Page 41 of Leashed

“You are not friends. I did not deem it so.”

With that, she marched off, her colorful scarves swaying.

Shaking off the strange encounter, Sage deposited her book pile on the counter, motioning toward the monitor and smiling at her coworker who was knelt beside a kid in the juvenile section. Scanning the books into the system, she paused and opened the one Bo had been reading, her eyes narrowing.

“Monster,” she muttered, compiling a long-winded, harsh text to him before she gathered her research and got to work.

*

Bo hesitated outsidethe library doors with a take-out bag in hand, his damp hair freezing.

How the hell was he supposed to know folding page corners was a cardinal sin for librarians?

The message he’d found on his phone when he’d woken alone in her home had been a two-parter, a tongue-lashing of epic proportions that would put Ryan’s lectures to shame.

His restitution was cooling quickly in the evening air, the fries probably hardening while he waffled between paying penance and walking straight to a bar.

Although Dionysus’s influence the night before had been strong, Sage’s sobering influence was currently stronger, and the part of him pushing against his tie to the old god was content to grovel at the feet of a wronged librarian.

Decision made, he pushed through the doors and walked to the checkout desk, the gray-haired woman at the counter pointing toward a back room when she saw him. She looked at the bag in his hand, shaking her head and clucking her tongue when he shrugged and gave her a grin.

Sage was standing in the middle of the room, a fake smile on her face as a group of kids jumped and tore around her, their hands and clothes covered in paint. Her eyes were wide while she complimented the pictures being shoved inches from her face, her arms wrapped tight around herself as she cringed away from the wet art projects.

She glanced at the clock on the wall, clapping her hands in a rhythm, shoulders dropping when the kids froze in spot and echoed it back to her.

“Okay, artists, time to wash our brushes out, empty and rinse our water containers, and wait for our rides to arrive,” she called out, her head dropping back as questions about her instructions were shouted out. “There are two sinks. Make two lines.”

The mayhem continued for another ten minutes. Too amused by Sage’s mild panic to interrupt, he waited just out of her sight in the doorway until the parents began arriving, the men inching past him and the women giving him blatant once-overs.

As the number of kids dwindled, he walked into the room, holding out the cold food. “This was meant to be restitution for the page-folding thing, but I think it should double as a poor man’s reward for surviving whatever the hell went down in here.”

She flopped down into a chair, lifting her hand up for inspection and wiping it on a rag. “If I ever volunteer to cover a kids’ program again, remind me of this night. This messy, loud, insane night.” She closed her eyes. “You’re a monster.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, pulling up a chair and straddling it as he set the bag in her lap. “But I’m a repentant monster. That counts for something, right?”

She opened the bag and held up a fry, startling when he snatched it out of her hand and yanked the bag of food back.

“Come on,” he said, pushing up off his seat. “My attempt at amends looks like it was dug out of a sofa. Let’s get something half-decent.” Nixon’s pinched, disapproving face flashed through his mind. “A friendly breaking of bread for my book faux pas and a meager offering of appreciation for not pushing me out into the snow when my drunk ass defiled your floor last night.”

He didn’t want to think about what he may or may not have said the night before.

All he remembered was waking beside her sofa covered in her housecoat, the scent of her perfume permeating his hair and clothes until he jumped the patio railing, rushing home to shower it off.

Sage looked around the room. “I have to get this place straightened up. And then yes. Yes, yes, yes.” She stood and tossed a rag at him. “I’m starving and exhausted and this past hour has solidified my desire to never, ever spawn children.”

Snorting at her declaration, he went to work washing down the tables. “One hour? This much mess in one hour?”

“Children have skills no mortal can understand,” she retorted, scrubbing the sink and wrapping the paintbrushes in a towel. “I never asked before, but since I’m going off on kids, do you have any I’m inadvertently offending?”

“Screw that idea.” He laughed, cringing when his hangover let him know laughing wasn’t allowed. “I can’t go six months without getting my truck impounded. I’m not exactly a prime candidate for fatherhood.”

The fact hellhounds couldn’t have kids was secondary in his head.

Rinsing out the rag, he passed it over to her and began pushing chairs into place. “You and buddy-boy aiming for a few rug rats?”

Her eyes darkened for a moment before she shook her head and plastered that fake smile back on. “Neither of us are keen on the idea. And as you can see, kids and I aren’t exactly a good combo.”

Sliding the last chair across the floor, he tossed the failed meal into the trash and held his arm out for her. “Done and done. Let’s go.”

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