Page 10 of Firefly Nights

"And yet here he is, discussing nineteenth-century literature with the dean of the community college while simultaneously fixing that wobbly auction podium." Hazel's eyes twinkle. "Sometimes the best characters are the ones who surprise us."

I want to protest that Nathan isn't a character. He's frustratingly, wonderfully real. But then he catches my eye again, and my carefully prepared response dissolves.

Because he is real. Real in a way that makes my fictional heroes pale in comparison. Real in a way that terrifies and thrills me in equal measure.

"The next item up for bid," Nathan announces from the newly-stabilized podium, "is a first edition ofLittle Women. I'm told it's in excellent condition, though personally, I'm more impressed by how the librarian's eyes light up every time she talks about the March sisters."

The crowd chuckles, and the bidding starts high. I clutch my clipboard tighter, fighting a smile as Nathan guides the auction with the same easy confidence he brings to everything else.

"Careful, dear," Hazel murmurs. "That's the look of someone whose story is taking an unexpected turn."

"The final tally," Nathan announces as we lock up the library, "is exactly none of your business until tomorrow."

I pause with my key in the lock. "What do you mean? I need to update the donor records and?—"

"And it can wait until morning." He gently tugs my hand away from the door. "Tonight was a success. The library's still standing. Let yourself enjoy it for five minutes before diving into spreadsheets."

"I enjoy spreadsheets."

"Of course you do." His laugh is soft in the quiet street. "Come on, Book Whisperer. Let me walk you home."

I should say no. Should insist on checking the numbers, filing the donor cards, making sure everything's properly documented. Instead, I find myself nodding.

The night air wraps around us like a well-worn shawl as we walk, our footsteps falling into an easy rhythm. Nathan's rolled up his sleeves despite the cooling temperature, and I try not to notice how the moonlight plays across his forearms.

"Penny for your thoughts?" he asks.

"I'm wondering how you convinced Mr. Richardson to bid on that poetry collection. He hates poetry."

"Ah, but he loves a good investment. All I had to do was mention how his grandkids are studying Frost in school..."

"You're dangerous, you know that?"

He glances at me, eyebrows raised. "How so?"

"You see what people need before they know they need it. Like that reading corner?—"

"Which you practically designed yourself."

"I mentioned one thing about the kids straining to see. You're the one who showed up with plans for a whole magical reading space."

"Magical?" His shoulder brushes mine as we walk. "I thought I was just the practical one in this partnership."

The wordpartnershipsends a warm flutter through my chest. "You're not as practical as you pretend to be."

"And you're not as lost in fiction as you want everyone to believe."

We pause at the corner where Sycamore Street meets Oak, the soft glow of street lamps turning everything gentle and dream-like. A piece of hair has escaped my careful styling, and before I can reach for it, Nathan's hand is there, tucking it behind my ear.

His fingers graze my cheek, just barely, but it's enough to make my breath catch. Every romance novel I've ever read has described moments like this. The charged air, the racing heart, the way time seems to slow down.

None of them got it quite right.

"Grace." His voice is rough around the edges. Then a car turns onto the street, headlights sweeping across us, breaking whatever spell had been building.

Nathan steps back, clearing his throat. "We should get you home before you turn into a pumpkin."

"Wrong fairy tale," I manage, trying to steady my racing pulse.

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