Page 4 of Three Pucks and a Baby

“You should see them in person.”

“So, what’s even better than black thigh highs?”

“She’s a librarian.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Trust me, I wouldn’t lie about something like that.”

It was well known to me and half of the team that Theo had an unfulfilled fetish when it came to librarians. His go-to sub-genre on PornHub was dirty librarians.

“Have you talked to her yet?”

“No. I was waiting to make my move until I confirmed with you.”

“The fact she’s a librarian should’ve been confirmation enough for you that I was all fucking in.”

I laughed. “I know. But I had to make sure.”

“Okay, set up dinner or drinks.”

“Considering we’re running out of time, I’m going to try to lock her in for tonight.”

Theo snorted. “You don’t think that’s going to reek of desperation?”

“Not when I’m pulling out all the Cinnamon Roll/Golden Retriever stops I can.”

With a groan, Theo replied, “You sound like a complete dickhead.”

“You know as well as I do that me hanging out in bookstores and pretending to read kept us swimming in pussy last season.”

Somehow being on hockey TikTok had led me to an unexpected encounter with something called BookTok. When I realized how feral the girls were there, I put my usual personality quirks to good use to become the Cinnamon Roll/Golden Retriever to Theo’s Alpha Asshole/Bad Boy. We gave the girls the best of both worlds where they could fuck both sides of their fantasies at the same time.

Chuckling, Theo replied, “I can’t argue there. Fine. Try to lock it down for tonight. Keep me posted, and I’ll ditch my parents as soon as possible.”

“Sure thing.” After hanging up, I slid my phone into my pocket. “It’s showtime,” I murmured under my breath.

CHAPTER TWO: VIVIAN

Although most of the university library staff loathed working the evening shift, it was my favorite. It was glorious getting to spend the first half of the day writing or knitting to Netflix while being a hermit at my house before I had to go to work.In many ways, the library didn’t come alive until the afternoon. It truly was at its best when it was teeming with students as the sounds of click-clacking keyboards, pens scribbling on paper, and hushed conversations filled the air.

Tonight I was stationed at the reference desk. Since we were short one student worker, I was forced to shovel in my heated leftovers while sitting in my chair. There would be no rest for the weary since Thursdays were usually busy days for us since many of the professors gave Friday deadlines.

I’d just taken a huge bite of lasagna when a lanky guy with glasses came sprinting over to me. “Um, excuse me, Miss…?”

“Whitlock,” I muttered through the cheese and noodles. From his creased brows, I realized with my mouth full, I probably sounded a lot like Charlie Brown’s teacher. I held up my finger as I swallowed. “Sorry about that. It’s Ms. Whitlock or Vivian.”

The young man smiled. “I’m Amir.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Look, I hate to bother you, Ms. Whitlock, but like, I’m totally lost. Could you maybe help me figure out what the hell this poem is saying?” At his curse, he gave me a sheepish grin. “Sorry about that.”

Nodding, I dug a mint out of my drawer before rising out of my chair. Call me OCD, but I never wanted to make students refuse help because I’d assaulted them with heinous breath.

As I came out from behind the desk, I asked, “What is it you’re reading?”

“It’s this poem for my English 101 class. It’s calledThe Wanderer.”

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