Page 49 of Love in the Stacks
I head down the steps, my right arm bent upward for my hand to grasp the straps of the official NLA conference tote bag I received when I checked in this morning. It doesn’t have much in it, just a few loose pieces of paper and a pen. I stopped by my room before coming to the exhibit hall to drop off my computer bag. I kept the mostly empty tote in case there’s any vendor swag I want to pick up.
At the bottom of the stairs, I start making my way through the rows of vendors, grouped together by type—the database companies here, the website and catalog vendors there. I walk toward the back left of the room, where I saw the signs for the graphic novel stage. As I do, I pass through the aisles housing the book publisher booths.
Booth is a bit of a misnomer here. The large publishers don’t have simple “booths”, but rather large hallways of displays with shelving,tables, life-size cutouts of new characters, and more. Some even laid down their own plush carpeting. Lining these hallways are literal towers of books—ARCs, or advance reader copies, of the publisher’s forthcoming releases in any genre you can imagine. ARCs are paperbacks that often lack the final cover art and all the final edits of the official version of a book. Each stack I see holds multiple copies of the same title. Some of the stacks come up as high as my chest, built in a rounded column with each layer of books laid brick wall style, slightly overlapping with each of the two books below it.
These books, believe it or not, are free for the taking. Publishers love putting their forthcoming books in front of the librarians who make purchasing decisions and recommendations. Even though that’s notmyrole, the publishers don’t really care and don’t actually check. A few ask to scan my badge, but for the most part, I just walk through the aisles, picking up books that appeal to me and putting them in my conference tote bag. Often, I just look at the covers and titles (despite the edict not to judge books by their covers), but sometimes I’ll skim the summary first before deciding to slip it into my bag. Speaking of which, my tote bag is getting full. I decide that when it runs out of room, I’ll leave the publisher section and find that graphic novel stage.
I turn the corner into the realm of a new publisher and a voice to my right says, “Tote bag?” One of the publisher reps is handing me a cute canvas tote with rope handles that says, “When life gives you lemonade, read in the shade.”
Um, yes please. Since I now have another bag, I guess I can pick up some more books. I walk through this publisher’s area and tucknew books into my new bag. And then, it happens a couple more times: I can’t possibly hold another book and am about to continue on, when someone else hands me another tote bag and then I load that tote bag with more free books. Before I know it, I’m carrying around four tote bags bursting with paperbacks—two bags slung over each shoulder. The handles are digging into my skin. My load is not only weighing me down, but also making it difficult to walk through the aisles now that I’m wider and taking up more space. Yeah, I’m starting to think this was not the best idea.
I give up on trying to get to the graphic novel and comics area, and instead make my way toward the perimeter of the room to get my bearings. I need to go back to my hotel and drop off these bags. Oh, shoot. My hotel is a quarter mile away. I’ll have to carry all this all that way. Though the exhibit hall is air conditioned, the exertion from carrying the heavy bags is making me overly warm. I lament the cardigan sweater I’m wearing, trapped in place under eight heavy tote bag straps. I can feel the sweat beading on my forehead and the back of my neck behind the cascade of my hair.
After some pivoting, I reach a side wall of the exhibit hall space and dump the bags on the floor so I can rest my shoulders, pull myself together, and make a plan. I start removing my sweater even as I’m trying to remember if I have a hair tie with me. In my peripheral vision, I see someone approaching, and I whirl around.
“Uhh, hey Nicole.” Adam eyes me with amusement. “Whatcha got there?”
“I got a little carried away with the ARCs,” I explain, one arm still half stuck in my cardigan. I’m a sweaty, rumpled mess. Gah, this is embarrassing.
“I can see that. Need help?” He’s smiling as he surveys the situation, his eyes twinkling.
I haven’t seen Adam all day. It’s a big conference and the sessions we’re attending don’t really align because our job responsibilities are so different. He’s back in his work attire today: black chinos and a red, collared short sleeved shirt. He’s carrying a tan, suede messenger bag about the right size to hold a laptop computer. He looks calm and collected, as usual, making me feel even more self-conscious about the state I’m in.
“You don’t really want to play my rescuer again, do you?” I half-tease, trying to gauge what he thinks of all this.
The smile drops from his face. “Always,” he answers seriously. “Anytime.”
My heart skips a beat and the heat in my face intensifies.
“I need to get these all back to my room,” I admit. “I’d love some help.”
Adam turns his attention to the pile of bags on the floor. He considers a moment, then says, “If you carry my computer bag, I can get all four of your bags.”
I start to protest, but Adam is already handing me his messenger bag. He hoists one bag, then another, onto his right shoulder, angling one onto his back and the other on his right side. He repeats that for the other two bags, but on his left side. He pauses a minute to adjust everything, then grins at me.
“Ready when you are,” he says.
I quickly sling his (light and comfortable) bag across my chest and lead the way to the stairs. When we get to the street and start toward the hotel, I end up walking a bit behind him, so we don’t take up too much space on the sidewalk. After a few minutes, his breath gets heavier, and he shifts the bags with a roll of his shoulders. He moves his right hand to hold the straps on his left side to support the weight better. The movement causes his sleeve on the arm closest to me to ride up, uncovering his biceps and a hint of his tattoo. Under the strain of the weight, they’re flexing attractively. I swallow thickly.
Adam looks over his shoulder and I realize I’m staring. “What?” he asks.
I shake my head, clearing my thoughts.
I smile at him sweetly. “You look ridiculous,” I say.
He raises his eyebrows over the frame of his glasses and refocuses on the space in front of him as we walk. “Bold words from the person who filled all these bags to begin with,” he says, but the corners of his mouth are turned up in a teasing grin.
By the time we get to the bank of elevators in the hotel lobby, Adam is, if not huffing and puffing, definitely feeling the effects of carrying fifty pounds of books over three blocks. As I’m pushing the button inside the elevator for my floor, my stomach swirls with a mixture of embarrassment, gratitude, and something else I’m not ready to identify yet.
“Do you want to set them down until we get to our floor?” I ask him.
“Uh, nah. Honestly, I think it will be harder to put them down and then pick them back up again than just to keep carrying them.” The strands of hair framing his forehead are damp and his cheeks are red. He runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it.
When we get to my door, I quickly unlock it and make way for him to go inside. “You can set them here.” I gesture to a square of empty floor next to the dresser. He dumps the bags, shaking out his arms and rolling his shoulders to loosen them.
“Well, thank you,” I say.
Turning toward me, with a sly smile I’ve not seen from him before, he asks, “Don’t I even get to see the booty?”
