Page 3 of Let it Crackle
And now here she is again, standing in front of me, all grown up, with a mouth that doesn’t hold back and eyes that still undo me.
I glance down at the library assignment sheet, the one pinned to the firehouse fridge two days ago. We’re on a rotating outreach program, part of the fire station’s new community visibility initiative. Chief Levi made it clear: no skipping shifts. The mayor’s watching. Our funding is on the line. So when I saw “Afternoon Assistance: Silvertown Hollow Library” next to my name, I thought I’d hit the easy gig jackpot.
Instead, I walked straight into karma.
She comes limping back into view on her crutches, a stack of books tucked under one arm and murder in her eyes when she sees me still standing there.
“Didn’t I tell you to leave?”
Her voice is sharper than I remember. Rougher. But somehow still soft in the places it always was.
“Yeah, you did,” I say. “I’m not great at following instructions.”
Her eyes narrow.
“I’m not here to bother you. I didn’t know you would be here. But I need this shift.”
She snorts. “What? So you can earn your Paw Patrol badge in community service and look good for the mayor?”
I nod. “Pretty much. There’s a grant we’re trying to lock down for the station. New gear, new trucks, all that. Part of getting it is showing up for the town. You’re part of the town.”
She crosses her arms, wobbling slightly. “So I’m a checkbox now?”
“No. You’re a stubborn librarian who clearly needs a a hand. And a leg,” I say, trying not to laugh.
She inhales slowly, clearly counting to ten before she says something she’ll regret. I can almost see the internal battle play out across her face. I flash her my most charming grin, which only seems to annoy her more.
“Lucky for you,” I add, flexing just a little as I lift the stack of books with one arm, “these hands come with excellent muscle definition. Legs do too, but you’ll just have to take my word on that one.”
She scoffs, rolling her eyes so hard I’m surprised she stays upright on one foot. “Fantastic. A walking gym membership who thinks that qualifies him to work in a library.”
“Ouch.” I clutch my chest. “That felt personal.”
“It was,” she mutters, turning on her crutch with a dramatic swish of her skirt.
I chuckle. “Come on. Let me stay. Just for today. If I suck, you can send me packing and request one of the less attractive firefighters. Like Levi.”
Her glare is unrelenting. “Fine. One day. But if I findWuthering Heightsin the horror section, I will call the mayor myself and have you reassigned to sewer duty.”
“Romance and horror aren’tthatdifferent,” I mutter.
She doesn’t look back, but I catch the faintest twitch of her lips.
I follow her slowly down the aisle, lugging the stack of books she handed over like they’re made of bricks. She stops at a cart near the end of the shelves, balancing on her crutches with practiced ease.
Without a word, she grabs a small device from the cart and holds it out to me. “Here. This’ll make sure you don’t completely screw it up.”
I take the scanner, turning it over in my hands. “What is it?”
“It’s a barcode scanner,” she says, already sounding tired of me. “You scan the book. It tells you exactly where it belongs. Saves us both the agony of you putting Shakespeare in the cooking section.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Is that a thing people do?”
“You’d be surprised.” She points to the small screen on top of the scanner. “Once you scan, it shows a Dewey number—three digits and maybe a decimal. That’s the category. Think of it like the book’s address. You put it back in its lane, nice and neat.”
She gestures at the labels on the shelves. “See that? 811 to 820. That means any book with a number between those two goes right here.”
I nod slowly, impressed despite myself. “Okay. That actually makes sense.”
