The SEAL's Rebel Librarian

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  For Eileen Rothschild, Jennifer Porter, and as always, for Mark.

  Acknowledgment

  Thanks to Jennifer Porter, who answered lots of questions about the life of a college librarian. Any mistakes are mine.

  Chapter One

  “You said you were going to do this. So do it.”

  The words were firm, bracing, even bold, but muttered in a low whisper as Erin Kent surveyed the main reading room of Lancaster College’s Clarke Library. Sparsely populated, as per norm; a few studious girls working in clumps at the tables running the length of the long room, boys more likely working alone. One of the comfy chairs by the decommissioned fireplace held an undergrad in a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, a sheepskin-lined leather jacket draped over his torso, and jeans. His cheek was braced on his fist, his full lips slightly parted as he catnapped. Heads were bent over books lit by reading lamps, their soft light overshadowed by the intense glow of laptop screens. Rain coursed down the large windows opposite the circulation desk. Thursday night was the big party night for the students; most of them were off campus, at fraternity or sorority houses, or friends’ apartments, or local bars, partying. Erin remembered the scenes from her days as a student. She’d had fun, lots of it, used to be a pretty good pool player and dart thrower.

  So what? You’re going to go out and party with the undergrads? Could you be any more of a clichéd divorcee?

  Somewhere between years five and eight of her marriage, her ex-husband’s seemingly rational voice had somehow become the voice of her inner critic, the voice she couldn’t get out of her head. It was easier to do when the library buzzed like a hive with nervous energy. Finals week. Midterms. The first couple of weeks of school, when in addition to her regular duties she taught classes on how to use the academic databases and cite sources.

  On a slow, rainy Thursday night after midterms but before papers were due and finals week, Jason’s voice would run on a near constant loop in her head. As if movement would leave it behind, she stepped out from behind the desk. Her soft-soled shoes made no noise against the granite floors as she followed her usual circuit through the reading room. Slumped Sleeping Boy was now Slumped Sleeping Snoring Boy, but as yet the noises were soft and not disturbing anyone. She then peered in the various study rooms. Only one was in use, a group of students working on a project together. As she went, she gathered trash left behind and turned off the lights students had left on.

  When she returned to the circulation desk, she signed back into the library’s computer and pulled up a search engine. Google would do; this wasn’t academic work. Just borderline ridiculous.

  “You said you were going to do this,” she repeated, remembering the mocking way Jason threw this back in her face, and how, six months after her divorce became final, she still hadn’t bought a motorcycle. She’d made a list of things she’d do when she was out of her marriage: buy a motorcycle, go skydiving. Her friend and fellow librarian, Carol, added another item to the list: dating, but for the moment she was ignoring that; motorcycles and skydiving were less frightening. “So do it. You can’t buy until you know what to buy.”

  Good first motorcycle …

  Google autofilled for girl. She kept typing, adding for a woman. “Definitely not a girl,” she muttered under her breath.

  Less than a second later Google gave her results. The top one was a recent page on a site for female riders. She clicked, then scanned the introductory paragraph. The bikes were organized by style: cruiser, standard, sport bike, etc. Good. She liked well-organized material.

  They started with the standard, the Honda Rebel 250. The bike had its advantages, namely that it was reasonably priced and frequently available on the used market, having been around for a couple of decades. The same could be said for the Suzuki GZ250, which had the added benefit of being the bike she rode in her beginning rider course back in October, before winter settled over Lancaster and made riding a motorcycle a moot point.

  Which was one of Jason’s many arguments against owning a motorcycle. Situated smack in the middle of the humid subcontinental climate zone, Lancaster sweltered under a layer of humidity three months a year, and froze under a layer of snow and ice another four. That left five months for riding comfortably, assuming it wasn’t freezing cold, or raining. Why go through the expense of ownership—gas, maintenance, insurance, plus the initial outlay—for something she’d ride maybe thirty days a year, and alone? Couldn’t they put their money to better use doing something together?

  We could get two bikes, she’d said, smiling.

  I’m not really interested in riding a donorcycle, he’d replied. What was the deductible on their health insurance? If she wrecked, they’d be several thousand dollars out of pocket before the insurance even kicked in to cover any length of hospital stay, not to mention lost time from work. Short-term disability didn’t cover her full salary.

  Jason. I haven’t even registered for the beginner rider course, and you’ve got me brain dead and on life support.

  We can save for the trip to Europe you’ve always wanted to take, or we can get a motorcycle. We can’t do both.

  She caught her thumb worrying at the joint between her left ring finger and her palm, the spot where her wedding ring, a classic, practical plain gold band, used to sit. In hindsight, that was the exact moment she knew her marriage was over, the day he took two of her dreams and played them against each other to get what he wanted, which was neither.

  “You’re being unfair,” she whispered to herself. “He did want to go to Europe. Eventually. He just didn’t want you to get a motorcycle. Which is reasonable.”

  But her gaze lingered on the Suzuki. Then she skimmed down to the Harley-Davidsons. The Sportster caught her eye, as did the SuperLow. But even as she read the reviews, Jason’s voice slid into the back of her mind like an ice pick. It’s an expensive hobby. You get a starter bike, then you need a different bike, and the accessories.

  “You’ll probably like the Harley better.”

  She startled, automatically reaching for the monitor to turn it away from the man now standing in front of the research desk. Turns out Slumped Sleeping Snoring Boy was no longer slumped, sleeping, snoring, or sitting in a chair.

  Nor was he a boy.

  He’d removed the cap, doubled the brim to stuff it into his back pocket, revealing dark brown hair falling across his forehead. Stubble bristled on the lower half of his face, and his eyes were blue; she could see that much in the light on the research desk. He wasn’t tall. She got the sense that the jeans and river driver shirt under the jacket hid muscles, not flab. He looked like a fighter, not a college student. Even the athletes at Lancaster College had the gawky awkwardness and enthusiasm of long-limbed, half-grown domesticated animals.

  There was nothing domestic about this … individual, who was politely standing behind the yellow line of tape on the floor a
frustrated research librarian had laid down after she was reprimanded for snapping “Have you all forgotten how to form and stand in a line?” at a group of terrified first year students during finals week.

  “I’m still deciding,” she said as she minimized the window. “How can I help you?”

  With one stride he crossed the twenty-four inches between the yellow line and the desk to set a notebook on it. “I’m in Professor Trask’s psychology class.”

  “Which means you have a final paper due in a few weeks,” she said. “What’s your topic?”

  He flipped open the notebook. “Whether the current methods of treating PTSD are effective.”

  “Interesting,” she said, and turned back to the screen. She opened a browser tab to the EBSCO research database. “It might be a little broad for a ten-page paper. Where have you started?”

  “I haven’t,” he said, and flashed her a smile, all white teeth and cocky grin.

  She looked at him again. Now that he was closer she could tell two things: he smelled like sin itself, like earth and rain and some kind of subtly scented soap, and despite a nap, he looked exhausted. Dark shadows clung to the skin under his eyes, adding to his brooding aura. During the day, light streamed through the library windows. After the sun went down, the rooms were spot-lit by the reading lamps and dimmed overheads. Erin had always loved the intimate feel of the library after dark, the way the night seemed to reduce the energy to the pure quest for knowledge. Only the truly bookish came to the library for that kind of high, and Erin respected that. One of the first things she’d given up when she and Jason got serious was working the late shift at the library. It was one of the first things she’d reclaimed when she moved out.

  But normally the undergraduates looked younger and younger as she aged. This one, however, didn’t look twenty-five, much less eighteen.

  This will go nowhere fast, so don’t even ask. She held a position of power at the college and had to respect that.

  “You’ve got some ground to make up,” she said, turning the monitor so he could see the databases she was using. A few minutes and one battle with the printer later she’d printed out a list of recent articles in peer-reviewed journals and a list of slightly less current books to give him an overview of the research. “You can access these from your laptop,” she said, ticking off the magazine articles with her highlighter.

  “I remember the class,” he said.

  “These books are on the shelves,” she said, highlighting a few of the listings. “These are checked out but are due back in a week. You can put a hold on them. That should ensure they’re returned, but if you think you really need that particular book, we can try to bring in a copy from another library.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  She slid off the stool. “I’ll show you where that section is in the stacks.”

  He followed her to the door behind the circulation desk marked STACKS. While the library’s public spaces were the warm, inviting sheen of aged walnut, polished granite, and shiny brass, the stacks were prison industrial functional, gray steel shelves arranged in rows and lit by florescent lights. “Social sciences are on B3,” she said, and pressed the button on the elevator bank.

  The elevator gave a jerk, then started to descend. The man … student … put his backpack on the floor between his booted feet and shouldered into his jacket. The rasp of the sheepskin lining against his shirt pulled the hem up from his jeans, exposing a thick leather belt, and a ridged abdomen, sending heat coursing like rivulets of rain over the surface of Erin’s skin, and for a split second she was very, very aware of the tiny space, the breadth of his shoulders, her quickening breathing in the silent elevator, and exactly how long it had been since she’d had sex.

  Almost a year.

  The elevator dinged. She cleared her throat and stepped through the doors when he held back, gesturing for her to precede him. For a moment she stared at the Dewey decimal numbers on the ceiling-high stacks, unable to remember what he was researching. “This way,” she said after an extremely embarrassing pause.

  She automatically collected a granola bar wrapper and reached for a Coke can abandoned in the Archaeology section. She fumbled the can a little because he was right at her back, but he caught it on the way down, reaching past her to snag it midair. The movement brought him right up against her back.

  He held it out to her, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

  “Thank you,” she said formally, flushed, heat prickling under her arms and at her temples. She took the can and continued down the aisle to make a right at the Philosophy section, all the while wondering why she’d worn her most comfortable slacks and a cardigan, a cardigan over a button-down shirt. Like somebody’s grandma. Worse, the florescent lights washed out even the most vibrant complexion, if she even had any makeup on at the end of an eight-hour shift.

  Stop it.

  Halfway into the narrow stack of books she stopped, scanned high to low, then tipped three books forward. “These appear to be the foundational books in the field. Start with these, and the articles, and see if that helps you narrow the topic a little. Professor Trask will be able to help with that, too.”

  “Thanks,” he said. He reached past her to grip all three books in one hand. He wore a Casio G-Shock watch on his wrist, the band scraped and faded with constant use.

  “Anything else I can help you with?” she asked brightly.

  He shook his head, still looking at her with those slate blue eyes. Her heart turned over in her chest, and she knew she was in big, big trouble. Above them the florescent lights hummed. “You can”—she cleared her throat again—“you can take them upstairs and look at them before you check them out. The circulation desk is open until midnight. Just leave them on the cart if you don’t want them. We’ll reshelve them.”

  Shut up, Erin.

  “Okay. Great,” he said, but he didn’t move until she ducked her head and took a step forward.

  Brushing past his solid, hot body sent a crazy electric current through hers. He followed her back to the elevator, up three floors. When they reached the open, cooler space by the circulation desk, she all but scurried behind it, desperate to put some distance between them.

  He leaned one elbow on the information desk. Somewhere in between exiting the elevator and coming around to the front of the desk he’d flipped up the sheepskin collar, so the soft fleece snagged on the dark stubble on his jaw. “Want to get a drink after you get off work?”

  Yes. Oh yes. Absolutely yes. But he was a student. She was in a leadership role at the college, bound by the same rules governing relationships as a professor or an administrator. “Thank you, but no,” she said gently.

  He gave her that little crooked bad boy smile again, unfazed. “Okay. Thanks again.”

  He strode over to the circulation desk, where Carol, the part-time employee who closed five nights a week, fell over herself checking out the books she’d helped him find. He crouched down to tuck the books into his backpack, then pulled on a hat against the April rain and disappeared into the darkness.

  Carol turned to look at Erin, then fanned herself and blew out her breath. Hella hot.

  I know, she mouthed back, then shook her head ruefully.

  And that was that. On the plus side, now she knew the divorce hadn’t destroyed her sexuality. Desire was back, with a vengeance. And the possibility, long forgotten and newly awakened, of the excitement of a crush, a date, of falling in love.

  Just not with the student whose name she’d not even gotten.

  * * *

  Jack Powell parked Rose’s BMW 3-series at the back of the lot next to his therapist’s office building, safely away from door dings. He’d been getting around by borrowing Grannie’s or Rose’s car when he needed to, or taking the bus to and from campus. After she got back from Turkey, Rose had offered the use of her car, going a little vague when he asked her how she’d get to and from work. While he waited for his appointment time, he pulled
his phone from his jacket pocket and scrolled through his text messages until he got to Keenan Parker. He thumbed in a text.

  What’s up?

  The reply came before he had his helmet off.

  Not much. You?

  He had two choices here: the truth, or a funny story. He opted for the joke. Asked a librarian out for a drink and got turned down.

  lol too smart for the likes of you.

  He’d downloaded a keyboard filled with obscene emojis, and sent Keenan the middle finger, followed by Want to get lunch?

  Can’t today. Team lunch.

  Keenan was just over a week into an eight-to-five job at Field Energy Company, and suddenly Jack’s best friend and former teammate on SEAL Team Nine was an office drone, working late, going in early.

  K. I’ll try Rose.

  He swung his leg over the Ducati’s seat and texted his sister while he walked into the nondescript two-story building situated just off Lancaster’s main drag. His therapist’s office was on the ground floor. She shared space and a receptionist with another psychologist. The reception area was tiny, four chairs dangerously close to a water cooler, the receptionist crammed behind a desk no wider than the chair she sat in, but the therapist, Colleen Sloane, came highly recommended by someone who knew his way around trauma and PTSD, a captain on the Lancaster police force.

  God knew Jack needed someone to talk to.

  The receptionist looked up when Jack opened the door. “Hi,” she said. “Perfect timing. She’s ready for you.”

  “Thanks,” he said, keeping his limbs tight to his body. His shoulders, helmet, and backpack threatened the water cooler and the tiny table stocked with tea and hot cocoa. He was used to maneuvering in tight spaces with a ton of gear, but his coordination, normally as smooth and automatic as a gymnast’s or a dancer’s, was shot. This felt awkward and wrong on so many levels. A backpack, for Christ’s sake. Not an MK17.