Love and the Library Read online

  Or at least, I’d be able to if Shorty wasn’t already there. Her midnight waterfall of hair obscures her face as she bends over a textbook and scribbles a furious stream of notes.

  A sigh leaks out of me. I accept temporary defeat and trudge over to the desk she resigned herself to yesterday when I was the victorious one. It’s a sad replacement for The Spot, but maybe she won’t be long.

  As if hearing my thoughts, Shorty glances up at me, tucking her hair behind her ear in the process.

  She’s got on another one of her funky outfits. High-waisted turquoise shorts and a crop top with text printed on it. I wish I could get close enough to read the words.

  Immediately after meeting my eyes, she shifts them away, pretending the gaze-clashing meant nothing. But there’s no hiding the triumphant smirk curling her lips.

  A muffled snort escapes me as I drop my bag next to the third-rate chair I’m left with. As I pull out my laptop, I let my stare wander back to her.

  She sets her notes aside, and I pause in my unpacking to see if she’s about to head out, leaving me with The Spot. But my hopes are quickly squashed.

  Instead of putting her things away, Shorty reaches into her backpack to pull out more items. A textbook, a folder, another textbook. And from beside the chair, where I couldn’t see at first, she lifts up a lunchbox and starts to unload a sandwich and bag of chips. Each item gets placed on the coffee table in front of her with deliberate precision.

  And the message is clear.

  Fuck off. The Spot is mine.

  I turn my head away, so she won’t see the ridiculous grin spreading across my face. For some reason, I find her silent statement hilarious.

  And I look forward to the next time I have the upper hand.

  4

  HANNAH

  He’d better not be doing what I think he’s doing.

  It’s Thursday afternoon, and to my unfortunate lack of surprise, Lucifer has beaten me to The Chair again. With the dwindling light outside the window, it would be nice to have a lamp just over my shoulder instead of relying on the fluorescent lighting high up above me.

  A luxury my nemesis is not taking advantage of.

  Because he’s sleeping.

  The guy has his feet propped up on the table again, fully reclining in The Chair, with his head tilted back. At first, I thought he might just be giving his eyes a break from the textbook in his lap.

  But the slack jaw letting out faint snores is undeniable.

  Hot fury pounds at my temples at the sight of my precious chair being used as this asshole’s makeshift bed. He passed out and is therefore unable to appreciate the fact that he has the best seat in this building.

  I can’t just let this go. I’ll implode with self-righteous anger if I have to sit here, watching him take advantage of The Chair.

  Fists clenched, I shove up from my seat, abandoning my Organic Chemistry notes, and march the few steps it takes to end up beside him.

  Yep, there’s no doubt.

  Lucifer is definitely asleep.

  Using the end of my pen, I jab him in the arm. In his sleep, he frowns, but then he just turns his head to the side, his eyes remaining closed.

  Bastard.

  My poking method proving unsuccessful, instead, I grab his shoulder and give it a shake before stepping away from him. Some people wake up dramatically, and I don’t want to get hit.

  I shouldn’t have worried though. Lucifer takes his time in shrugging off sleep, slowly blinking the haziness out of his eyes as they wander around, eventually landing on me.

  “Hmm, what?”

  “You were sleeping.” I hope the curt edge in my voice will help cut through some of that dopey tiredness on his face. This guy needs to be fully conscious for me to properly chastise him.

  “Oh. Okay.”

  Not even a smidgen of remorse. And Lucifer doesn’t go back to reading his notes or decide to get up and vacate The Chair to someone who actually wants to use the seat for its intended purpose.

  Instead, he just stares at me.

  “No. It’s not ‘okay.’ ” I use air quotes to emphasize the stupid word he mumbled. “If you want to sleep, go back to your dorm. The library is for studying. You can’t just claim the comfiest chair in the building and pass out in it.”

  His answer comes with a slow smile that somehow makes me angrier. “And you’re what, library security? Here to kick me out?”

  My breath comes out in a big, hot, angry huff, like a fire-breathing dragon.

  “Don’t get snarky with me.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it, Shorty.”

  For a moment, words leave me, and I’m left gaping at the asshole in silence. Then, the power of speech restores itself in a searing rush, and I straighten up to my five-foot-one stature, fists on my hips as I glare down at him.

  “Height is a genetic feature that can’t be controlled and is a pointless thing to mock.” With rage smoldering in my eyes, I let my next words growl from my throat. “Being a dick, on the other hand, is a choice.”

  During my tirade, the guy watches me, his smile widening to a grin.

  I ignore it and finish my declaration. “You are a dick.”

  Before Lucifer can respond, I storm back to my table and sit down. Hard. Briefly, I consider leaving altogether, but I won’t let Lucifer drive me out of the library. I have just as much of a right to be here as he does, and I won’t let petty insults intimidate me.

  A few minutes pass in tense silence, and I resolutely don’t look over at The Chair or its undeserving occupant.

  “I’m Nathan.” The guy’s smooth voice fills the quiet in this back corner of the library, and I’m surprised enough to glance up at him. He’s leaning forward in his seat, elbows resting on his knees, searching eyes focused on me. “And you are?”

  My name sits just behind my lips, manners pushing me to give it to him.

  But he already has everything.

  Through my annoyance, I can still see how attractive his face is. Not in the chiseled male model kind of way. More like the I can be hot, but I can also be goofy way. And his T-shirt molds over a nicely toned body, lean and muscular, like a swimmer.

  So, he’s good-looking, and he has The Chair.

  But he doesn’t get my name.

  With determined nonchalance, I return to my notetaking and answer in a dismissive voice, “I’m Shorty, apparently.”

  When his light chuckle drifts across the quiet space, I ignore the goose bumps it raises on my arms.

  5

  HANNAH

  I barely dared to hope, but when I turn the corner, The Chair sits empty.

  Glorious day!

  My feet kick up in a happy skip as I cross the rest of the way, only to stutter to a stop when I realize there is actually something sitting in my seat. Only it’s a sign rather than an annoyingly cocky boy.

  In red letters, the word Reserved shouts out at me from the tented piece of paper. Underneath the bold proclamation, there’s some smaller type. I snatch up the sign to read whatever the explanation is.

  * * *

  This spot is reserved for Nathan Cooper, a very smart, very hard-working elementary education major. If anyone—especially the notorious spot-stealer known by the name of Shorty—attempts to sit in this chair, they will promptly have the library police called on them. You have been warned.

  * * *

  As I make my way through the note, my mouth pops open in outrage. Then, when I’m just about to crumble the offending piece of paper up, a heavy presence fills the air on my left. Before I register my mistake, Lucifer lands with a bounce on The Chair, which I didn’t sit down in while reading.

  “Hey, Shorty. Glad you saw the sign.” He gazes up at me with a self-satisfied grin.

  I want to punch him right in the junk.

  “No.” Like I was planning before, I ball up the paper and spike it at his forehead.

  He dodges, chuckling all the while.

  My blood boils up to my face. I�
��m sure it’s splotching up nicely. “I was here first. Get your ass out of that chair.”

  One of his eyebrows arches slowly, and he crosses his arms, still smiling like a doofus. “Or what?”

  “Or”—my breath fills up my chest, as if puffing it out will somehow make my short stature more intimidating—“I’ll make you.”

  Shit, that was not a good threat at all, which is obvious by the smirking shake of Lucifer’s head.

  FYI, I refuse to use his real name before I get any sort of proof that he is not in fact the devil.

  “I need details, Shorty. How will you make me?”

  The question is a reasonable one. He’s probably got a good sixty pounds and ten inches on me. A physical altercation would really only work if he was a gentleman about it and let me push him around.

  No way can I trust my nemesis to be a gentleman.

  There’s no actual library police despite what his ridiculous note said, and running to the front-desk workers feels too much like tattling in a preschool class.

  Though it stings, I realize that today is another battle I’ll have to lose. But that’s only so I can fight again another day. And next time, I’ll be utilizing guerrilla tactics.

  “I wasn’t finished.” I cross my own arms and glare down at him. “I’ll make you pay.” The effort I put into adding a sense of foreboding to my words is wasted, as he just snorts.

  “And how do you plan on doing that?”

  Concluding that my angry eyes aren’t doing anything to intimidate him, I flip to the other end of the spectrum and try my best evil smile as I wag a finger in his face.

  “Nuh-uh. That’s not how this works. Give up the seat, or face the consequences. This is your last chance.”

  If anything, he appears happier. “I choose door number two. Make me pay, Shorty. Do your worst.” He braces himself with a cheerful grin, as if he thinks my sneak attack will come right now. When he’s ready for it.

  Amateur.

  “Don’t worry.” I turn on my heel, heading back toward the stairs and praying that Alexis and Mitchell found somewhere other than the dorm to hang out. “I will.”

  6

  NATHAN

  My fingers tap impatiently on my leg as the elevator crawls upward. Shorty always beats me on Wednesdays, so I know she’ll be sitting there when I turn the corner. Maybe she’ll glance up from her notes and give me one of those searing glares she’s perfected. They definitely burn, but I doubt it’s in the way she’s hoping they will.

  And if she’s in The Spot, then she’ll stick around. Not like yesterday. Maybe it was stupid to goad her with that sign. If anyone had seen me put it there before I hid behind a bookshelf to wait for her, they would’ve thought I was as mature as the elementary school kids I want to teach.

  But her reaction was worth it. All up until she walked out.

  I hadn’t wanted her to leave.

  But today, she’ll stick around. Today, I’ll be able to pretend like I’m the one put out. Maybe she’ll even take her revenge—whatever that entails. Growing up with a brother I regularly got into fistfights with, I’m pretty sure I can handle whatever Shorty throws at me.

  And maybe I’ll finally find out what her real name is.

  The elevator bell dings, and I suppress my grin, trying to keep a neutral face. But my effort is pointless.

  The Spot is empty.

  I peer around, as if Shorty will spring out from somewhere, maybe with a water balloon aimed at my head. That would be priceless. But the floor is quiet.

  Slowly, cautious as a gazelle approaching a watering hole, I walk toward the chair. I even go so far as to slide my bag off my shoulder and sit down, all the while braced for a sneak attack.

  Nothing comes.

  I beat her to The Spot on a Wednesday. What should’ve felt like a triumph actually bums me out.

  What if she shows up and then turns back around to leave again?

  I consider moving over to the uncomfortable wooden chair, but I don’t want to give up our game yet. The no longer silent war is my connection to her.

  Instead, I stand up and head for the stairs. Going up one floor, I wander around the stacks, killing time.

  Giving her a chance.

  After twenty minutes, I figure even if whatever class she was in ran long, she should be in The Spot by now. Excitement thrumming through my veins again, I jog down the stairs and burst through the door, figuring she’ll like it if it looks like I was rushing, attempting beat her here.

  But all the eagerness drains out of me when I turn the corner.

  Still no Shorty.

  Giving up the pretense of letting her win, I settle into the lounge chair. I only take one book out of my bag, hoping that if it appears like I might leave at any minute, she’ll decide to stick it out when she eventually shows up.

  Problem is, she never does.

  I stay for three hours, one more than I normally do, and no sign of her. Disappointment spears through me when I accept that she’s a no-show and load my textbook back into my bag.

  Tomorrow, I’ll slowly walk over from my class. Maybe she’ll beat me, and we can have our next battle then.

  * * *

  But Thursday comes, and when I get to The Spot, it’s empty again. Hours go by with me sitting on my own. Every slight sound has my head whipping toward the corner, waiting for her to jog around it, scowling at me and revving for a fight.

  Again, she never makes an appearance.

  * * *

  Friday nights, I tend to meet up with some friends and go out to a bar or maybe scan a dating app to see if anyone piques my interest and is up for a last-minute date. For some reason, this Friday, I’m walking through the library’s doors because one time, a few months ago, I thought I might have seen Shorty headed here on a Friday evening.

  Even though I didn’t let my hopes get too high, they still take a plummet when The Spot is empty for a third day in a row.

  As I head back out into the cool night, I realize that other than winter and spring break, this is the longest I’ve gone without seeing Shorty since the beginning of my junior year. And for some odd reason, that worries me.

  Did something happen to her? Is she sick?

  I don’t even know her real name, so it’s not like I can ask around.

  Pulling out my phone, I text some buddies about meeting up. All the while, in the back of my mind, an annoying thought scratches at me.

  If this is how she’s making me pay, it’s too high a cost.

  7

  HANNAH

  Wearing shorts today is pushing it. The clouds are out in full force, meaning the air doesn’t have the nice warmth it’s been teasing me with the past few weeks. But I just got back from visiting my family in New York and after dealing with Rochester cold, the idea of putting on pants this morning made me want to cry. So, I compromised by tugging on a sweatshirt over my cropped tee.

  Besides, with the fast pace I’m setting for myself, I’ll be warm in no time. And then I’ll be comfy in no time because, today, I’m getting The Chair.

  I’m sure of it.

  At least, I am until I glance to the side and see my nemesis on a path across the quad. Lucifer strolls along with a couple of guys, laughing at something one of them said. The large, grassy expanse separates us, but somehow, he senses my gaze and turns to lock eyes with me.

  We both freeze.

  His body is facing the same direction mine is—toward the library. In a twisted act of fate, we are almost the exact same distance from our destination.

  As we reach this conclusion at the same moment, it’s like a starting gun fires off for only the two of us to hear.

  Screw power-walking.

  I sprint.

  As if this were meant to be an obstacle course rather than a straightforward race, there’s suddenly an insane amount of people to dodge around. I dart and sidestep the pedestrians until I come upon the mammoth of hurdles—a pack of sorority girls.

  “Move!”
>
  They gasp and glare at me as I bolt through the gaggle of them. Good thing I’m not planning on pledging.

  I track Lucifer out of the corner of my eye. He’s running just as fast as me, his friends abandoned, his bag slapping against his leg as he sprints. Instead of following the curving paved path, I make myself a shortcut by vaulting over a bench. My landing is marred by a brief stumble that I quickly recover from, but it’s enough to give him the advantage.

  Ten feet in front of me, he whips open the glass doors and disappears inside.

  Some people might give up at this point. But the race isn’t won until there’s a butt in The Chair.

  When I slide through the front door, a crow of triumph wrenches out of my throat at the sight of him waiting at the elevator.

  Lucifer’s jaw goes slack as I blaze past him, my eyes on the entrance to the stairs. His heavy footsteps pound behind me, the short lead I gained disappearing.

  In the stairwell, our panting breaths echo off the cement walls. I use the railing to pull myself up the steps faster, but there’s something to be said about having a few extra inches on each leg. My competition is able to mount two steps at a time, quickly catching up to me.

  I throw out an arm, as if I could stop him, but he tosses a grin over his shoulder as he easily brushes past me.

  Damn him.

  We’re at the third-floor landing, and he’s two steps in front of me, reaching for the door, pausing for less than half a second to swing it open. My frustration pours a last bit of turbo fuel into my muscles, and in a desperate move, I crouch before launching myself at my nemesis.

  If he were wearing a backpack like me, I would probably slide off. But this pompous ass went for a shoulder bag, so I have free rein to latch onto him.