Page 1 of Firefly Nights

Chapter One

Grace

"'It is a truth universally acknowledged,'" I whisper to the empty library, "'that a single man in possession of a tool belt must be in want of something to fix.'"

Jane Austen would probably haunt me for that adaptation, but it's been hard to focus on anything else since last week's encounter at the visitor center. Nathan Cole. Licensed contractor. Apparently competentandcharming, according to him.

The garbage can beneath the worst leak offers a steady percussion: drip-drip-drip. Three more have joined it overnight, creating an archipelago of plastic islands between the Biography and Travel sections. At this rate, I'll need to build an ark before the morning rush.

"This is what you get," I mutter, shelving books with more force than necessary, "for letting Ben recommend a contractor because he has nice forearms." My face heats at the admission. "Not that I noticed his forearms. Or his smile. Or the way he—" I stop myself, horrified. "This isnotturning into one of those stories."

The library has always been my sanctuary, a place where reality and fiction blend into something manageable. Safe. Here,even the most dramatic tales stay contained within their covers, and happy endings are guaranteed if you just turn enough pages.

I retreat to the circulation desk, pulling out my worn copy ofPride and Prejudice. Gran gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday, saying every woman should have at least one book that feels like coming home. The familiar pages fall open to my favorite part—Elizabeth finally seeing Pemberley, finally understanding there's more to Mr. Darcy than her first impressions suggested.

"Not helping," I tell the book, closing it firmly.

Movement outside the front windows catches my eye. A familiar figure approaches the entrance, coffee cups in hand. My heart does a strange little skip as I glance at my watch. 7:05 a.m., nearly two hours before opening.

I hurry to the door, already composing a polite but firm speech about library hours. But when I reach the entrance, Nathan Cole's smile through the glass makes the words dissolve before they reach my tongue.

He holds up the coffee cups and mouths, "Early bird special?"

I shouldn't. The library doesn't officially open until nine, and I have a very specific morning routine that doesn't include contractors bearing caffeine. But another drip echoes from the travel section, and really, this is about protecting the books. Nothing more.

My reflection in the glass door catches my eye as I unlock it. The woman staring back looks exactly like what she is—a librarian who spends more time with fictional characters than real people. The kind who categorizes her personal library by genreandauthorandsize scheme. Who talks to books more easily than she talks to people.

"You're early," I say, opening the door just wide enough to be polite.

"Figured you might need caffeine before I start talking about support beams and shingles." He offers one of the cups. "Unless you're more of a tea person? You seem like you might be a tea person."

"I'm a 'the library doesn't open for another two hours' person." But I accept the coffee anyway, stepping back to let him in.

Nathan fills the doorway in a way that seems impossible, morning light catching in his tousled hair and yes, fine, those unfairly nice forearms exposed by rolled-up sleeves. He's wearing a smile that belongs in the kind of romance novels I pretend not to keep in my bedside drawer.

"Should I be worried about angry card catalog spirits this early in the morning?" he asks, glancing around. "Or maybe the ghost of dissertations past?"

"The air conditioning," I reply, closing the door behind him. "It's been temperamental lately."

"Add it to my list." He steps further into the library, and I catch a hint of sawdust and coffee and something else. Something that makes me think of summer nights and possibility. "I'm starting to think this place needs more than a new roof."

"It needs someone who understands it," I say before I can stop myself. "Someone who sees more than just an old building with problems to fix."

Nathan turns, and something in his expression shifts. Softens. "Show me," he says quietly. "Help me see it through your eyes."

And maybe it's the earnestness in his voice, or the way early sunshine turns the library into something out of a story, or simply that I'm tired of being the cautious heroine who never takes chances, but I hear myself say, "Okay. Where would you like to start?"

He grins, and oh, this is definitely turning into one of those stories. "Wherever you think this story begins."

The Tuesday morning story time crowd spills out of the children's section in a wave of excited chatter and construction paper. I'm shelving nearby, allegedly organizing the middle-grade novels but actually watching Nathan patch a small crack in the ceiling. He's been working steadily all morning, pausing occasionally to ask questions about the library's history or comment on my "creative" organization system.

"Miss Grace!" Charlie Carter tugs at my cardigan. "Can you help us reach the dinosaur books? We're doing reports."

"Of course, but—" I start to set down my stack of returns.

"I got it!" Nathan's already climbing down from his ladder. "T-Rex or Triceratops? Or are we more interested in the flying ones? Pterodactyls were always my favorite."

Charlie's whole face lights up. "You know about dinosaurs?"

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