Page 4 of Let it Crackle
She narrows her eyes. “Don’t sound so shocked. Libraries are built on logic. Unlike your entire high school personality.”
I smirk. “So this scanner is, what, my training wheels?”
She huffs. “No, it’s my safety net. Because I don’t have the time or energy to clean up your mess.”
I grin and lift the scanner like it’s a trophy. “Then let’s shelve some poetry, boss.”
She mutters something about testosterone and poor life choices and limps away down the row.
I scan the first book with a satisfying littlebeep. The screen flashes:813.54 – American Fiction.
“Okay,” I mutter, more to myself than her. “Eight-thirteen point five-four. That’s somewhere… here?”
I find the nearest open spot in the general vicinity, slide the book in, and give her a proud look over my shoulder. “Boom. Nailed it.”
There’s a pause.
Then a sigh. “You did not nail it.”
I turn back. She’s frowning down at the shelf like I just committed literary murder.
She crutches closer and plucks the book from the slot. “This says 813.54, yes. But you stuck it between 813.1 and 813.2.” She holds it up like she’s showing me a wounded animal. “When you get an emergency call, are you ‘nailing it’ if you show up at a random house on the same block? No. It goes in exact numerical order.”
“I mean,” I hedge, “fires are pretty easy to see—”
“Maddox.” Her voice is flat. “Books are not fires. You need to know where to find them beforehand.”
“Noted.”
She puts the book in the right spot with a quick flick of her wrist. Then she turns to me, arms crossed, lips tight.
I try again. Scan. Get the number and then shelve.
Another sigh.
“Okay, you just put poetry next to science fiction,” she says.
I glance down. “They both had an eight in the front.”
“Maddox.”
“I’m trying!”
She narrows her eyes. “Try quieter, we in a library.”
I grin, but back off. “Alright, alright. I’ll double-check next time.”
She gestures at the next book in my stack. “Scan it. Read the number. Match the number. Don’t guess. Don’t improvise. This is not a jazz concert—it’s the Dewey Decimal System.”
I laugh under my breath, watching her fuss with the books already on the cart. The way she adjusts them, double-checks every label. She’s exacting. Focused. Kinda bossy.
And honestly? It’s hot as hell.
Fuck, she’s gorgeous.
Glasses slipping down her nose. Hair all undone from the humidity. That mouth—that sharp, gorgeous mouth—muttering under her breath as she tries to balance on one crutch and shelve a stack of books like the stubborn, infuriating, beautiful woman she is.
I should be focused on helping. Ishouldbe scanning barcodes and organizing spines like she asked.
