Check Her Out (His Curvy Librarian)

“Hey, we’ve been emailing for two months,” I remind her, and she laughs.

“Still…” she hesitates. “That’s a big deal, meeting the parents.”

I put my hands on her hips, back her up against the counter until she can feel the hardness in my pajama pants—which I’m starting to worry will be a permanent condition whenever she’s around. But I put that aside for the moment to tell her, “You are a big deal, Brooklyn. I told you last night that I like you, and I want to make sure you know I mean it.”

She smiles, but it looks like she could use some more convincing.

I bring my hands up to her neck, thread my fingers through her messy morning hair, bring my lips down to meet hers. And when I pull back to look at her again, I tell her, “I know it’s fast, but I also know what I feel for you is real. And unless I’m judging a book by its cover all wrong, I think you feel the same. Right?”

Brooklyn smiles, and this time it’s a little brighter. “Right. I like you too. A lot.”

“Good,” I say, beaming. “So come meet my parents tonight. At the very least, you’ll get a hell of a good meal out of it.”

She laughs. “Okay. This is crazy, but okay.”

I kiss her again, give her a little swat on the ass, and say, “Now let’s make some French toast.”

7

Brooklyn

Prescott goes to work around noon and I go home to putter around with my day-off chores—laundry, groceries, boring stuff that can’t possibly coYachts

mpare to the last twelve hours.

It all feels a little unreal, like I’m imminently in danger of waking up from the best dream I’ve ever had, but I’m willing to push my luck a little further. Even if I am feeling nervous about tonight.

How crazy is it to meet a guy’s parents twenty-four hours after you meet him?

Pretty crazy, I’m sure, but as I’m pulling my laundry out of the dryer, I think it would be nice to get confirmation—or maybe a little moral support.

I can’t call Cassidy because she’s all lovestruck and heart-eyed at having met the man of her dreams recently. She’d just tell me to go for it with gusto. And I can’t call Nora because she’s working today.

So I call the Bakers’ house, wondering if anybody will be around to pick up in the middle of the day.

“Hello?” Martha answers, and I instantly smile at the sound of her voice.

It’s been a while since I had time to visit, but she still feels like a second mother to me. “Hey, it’s Brooks. Am I interrupting writing time?”

“Not at all. Tabitha has just broken off the engagement and Jacob is off wallowing in self-pity,” she says, which I assume refers to her latest story, “I’m letting them stew for a little while so I figured now was a good time to make some writing fuel. If you’re free, I could use an extra hand with these blueberry scones.”

“Mmm.” I’m practically drooling onto my phone. “Actually, it’s my day off.”

“Perfect,” she says. “Get your butt over here, girl.”

“On my way,” I say, happily ditching my laundry for a much better—and tastier—chore.

Martha has always been there when I needed her, even when I was just a random kid who was always following her girls home from school. She’d give me a homecooked meal and a hug, and I always knew I could talk to her if I needed her.

I guess all I really want today is a little of that happy-ever-after optimism that she writes into all of her novels, because I’m falling hard for Prescott and it’s a little overwhelming.

But when I get to the Baker house, I go inside and hear crying. My heart stops.

“Martha?” I call, following the sound to the kitchen.

She’s sitting on the floor with half a ceramic dish in her lap, the rest of it shattered on the tile around her.

“Martha, what happened?” I ask, going to her. “Are you okay?”

She looks up, embarrassment in her eyes. “Oh, Brooklyn… I didn’t hear you come in. I’m okay.”

She holds out a hand and I help her to her feet, then go to the closet for a broom.

While I’m sweeping up the shards, she explains, “That was my mother’s scone pan and I dropped it because I was thinking about stupid Jacob and his stupid grand gesture to win Tabitha back. I can’t believe it’s gone.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, my heart breaking for her. I have so little left of my own parents—I know exactly how she must feel.

Martha pulls me into a hug, squeezing me tight, then she swipes away the tears on her cheeks and smiles. “Well, I’ve got an aluminum scone pan too, so the day is not lost.” She digs into a cupboard and retrieves the second pan, then says, “Oh, I’ve been so in my head about Tabitha and Jacob all morning, I never even asked why you called.”