Page 7 of In Every Chapter

Greyson smiled at me. “I remember. Don’t worry about it. We’ll swing by on the way home.”

“My hero.” I slowly started walking backwards towards the front door and blew him a kiss. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

I waved, and he honked in farewell before driving away. Shifting the satchel on my shoulder, I faced the library. Serenity Springs Public Library was quaint with its tan brick façade covered with swaths of ivy and broad windows under a small green-and-white-striped awning. Flower boxes under the windows bloomed in a rainbow assortment of colours, each more vivid than the last. The poster on the front door—courtesy of Ethan, my younger Gen Z coworker—always made me laugh.

PLEASE DO NOT LET JERRY INSIDE.

WE DO NOT WANT JERRY IN THE LIBRARY.

JERRY’S OWNERS DO NOT WANT JERRY

IN THE LIBRARY.

JERRY WANTS TO BE IN THE LIBRARY.

DO NOT LISTEN TO JERRY. THANK YOU.

Jerry was the Gullivers’ Maine coon cat, who roamed downtown like it was his own personal Serengeti and he was king of the jungle. He had a habit of bribing (read: tricking) patrons into letting him into the air-conditioned splendor of the library. We kept a dish outside the building for pets because Serenity Springs got warm in the summer, and we weren’t heartless, but still—no cats in the library.

What a concept. Someone call Dr. Seuss.

Honestly, Jerry should be the one getting Mrs. Gulliver’s tickets (you know, for unwanted breaking and entering) instead of honest Serenity Springs bystanders. Oh well.

But Jerry was easier to handle than the squirrel that had been crawling through the book return slot last spring to steal our head librarian’s lunches. It got so bad, people had to call through the slot when they returned a book to announce that they were not in fact the squirrel. Eventually, animal patrol got involved, and the squirrel was relocated. Never a dull moment around here.

I flung the door open. “Good morning, Flo!” I smiled at the head librarian behind the desk.

Flo glanced between me and the clock, then grunted. Like I’d ruined her morning simply by not being late and giving her an opportunity to lecture me. Poor Florence. She really needed better hobbies.

Because even with that special goodbye, I was three minutes early. Greyson was nothing if not efficient.

One day, I would crack my boss’s prickly façade and get her to smile at me. Or at least not grunt her greetings in monosyllables. But after six years of working here, I still hadn’t managed it.

“Up high, Ms. Pais!” Ethan, our seventeen-year-old intern, strolled around the corner, pushing a book cart and lifted his hand for a high five. “Did you see Jerry?” he added after I tapped his hand.

I snorted. “No, but I saw his owner.”

Flo harrumphed, and Ethan made a face. “Guess your day can only get better from here then, huh?”

I laughed, tugging my cardigan more securely around me, and stepped around the counter. Flo and Ethan’s easy bickering floated in the background, and I paused for a minute to breathe in the smell of ink and paper, stories and legends. They settled my soul with a warm caress. It was going to be a good day.

Chapter two

Greyson

I parked my truck across from the library just after 4:30. A last-minute customer kept me later than I’d planned since one of my guys was off early to pick up his kids from a baseball day camp. No matter.

Grabbing the blueberry bubble tea I’d picked up for Paisley at Bean There, Done That Café on my way, I let Rosie Cotton out of the back seat and snapped on her leash. She had separation anxiety issues, so she came to work with me most days, watching us from her bed in the corner. All the guys loved her, considering her the official shop mascot.

Rosie trotted alongside me, tail wagging as I strode up the sidewalk.

A gunshot cracked through the languid afternoon, and I flinched, knuckles white around Rosie’s leash. Heat baked my skin, and I swore I felt sand pelting my face. Not a gun. Not Afghanistan. Just Mrs. Gulliver.

The old clunker, a Mustang predating the Vietnam War, was in immaculate condition. Rosie nudged my hand, her brown eyes wide with concern.

“I’m okay, girl.” I scratched her affectionately. My PTSD responses and nightmares had lessened substantially in the last year, but even after four years out of the military, there were some things I still couldn’t shake.