweaty. That should be very unattractive. It was not. Neither was the fact he was wearing one of those shirts with the sleeves cut off at the shoulders that looked stupid on mortal men. On him, it highlighted the muscles in his arms. There were a lot of them, and I noticed. I promised to have a long introspective discussion with myself about this later.

“Ali, I have to go,” I said, my voice sounding almost breathless. With a scowl, I hung up and crossed my arms. “Did you run all the way here? You know they have cars for that.”

He shrugged and leaned an elbow on the counter, his bicep bulging. “It’s only four miles.”

“Only four? Light day for you, I guess.”

“Yup. But it’s off-season; I can go a little easy.” He tapped the belt bag at his waist. “I brought the book too. Where are we sitting?”

“Come on then.” I put the OUT TO LUNCH sign on the front door and directed him to my small office/break room/copy room. He sat down at the table there while I pulled out the lunches I’d picked up from the Sit-n-Eat on my way back from seeing He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Peter’s smug face popped into my brain. I slammed the to-go boxes on the table and threw myself in a chair across from Chris.

“You doing okay?”

“I’m fine.” But I wasn’t fine; I was angry.

“You don’t seem like you’re fine.” He opened the Styrofoam container in front of him. Ollie outsourced to Juana Fernandez who made the best tamales this side of the border for Tamale Thursday. “Wow.”

“I got you a double serving,” I said, my eyes drifting to his arms. “Because you’re big.”

He almost smirked but seemed to change his mind when he saw my face. “You sure you’re okay? You seem grumpy.”

I arched an eyebrow.

“Grumpier than usual,” he amended and dug into his tamales with relish.

“It’s nothing.” I poked at my lunch. “Maybe you’re too dang happy. Like a puppy.”

He brushed the top of my hand, which was resting on the table. Such a small touch but my skin grew warm right in that very spot. “If you need someone to talk to, I have four sisters. I’m pretty good at listening, I won’t ever tell you to calm down—I learned that lesson the hard way, and I can kick someone’s ass if you need me to, no questions asked.”

The kindness in his voice gave me pause. Sometimes it was easier to wallow in anger. Anger had done well for me—kept me fight-ready and that helped me survive. But it was also so exhausting. Which was the last thought I had before I opened my mouth and blurted it all out.

“Fine,” I huffed. “Your good friend Peter—”

Chris shook his head. “Don’t lump me in with him. I went to college with the guy. We’re barely acquaintances.”

“Fine. Your not-friend Peter has informed me that he plans to cut the library budget yet again. If he succeeds, it will affect my salary and decimate our book budget among many other things.” I picked up my straw, tore the wrapping off like it was one of Peter’s limbs, and shoved it in my cup. “That man is the absolute worst.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No, it’s my problem. I’ll fix it,” I said firmly and pushed around the rice on my plate. “But thanks. For, you know…”

My voice trailed off, not exactly sure what I wanted to say, but strangely grateful he was here.

“No problem. Now, this book. I have questions.” From his belt bag he pulled out our sexy pirate romance novel. Sticky notes dotted the edges and the cover looked used and abused.

I tugged it from his hand and flipped through the pages. “You highlighted? You took notes in the margins?”

“I even committed most of chapter ten to memory.”

I flipped to the chapter and discovered a scene that left very little to the imagination. With a huff, I tossed the book on the table. Chris picked it up and began thumbing through it. My eyes moved back to his arms. His muscles tensed with each motion he made. I had a strange desire to touch them, just to see what they felt like. Were they warm? Would they give under my hands?

I bit back a groan. Completely and totally inappropriate. I needed to get more sleep. That must be the reason for all this.

“You okay? You look like you’re a little warm,” Chris asked, sounding concerned.

Mortified, I jerked my eyes back to his face. “Sorry. I was lost in thought.”

“About?”

“Ah, octopuses.” Smooth, Mae. Smooth.

“Octopuses?”

“Yep. Lot of tentacles. Think they get in the way sometimes?” I didn’t let him answer that because I sounded like an idiot, and inside I was panicking a little and I wasn’t quite sure why. I snatched my copy of the book from my desk. “I have thirty more minutes left of lunch; we should probably…”

“Of course.” He cracked open his book. “Now, after reading the first ten chapters, I had a question. Do you think the character of the first mate is the author’s commentary on the struggle of the everyday man in the early nineteenth century?”

I blinked. Twice.

“And can we talk about chapter fourteen? Doing the deed in a crow’s nest? Sounds kind of uncomfortable. At the very least, there’d be a whole lot of splinters in places you do not want splinters. What are your thoughts?”