Romance Snippet:

 It's funny how the writing process goes -- I was working on a new story, a contemporary romance, which is a switch for me, when suddenly there was a knock on my right brain door.  Two characters were standing there, acting as if I'd expected them -- Gwen and Adam.  

Where'd they come from?  And how did my right brain recognize them, along with the fact that it came up with a title for a new series, right then and there:  The Mr. Librarian Romance series?  My left brain was tapping at the window, trying to remind me about the other story I was working on.  But no matter what I did, Gwen and Adam kept surfacing -- as I drove home from work, as I worked in the garden, as I tossed and turned in bed at night.

So I finally gave in, let them stay, put the other story aside -- my apologies to those characters, but they seem the patient type -- and started in on this one.  

Contemporary, in the first person (which I'm not sure about, but thought I'd try) and located on Cape Cod, which I love dearly.  

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A Love Long Overdue

a Mr. Librarian Romance

ONE

"So, did you hear about the new librarian?"

"What happened to the old one?"

"Hello?  Remember, she retired just before the holidays last year."

I munched on my chicken caesar wrap, keeping one eye on a lazy fly that kept circling my plate.

"Hmmm, no, can't say I remember that.  But then again I'm not at the library that often.  Actually, never, now that I think about it."  Who had time these days, working two part-time jobs to make ends meet didn't leave me much time for reading.  I was lucky if I remembered to DVR my favorite television series. 

Julie glanced over at me, her eyes squinting in deep thought.

"You work too hard."

Understatement if I ever heard one.  I laughed.

"You're right.  So who's the new lady librarian?"  I downed my ice tea.  God, who knew it would be this hot in May, especially on the Cape where the ocean breezes usually didn't warm up until later in June.

"Ha, no lady -- it's a guy!" 

"No shit. A guy?  Must be an old fuddy-duddy, an absent-minded professor type, uh?"  I stretched out my long legs, noting how white and pasty they looked in the midday sunlight.  I wondered if I could squeak in a few tanning sessions between jobs.  Probably not; better to just keep wearing jeans and long skirts.  It'd be cheaper, too.

Julie poked me with a long, hot pink fake finger nail.

"Nope, got that wrong.  He's hot.  Very hot.”

"On a scale?"  Our measuring system for new prospects.  Although it never seemed to be accurate.  How many times had Julie and I given a guy the "hot" or "very hot" rating, only to find out he was a dud, a doofus, a big fat zero.

"Most definitely a nine; maybe even a ten."  She stretched out her legs after finishing off the cheeseburger and fries.  Even though Julie's legs were short, they were so tan they made my eyes water.  But then again, Julie was rolling in dough, her salon and spa business the busiest place in town.  It was the local watering hole for most of the women over twenty, a place where you could hunt and gather gossip, learn tips about who to date and who to avoid like the plague, and indulge in a free glass of wine after 3 o'clock most afternoons.

"What makes him a ten?  And what's his name?"  I watched as a fishing boat pulled into the harbor, a few seals following in its wake, hoping for the cast-offs.  I recognized the boat and spotted Hank steering inside the small cabin. My current on-again, off-again beau.  Good looking but not too much upstairs.  A beer and Boston Celtics kind of guy, which was all right with me.  For now, anyway.  I couldn't handle anything deeper at the moment.  The rest I’d held off on because . . . well, not sure.  Maybe my libido was running on empty at the moment.  Two jobs and college loans to pay off could do that to a girl.  Except I wasn’t a ‘girl’ any longer.  Closing in on the mid-thirties mark, I figured I was nearing ‘crone’.

Julie signaled for the check and a refill on her coffee. She looked over at me, and I started to break a sweat.  Julie had a way about her that unnerved me more times than I liked to admit.  Her stare was like a laser, picking up on my ticks and twitches, when I was due for my period, or a highlighting of my somewhat dull brown hair. 

"Get this -- he's from Scotland, thirty-six, tall, dark hair and blue eyes.  Be still my heart!"

"Name?"  My mind was abuzz, trying to picture a tall, dark, brooding Scotsman.  I wondered if he wore a kilt.  Every woman in the world probably wonders what’s under the kilt.  Definitely crunch time for that tanning parlor.

Julie closed her eyes for a second, conjuring up the guy's name. Obviously, she'd spent too much time taking inventory of his physical aspects to remember his name.  Which made me wonder how many women in this small town had done the same already.  Where had I been during all this brouhaha?

"Adam.  Adam Carmichael.  Nice, uh?"  There was that laser stare of hers again.  I kept my head averted and my eyes on the fishing boat, then waved to Hank when he looked up and spotted me.  He gave me that half-grin that used to make my heart beat faster, but now it just kept thudding steadily in my chest.  Thump, thump, thump.  Slow and steady.  Visions of muscular legs and a kilt interefered with my thought process. 

"Adam Carmichael," I said, liking the way it sounded, the way the name rolled off my tongue.  I slapped my legs, stood up and stretched to my full five foot, ten inch height, flipping the thick rope of braid over my shoulder.  Riding a bike around town in this heat required that masses of hair must be relegated to a braid or I'd internally combust.

"I think it's time I renewed my library card," I chirped, wanting to hit the road before Hank headed our way.  Not that I was avoiding him.  But then again there was a new guy to investigate, possibly with a kilt.  I reached for my shoulder bag and handed Julie a ten dollar bill.  "Will that cover it?"  She waved it aside. 

"First off, you never had a library card in your life, dumb-ass.  And second, keep that ten and come by for your highlighting. You're looking a bit peeked these days.  You need more zip." 

We walked out to the parking lot, and I snagged my bike from the side of the cafe.  Yup, zip, that's what I needed.  Zip in my hair, zip in some of my body parts.  Mostly my body parts.  They'd been dormant for so long, I sometimes wondered if I had moved into menopause and not even realized it. 

Zip. Adam Carmichael, male librarian.  Well, I could think of worse things, but seducing a librarian, a bookish-geek type who happened to be hot-looking wouldn't be a bad way to spend the summer months now, would it?  Life on the Cape was looking up.

I swung myself onto the bike and skimmed along the side road, heading for the main drag that would eventually bring me up to the library.  But at the next stop sign, I paused for a moment, looking down at the pale legs, the cutoff shorts, the cheesy t-shirt.  I fingered the braid while I assessed my appearance.

Nah, this wasn't going to work.  I needed a shower, the highlights, some make-up first.  I'd have to dig through my trunk for a summer dress, my winter clothes still hanging in the closet. But it wouldn't hurt to ride by the library, would it?  Maybe Adam Carmichael would be outside taking his lunch break or sitting on one of the park benches, chatting with the patrons.

I took off once again and a few minutes later crested the small rise in the road.  The Jefferson Library, built in the late 19th century, sat on a hill overlooking the town.  It had one of the best views -- or so I heard, seeing as I'd never stepped foot inside the library in all the years I'd lived here. 

Avoiding the cars at the traffic circle, I pulled onto the sidewalk and continued on foot until I could rest the bike against a tree and observe the front doors.  Mothers and toddlers were surging out, while several seniors tried to move past the tribes and get into the building.  It was school break week, so several teens were lying on the grass, soaking in the sun; two of them were tossing a Frisbee half-heartedly.

And then I saw him. It had to be Mr. Librarian.  He towered over everyone else, wavy dark hair tickling against the open collar of a crisp, white shirt. My fingers started tingling wondering how it would feel to run them through those waves.  Would it feel like silk?  Or maybe thick and wiry? 

As he approached the teens, I thought, oh yeah, here it comes.  He's going to ask them to stop, to move away, blah, blah, blah.  Just like old lady what's her name.  I leaned against the tree and waited for the confrontation.  The teens looked up as he drew closer, their expressions taking on the typical I'm bored, I don't want to be here mask.

I noticed that the cut of his khakis was nice and snug around his hips and butt.  A very nice butt, too.  I'd expected a flabby butt from sitting around reading all day.  And glasses.  He wasn't wearing glasses, which should be part-and-parcel of the librarian uniform, shouldn't it? 

He stopped and raised his hand.  The teens looked at each other and then one of them tossed the Frisbee.  Hard.  The thing sliced through the air at least two feet over his head.  Carmichael made a deft leap and caught it.  No wobbles, sweet and clean.  He was grinning like a kid as he let go the Frisbee with a snap of his wrist, low and swift, skimming the grass, making the other teen lunge for it, catching it just in time before he hit the ground. 

I couldn't hear what they were saying to each other, but it was clear that Carmichael had just made two new friends.  Not too shabby, Mr. Librarian, I thought.  And then he looked over in my direction, lifting one brow in question.  I leaned back, trying to slip around the tree trunk, but not before he smiled and gave a half-wave. 

Shit!  He’d caught me scoping him out, staring at him. Maybe he really did wear glasses, maybe he was near-sighted.  Yeah, right.  And maybe I'm blonde, stacked and have oodles of money in the bank.  I yanked the bike and headed off in the opposite direction, pedaling as fast as I could.  I'd take the back roads to my little apartment and re-think this librarian thing.

Maybe Hank was okay.  I'd just stick with the familiar, the known factor.  No stress, no embarrassing moments like just before.  And maybe I'd spend the rest of my life popping beers and watching the sports channels with Hank. 

Nope, not going to happen.  Wheeling the bike onto the back porch, I secured the lock and sat on the top step, staring out into the garden that wrapped around the backyard of the three-family house.  Daffodils and tulips dotted the beds under flowering spikes of forsythia.  In the far corner, a large magnolia tree swayed in the warm breeze that lifted its tentacles of creamy white, star-like blossoms.  It made me think about the Japanese paintings I'd seen in the MFA in Boston years ago, a place I retreated to often when I was slogging my way through college, finally earning my degree in accounting.

And where was I now, almost ten years later?  Working two jobs, crunching numbers for two local CPA firms.  Exciting stuff, uh?  Something had to change and soon.  I didn't know what, but I just knew that if I didn't make something happen, my life would continue to slide along, day by day, year after year until one day I found myself filing for Medicare.

I yanked up a weed that was coming up through the step, squashing it in my hand with more force than necessary.  I'd watched my mom and dad slide along like that, always making plans to do something -- travel, install a new kitchen, move to the city once the kids were grown and out of the house.  But they never did.  Like Hank, it was television, sports, news, dinner, then bed.  Same thing the next day, the next week, the next year until they died.

I sighed.  This rummaging about in the past was doing me no good at all.  Live for today, plan for tomorrow.  I jumped up and climbed the back stairs to my apartment on the third floor.  I flipped on the AC in the living/dining/kitchen area, all one large space under the eaves of the house, then stepped into the bedroom at the opposite end of the house and hit the AC button, moving it to high.  The top floor tended to trap the heat from below, so I spent most of the year in shorts and t-shirts even if it was snowing outside.  Sometimes I think the second job was just to pay for my electric bill.  But with three dormer windows, east, south and west, each with a tiny balcony, I was more than content with my third-floor aerie.  The views alone were amazing and the light was incredible.

Hitting the speed dial of my cell, I made an appointment for a tanning session later that afternoon, then called Julie to see if she could squeeze me in for a touch-up.  After a good long soak in the tiny shower, all scrubbed and cleaned from head to toe, I applied a honeysuckle-scented lotion and did my toe nails in a soft, bronzy shade.  Forget about my fingernails -- I tended to gnaw on them ever since I quit smoking eight years ago.  There was little to work with there. 

The hair I would leave for Julie to deal with.  I moved off to the closet and squirreled around in the trunk holding my summer clothes and came up with a dandy pair of white jeans and a navy-blue V-neck top, the deep blue setting off my hazel-green eyes.  Some mascara and a dab of toned lip gloss, finished off with a pair of silver hoop earrings, completed the ensemble.  I stepped back and looked in the full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door.

Okay, not to panic.  Still in good shape.  Flat tummy, tight ass, pale skin fairly well covered up for now.  Hair will be tackled shortly.  Since I'd be driving my clunker there was no need for the braid.  I'd let the hair do its thing, loose and somewhat wild, tiny corkscrews framing my face.  But Julie would tame those down. 

Shoes or sandals?  I crawled on the floor next to the bed and reached under, feeling for the familiar ballet flats dotted with flowers.  Cute but not silly.  I blew off the dust bunnies and wiped the flats down with a damp wash cloth.  I made a note to vacuum under the bed, not just around it.

I had some time before the tanning session, so I puttered around the place, scooping up the week's debris -- newspapers, tissues, yesterday's dinner still sitting on the coffee table.  I refilled the bird feeder attached to the kitchen window, then decided to cut some flowers for the apartment. It needed color after the long winter months.  I dashed down the stairs again and out into the yard.  My landlord, Homer Anderson, always kept the side door to the bank of garages unlocked, so I picked up a pair of small shears and headed toward the daffodils. 

The sound of a car caught my attention as I leaned down and started snipping.  A door slammed and footsteps sounded on the gravel driveway.  I glanced over my shoulder and almost fell over.  Thank god for the surrounding shrubs because there was Adam Carmichael heading down the driveway toward the front of the house, carrying a large duffle bag and another slung over his shoulder.  Then he disappeared around the corner of the house.  I sat down hard on the grass.  

Oh, come on, this must be a dream!  No, a bad nightmare.  Mr. Librarian living in the same house as me?  It couldn't be.  Maybe he had an evil twin, a doppelganger?  Maybe that chicken caesar wrap was bad and I was suffering from food poisoning? 

The sound of footsteps returned, so I did a fast crawl on my hands and knees until I was hidden under a large evergreen.  Peeking through the branches, I could see Carmichael pulling bags of groceries from the local market out of the trunk.  He turned and looked out at the back yard, frowning.  He put the bags back and started to walk toward the garden. 

I looked over my shoulder to see what was bothering him.  The shears and daffodils lay only about ten feet away where I had ditched them before finding my hidey-hole.  I scooted back a bit more, not breathing, watching him draw closer.  He stopped and looked around, then bent down to pick up the flowers and shears.  He turned his head.  I froze.

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