Logan (Carolina Reapers 4)

“Does she know you’re a Reaper? That we both are?” I had to know.

“No. She’s never asked what I do, and it never matters when I’m in there.”

A surge of relief hit me so hard I sagged in my seat. “Okay.”

“If you fuck this up, I swear I will do unkind things to you. Do you understand me, Ward?” His eyes took on that look that sent most of the other Reapers running.

“Yeah, I got it. Damn. You’d think I’d cut you off from your drug dealer or something.” I fired up the ignition and calmed at the light rumble.

“You cut me off from my book dealer, and I’ll start cutting off—”

“Point made, relax. Don’t stress.”

He laughed. “I’m honestly not stressed. Because you’re going to love that damn book, and she’s not going to give you her number. She’s not a big dater. But it’s going to be fun to watch you struggle.”

“You think she’s that good at picking out books?” I questioned as we pulled out onto the street.

“It’s not about picking out books. It’s about reading people, and yeah, she’s that good at reading people. Way better than you are, actually.”

I snorted. “Not hard to do. Apparently, I’m a shitty judge of character.”

“You’re not. You’re just…trusting. At least you were. Now you’re jaded and a little bit salty. And I’ll tell you one thing—not only is she an excellent judge of character, but she’s smarter than both of us, so just be prepared.” He cracked his book and settled in.

I shrugged it off as we pulled into the airport, and even as we boarded our chartered flight.

But as we touched down in North Carolina, I knew I was fucked.

This book had sucked me right in, and I didn’t want to put it down...which meant I’d just lost my only way of getting Delaney’s number.

And now I wanted it twice as badly.

2

Delaney

A faint scent of mildew clung to the air in the southern wing of the library. Dark spots stained the concrete floor, the sporadic pools like blood splatter on a crime scene—though, in this case, the blood of the books had drenched the floor.

Sadness sucked at the bottom of my heart, heavy and draining.

I’d spent countless hours of my free time doing my best to haul away the ruined books and furniture from this wing, but I’d barely made a dent. The library wouldn’t grant me the funding necessary to repair it, despite my asking every week for a year—since the hurricane.

Chills burst across my skin at the memory, at the high winds and severe downpour, the damage the storm had inflicted. I scanned the southern wing, partially grateful it had been the only casualty of the storm, but equally disappointed at my lack of power to fix it.

The once rich mahogany shelves had housed hundreds of titles, an endless array of historical fiction, mystery, romance. And now? The water damage rotted the beautiful wood and made the pages bleed. Ruined leather spines. The vibrancy of the room drowned and drained of life.

I raked my fingers through my hair, sighing.

One haul at a time. That’s all I’d been capable of, and there was still so much to do.

Beyond clearing the last little bits of debris, I needed to rebuild the wing completely—floors and shelves and electrical—and then I had the challenge of stocking it. Not an impossible task, but when left alone to do it? It was enough to shove me down the giant well of loneliness I tried desperately to ignore.

A devastatingly beautiful face popped behind my vision—dark eyes and hair, strong jaw and full lips.

Logan Ward.

With his plethora of muscles, I was sure he could help me rebuild this place in half the time it would take me to do it alone.

A warm shiver ran down my spine at the thought of him swinging a hammer—shirtless, of course.

I shook away the image, rolling my eyes at myself. I’d met him once, and already I plotted how I could rope him into helping me with this daunting task. Shame on me.

Though, Cannon had become somewhat of a friend with how much he frequented the library. And who was to say Cannon wouldn’t bring Logan back in here?

My heart raced at the thought. After all, Logan had been the one to challenge me. To prick that need to find the perfect book for each individual who claimed they didn’t love to read. I didn’t believe in that—those people had simply yet to find the perfect book for them. I took pride in converting “non-readers” into avid-readers. With the right genre? Anyone could escape the real world for a few hours and sink into the unmatched pleasure of losing oneself between the pages of a book.

I threw myself into the work of gathering the last of the now-dried-out, ruined books in the box I’d hauled to the wing, hoping this last load would finally clear out the wing. Every time I thought I made progress, I swore a new crop of damaged books popped up in another corner. But, after weeks and weeks of spare minutes and hours, I was nearly done with step one.