Page 2 of The Librarian and the Rock Star

“‘Just a bit of crumble’ sounds British,” I laughed.

He shrugged. “My Nana is British. Maybe I picked something up.” He looked down, concerned. “Did you hurt your hand?”

I checked my left palm, which was definitely scraped, with a few drops of blood. Focused on this gorgeous stranger, I hadn’t even felt it.

I began brushing off the dirt to examine the abrasion, but he dropped my right hand to take my left with both of his and take a better look. It was an innocent gesture, but the cont

act of his skin on mine instantly made my heart race. Reaching into the pocket of his leather jacket, he took out tissues and hand sanitizer. He wiped off the dirt, then said, “This will sting like hell for a few seconds, but you don’t want to get infected. Can you handle it?”

The strangest feeling of wanting to prove myself to him overtook me. “Go for it,” I said. Then I grit my teeth.

The cool liquid was soothing for a split second before it turned to fire and stung like dancing shards of glass. My sharp intake of breath conveyed my pain. He threw the bottle back in his pocket and took my other hand. “Ten seconds. It fades fast. You can do it.”

Sure enough, as I silently counted to ten, it felt much better. An unusual tingle overtook me as I realized he was still holding my hands. It was odd to be feeling it in the base of my spine.

“Thanks,” I said, the sting subsiding enough for me to speak. “I certainly don’t want to get alley disease.”

We laughed together for a moment, as I studied his perfect cheekbones, perfect teeth, dark, dramatic eyes. Maybe he was a model.

A giant crash rang through the alley and I squealed, nearly jumping out of my skin, spinning wildly to see what was happening. Suddenly I was being held, with strong arms wrapped around me, instinctively stroking my back as if I were a frightened child.

“Shh, it’s okay. It’s one of those huge industrial trash bins.” I tried to pull away, feeling myself blushing fiercely, but he held me for another few seconds. “Are you alright?”

Tilting my head up, I realized that he had been leaning in at the same moment, and we both froze. Our lips were nearly touching. I could see the darker flecks in his irises, his breath was warm against my cheek. I was paralyzed for a heartbeat, then forced myself to step back. “Fine, just jumpy. Um, thanks.”

He looked like he wanted to laugh, but didn’t want to offend me. How did anyone walk around casually looking like a movie star all day long, even in a dirty alley? Breaking off my inappropriate staring, I looked around. “Where did you come from?”

He pointed to the big red metal door that said, ‘Steve’s Deliveries’.

“You work at the music store?” I asked.

His large, intense eyes regarded me strangely. “No, I’m doing an interview there.”

“Oh, a journalist then?”

His lips twitched. Apparently, I amused the hell out of him. “Nah, I’m the sucker getting interviewed.” I looked down, slightly embarrassed, then it got worse. Naturally, the day I run into an unbelievably gorgeous musician, I’m wearing a brown and orange floral dress, with my long auburn hair a mess, looking every bit the nerd I’ve always feared I was.

He realized that he was still holding my hands, and gently let them go. They felt like they were still tingling from his touch. I noticed that his fingers were beginning to shake very slightly.

“I’m sorry that I distracted you.”

“Trust me, you’re a welcome distraction,” he said. “Interviews are… not my thing. At all.” His lips mashed into a straight line. He was filled with dread I could almost see – a dull cloak of despair holding him down. His fingers were obviously twitching now.

I had no idea why, but I was struck with the urge to take care of him. He was in crisis, he needed help, and he needed to regain control immediately. Normally I was incredibly shy, especially around strangers, but something inside me said that helping him was more important than my discomfort at taking charge.

“Plant your feet,” I said, as a polite order.

He looked at me, surprised, but he obeyed. “Breathe in from the bottoms of your feet, pulling air all the way through your body and up to the top of your head. Be an inch taller than you thought you were.” His luscious lips pulled to the side in a crooked smile, but he did precisely as he was told. He was quite graceful even while standing still, like a dancer.

“Feel your head stretching up to the sky,” I continued. “Feel your feet melting into the concrete. Your shoulders are dropped, your arms are long. Tip your shoulders back slightly so your lungs have plenty of room for air.” As he played along, the tension drained from his eyes and his body was noticeably less tense. His fingers stopped twitching.

“Be full of air,” I said, watching his lungs expand. “Be empty of air,” I continued slowly. “Be full. Be empty.” He breathed along, calming himself, clearing his mind, and gaining energy. His eyes closed as he concentrated. His breathing became very even, and his focus appeared sharp.

I stood in silence for several minutes while he breathed.

“What’s the interview about?” I asked softly.

“My band’s latest album.”

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