Love and the Library Read online

  Love and the Library

  Lauren Connolly

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Lauren Connolly

  Copyright © 2020 by Lauren Connolly

  All rights reserved.

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  Visit my website at laurenconnollyromance.com

  Cover Designer: Paper and Sage Book Cover Designs

  Editor: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

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  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  ISBN-13: 978-1-949794-06-9

  Created with Vellum

  1

  HANNAH

  These slow-as-hell sorority girls need to get out of my way before I mow them down. If you want to stop and chat with your friends, go ahead, but not in the middle of the walking path. I have to sidestep into the grass to dodge around their giggling group. Once clear of them, I push my legs to the highest level of speed that can still be considered walking.

  I’m going to be late.

  Why did my professor think it was okay to lecture five minutes past the end of class? Doesn’t he know some of us have places to be?

  My heavy backpack smacks against my spine as I power-walk across campus.

  If I wasn’t in such a rush, I might take a moment to enjoy the warm spring day. The groundhog was wrong because it’s only mid-March, and the temperature is kissing upper sixties. I actually took the extra five minutes needed in the shower to shave my legs this morning, so I could pull out a set of my favorite tweed shorts. The sun soaks deep into my skin, baking my bones.

  This is one of the reasons I decided to come South for college. Not that Virginia is tropical or anything, but the winters run away sooner than in the frozen hell of Rochester. It is most definitely not shorts weather there right now. Mom is probably digging her car out of a foot of snow at this exact moment.

  So, normally, I would be strolling along, breathing in the thick, humid air carrying the sweet scent of newly blooming flowers and the pungent tang of freshly spread mulch. I’d smile up at the sky, where wisps of clouds did little to block out the great expanse of rich blue.

  But it’s Tuesday afternoon, which means there’s no time for dawdling.

  The library looms up tall before me, built in an almost Gothic style with its heavy gray bricks and rounded corners. Inside though, it’s a lot like other university libraries. Computer stations everywhere, colorful furniture, front desk staffed with helpful student workers.

  I blow past them. Well into my second year here, I know exactly where I’m headed.

  The elevator decides to work in slow motion, rudely ignoring my insistent pressing of the Door Close button. Finally, the silver doors slide shut, and I ascend at a crawl.

  “Come on. Come on,” I mutter to myself, a silent prayer that I’m not too late.

  My shoulders ache from the weight of my backpack, a physical reminder of all the homework I need to get done before my eight a.m. class tomorrow. Each semester, the workload grows heavier, as if the professors enjoy the idea of me struggling to maintain my academic scholarship.

  I haven’t let them break me—yet. All I need is a quiet, comfortable place to focus. Give me that, and I’ll scale the mountain of work like the badass I am.

  A chime sounds, and the doors inch open. I don’t wait for them to finish before shoving through and jogging forward, no one around to judge me. At least, that’s what I hope.

  But when I turn the corner, I find all my speedy efforts were in vain.

  Across the way, sitting in a casual slouch like he owns the place, is my nemesis. The sight of him there—his long fingers fiddling with a lock of his disheveled brown hair; his disinterested, round eyes tripping over the words in the textbook propped in his lap—brings on a wave of anger that slides from my now-hot cheeks down to my purple-painted toes.

  The gall of him to show up here again and take what should be mine.

  The Chair.

  Search this entire library, the whole campus even, and no study spot will compare to The Chair. It’s an old leather piece with a wide, single cushion and low, rounded armrests. So many options exist for sitting in it. All of them perfect in their own way. Study late into the night, and you’ll never get an achy back or sore neck because you can shift and turn and lounge in all positions.

  But this study spot does not dominate all others based on The Chair alone. The placement also needs to be taken into account. With the seat pushed up against a wide window, the sitter can unlatch a section to enjoy a refreshing breeze. The clear panes of glass let in plenty of natural sunlight, making it easy to read over notes during the day. But don’t worry if the sun sets because a tall lamp stands just behind The Chair. Pull its little dangling chain, and the perfect amount of light spills out from under the shade.

  Anxious about where to place all your excess books? Don’t let that bother you another minute. Sitting at the exact right distance in front of The Chair is a heavy wooden coffee table, its surface happy to support bags, books, and snacks.

  And apparently, feet, which my nemesis has propped up at the moment.

  With him looking so cozy, my guess is, he won’t be packing up anytime soon. Still, I don’t want to miss my chance if he does. So, I settle for a spot at a table that’s within eyeline of The Chair.

  Sitting down on the wooden seat is like expecting to get handed an ice cream cone but instead realizing you’re clutching a head of raw broccoli.

  I can feel the disappointed grimace twisting my lips. So much for studying in comfort.

  As my butt complains, I shoot another withering glare at my nemesis. That’s how I refer to him in my head—partly because he is, but also largely because I don’t know his actual name.

  At the very end of my freshman year, I discovered The Chair. Coming back in the fall, I decided to take up residence in the newfound study haven as often as possible.

  Turns out I wasn’t the only one with this idea. And so began the unspoken battle with the mystery man.

  If I had to give him a name, I’d go with Lucifer. Because every time I see him, I wish he’d go to hell.

  The amount of brain power I allot to my hostility toward him is probably unhealthy. In contrast, I doubt he even realizes I exist or that this silent competition is something I plan my schedule around.

  But who can blame him? If I had The Chair, I wouldn’t take notice of the surrounding world either.

  NATHAN

  She’s back.

  The second the elevator let out its little arrival ding, I knew it was a matter of seconds before she came around the corner. And I was right.

  Pretending to be absorbed in my textbook,
I watch out of the corner of my eye as she fights to contain her rage at finding me in The Spot.

  Her lips press tightly together, and her slim black brows angle down dramatically. But the best part is when, apparently unable to stifle her anger completely, she stomps her foot. The sight is adorable.

  And it’s not the first time I’ve seen it.

  Last semester, there were a few times I found The Spot filled, so I grumbled to myself and wandered away to some other less impressive chair. This is the best seat in the library, what with it being so far away from foot traffic, having access to a window, and sitting next to a low table, perfect for resting my feet on. No wonder other students want The Spot as badly as me. But over time, I came to realize whenever I missed out on it, the person in the old leather armchair was the same girl.

  After I noticed that fact, it wasn’t long before I became aware of her arrival when I was already sitting down. One day, I glanced up at the sound of someone approaching, and there she was, glaring at me. I pretended not to see her, dropping my gaze back to my book, but by the clomp of her heavy footsteps, I got the impression she’d left in a huff.

  A girl her size wouldn’t make so much noise unless she was slamming her feet down with purpose.

  From that moment on, I never overlooked the arrival of my contender even if she never realized I was watching her.

  It’s become a sort of game for me. First, will I beat her to The Spot? Then, if I do, the question is, will Shorty get mad?

  I bet she’d hate me even more if she knew about my secret nickname for her. We haven’t stood next to each other, but I’d be surprised if she cleared five feet. Despite lacking in the height department, she’s not what I’d call petite. Shorty has some muscle on her arms and legs. And that butt would probably be a generous handful.

  Today, I’m able to fully admire it. That pair of shorts grips her hips in all the right ways. I’ve never really understood the high-waisted trend, but on Shorty, I’m starting to get it. Her waist is more defined, and I glance teases of her rib cage above her shorts and below the T-shirt she’s cut the bottom off of. Over the shirt, she’s thrown on a blazer, like she hasn’t decided if she wants to be casual or professional.

  Over the winter, she wears a similar get-up but jeans instead of shorts. I prefer this. Her bare, golden legs are a nice springtime treat.

  I look my fill while appearing to keep my eyes on the page in front of me.

  After her angry foot stomp, Shorty huffs out a heavy breath before stalking over to a nearby table. Nowhere near as comfortable as The Spot though. I almost feel bad for her gorgeous behind sitting on that hard wooden chair, missing out on the chance to sink into the well-worn leather I’m currently sprawled across. But I don’t let the guilt stick around.

  If she wanted The Spot, then she should’ve shown up earlier. And I’m not enough of a gentleman to give it up. I’ve already had to vacate my dorm room, which is supposed to be my home away from home. Freshman and sophomore year, it felt that way. But my roommate seemingly transformed into a different person over the summer, and his new extracurricular activity means I can’t ever count on the place being quiet.

  Across the way, her eyes continue to burn into me like death rays as she pushes aside her curtain of silky black hair. I don’t mind the heat though, seeing as how I have a nice breeze floating in from the open window to cool me down.

  Shorty obviously chose her seat in hopes that I’d be up and out soon and she could swoop in.

  I’m tempted to meet her angry gaze with a smirk before calling out to her to get comfortable because I have no plans to relocate.

  Instead, I ignore her and get back to my textbook, keen on finding how long my competitor will hold out.

  2

  HANNAH

  Lucifer didn’t move more than an inch. For two hours.

  Does the guy not have a bladder? Or a life?

  I guess I’m not one to talk, seeing as how I’ve sat there just as long. Also, I don’t have what most college students would consider “a life” either. For that, I’d need some friends.

  Everyone told me making connections would be no problem in college. Join a club. Go to parties. Meet up with classmates.

  Well, the clubs I checked out were full of drama and power plays, the parties were horror shows of drunken jocks with roaming hands, and the classmates I studied with seemed to be put off by some aspect of my personality.

  I know I can be intense at times. I try my best to tone it down around strangers.

  But still, at least I’m not the devil incarnate.

  Goose bumps skitter over my skin as the evening air cools without the sun around to keep it at a comfortable temperature. I hook my thumbs in my backpack straps and quicken my pace, my dorm building coming into sight.

  If it wasn’t for my grumbling stomach, I might have tried holding out for a bit longer to get The Chair. But I doubt the victory of outlasting him would have been as sweet with my insides aching from hunger.

  I’ll just have to try again tomorrow. On Wednesdays, I can usually beat him there. Tuesdays and Thursdays, he seems to have a leg up. His professor probably lets him out early.

  That’s never the case with mine. When I was accepted into the chemical engineering program, I knew it would be tough, but this is another level. My professors don’t waste a minute of their classes when they can use that time to stuff more equations and theories into my poor, overworked brain.

  Lucifer is probably taking some filler elective, which he skips half the time just so he can get to The Chair before me.

  Bastard.

  Giggling mixed with deep laughter drifts through the thick metal door to my dorm suite, and it’s all I can do not to let out a groan.

  Hasn’t my afternoon been filled with enough annoying people? What did I do to piss off the universe today?

  When I push the door open, the exact scene I was expecting greets me—my roommate, Alexis, sprawled on the couch with her boyfriend, Mitchell. They aren’t doing anything inappropriate, like having sex in the middle of the common room. No, what makes me cringe is—

  “Hey, Hannah! Whoa, look at that backpack. It’s as big as you! Why do you need so many books? I thought you were just born, knowing all that shit. Didn’t your parents teach you calculus when you were, like, five?” Mitchell laughs at his own joke, and Alexis snorts along with him.

  “Yeah, no. I’ve got to study like everyone else.” My answer comes out flat, and I don’t linger.

  Even though I power past them, his voice still follows me down the hall to the bedroom I share with his girlfriend.

  “Yeah, right. Bet when you walk in the class, the professor takes one look at you and is like, Okay, automatic A!”

  After close to two semesters of Mitchell’s jokes, I thought I might be used to them.

  But no. Each one still makes my skin itch like his words are pepper spray. And they never stop. Pretty sure the only thing the guy sees is that I’m Asian. Like I’m not even a real person to him.

  One time, I tried talking to Alexis about it.

  It didn’t go well.

  “He’s just making jokes! And he’s calling you smart! It’s a compliment more than anything.”

  Yeah, right. I’d like to watch her repeatedly get boiled down to one stereotype and then ask if she sees it as a compliment.

  Maybe I’d do better with it if he wasn’t around all the time. Our freshman year, Alexis and I were pretty close. We’d stay up late, watching TV and eating crappy food, complain about our professors, and gossip about the cute boys who lived on the floor below us. Then, at the end of the year, Alexis started dating one of those boys, and the tentative friendship we’d started to build got put on hold.

  I hoped to find her on her own tonight, so I could ask if she wanted to come to the dining hall with me. But no way can I put up with Mitchell for an entire meal.

  My bed gives a groaning squeak when I toss my backpack onto it, and I snatch up the newest fant
asy novel my sister mailed me.

  She’s always sending me books after she finishes them, expecting me to text her my thoughts when I’m done. Good thing we both like kick-ass heroines battling vampires, werewolves, trolls, and all manners of other mythical creatures. The spine is creased beyond recognition, so this must be a good one.

  Knowing that I’ll get lost in the pages is the only solace I have as I slip out of the dorm to head to the dining hall, alone.

  Again.

  3

  NATHAN

  How is it already Wednesday?

  I shouldn’t have put this off so long.

  My bag sits heavier because of the weight of my deadline, the strap cutting into my shoulder. Two days until not only a detailed lesson plan is due, but also a write-up on the theory behind my activity choice.

  Whoever thought getting a degree to teach elementary school kids was easy was vastly mistaken.

  Can’t I just hang out with kids all day, making fun crafts and playing ridiculous games?

  Apparently not. Shaping young minds is not something the university takes lightly. They expect me to work my ass off for the chance.

  But I know I can get the assignment done. I just need to buckle down and concentrate.

  No luck of that if I head back to my dorm.

  There’s only one place I know where I can get a few solid hours of uninterrupted work time.

  The library lobby is teeming with people, and I maneuver around them to reach the elevator. The Spot won’t have loud, chattering crowds. Up there, I’ll be able to sink into the cushy chair and concentrate on my notes.