Rowena clamped her mouth shut and rolled her eyes back and forth as she searched her memory. Under other circumstances, her expression would’ve been comical. A troubled expression crossed Rowena’s face. “The last time I saw it was right before that attractive young man with the long black hair came to the counter. My goodness, I may be an old lady but he was quite handsome, except for all those scary tattoos. Why someone would want to do that to themselves is beyond—Oh, my. Jayne, I think I may have accidentally sent it home with that young man. Were you saving it for someone?”
Jayne prayed for a hole to open in the floor and swallow her as a cold chill swept over her. The book had her journal and her stories in it, including the story that featured a handsome cowboy matching Seth’s description and a virginal damsel in distress who, prior to the interruption, had been just about to give up “the goods” to said cowboy.
“Jayne? Are you all right? Were you saving it for someone else?” Jayne’s cheeks bloomed with heat as Rowena’s innocent question called to mind the erotic fantasy she’d had about Seth that had inspired the story. In her fantasy, she’d done exactly as her damsel in distress had been about to do. “Jayne, honey? You’re awfully pale. Come sit.” Rowena patted the chair back and guided Jayne into it. “I’m sure the other patron will understand and wait for him to return it.”
“The book was my journal, Rowena,” Jayne said weakly.
My stories. My journal, including everything I wrote about July 4th. Oh, stupid woman! To leave your private journal out like that! You deserve to be embarrassed!
“Oh, Lord have mercy! I’m sorry, Jayne! Oh my goodness!” Rowena turned six shades of deep red and sounded mortified as she flapped her hands and apologized. “Check your desk, and your purse! Make sure you didn’t put it in there for safekeeping.”
Their search turned up nothing. It was indeed gone and in the hands of the last man on earth she wanted reading it.
“Is your name and phone number inside it?”
Nausea coiled in the pit of her stomach. “No, just the date I started it.”
“Can you call him and explain? Call him before he has a chance to even open it and maybe he’ll do the chivalrous thing and respect your privacy once you explain the situation.”
Rowena was right. Seth was a decent guy. She’d call him and explain the flub to him. She had a feeling that he’d never knowingly invade her privacy. She wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt as she pulled her phone from her purse. Rowena wrote down the phone number they had on file for Seth in the library computer system and gave it to Jayne before she slipped into one of the empty meeting rooms.
The call rolled to voice mail as she swung the door closed, feeling bad for poor Rowena, who looked very guilty.
“Hi, Seth. It’s Jayne Sheridan from the library…”
Chapter Two
Seth entered the dark house and laid the stack of books on the coffee table before going into the kitchen. His stomach grumbled as he peered into the refrigerator and decided on a rib eye. While the cast-iron skillet heated, he nuked a potato and chopped vegetables for a salad.
His phone chimed in his pocket while he had both hands busy, searing the steak in the blazing-hot skillet and removing the potato from the microwave. Deciding to wait until after he’d eaten to check his messages, he loaded his plate and got a beer from the fridge.
The ten o’clock newscast kept him company, as he sat on the couch and relaxed while he ate. He’d had appointments that afternoon in Morehead at Jim Durbin’s tattoo studio, Desired Ink, and had gotten home later than he’d anticipated.
He’d hoped to call a certain sexy librarian that evening, but now it was a little late to do that. She’d probably be getting ready for bed right about then. He imagined her brushing out her long reddish-brown hair, standing nude before her mirror. He laid his head on the back of the couch and smiled as thoughts of her brought warmth to his chest. She certainly was different from the women he’d grown accustomed to in his travels.
He sorted through each book in the pile as he finished the last succulent bite and then laid the plate aside on the coffee table. His hand stopped on a smaller book with a red paisley cover. This one didn’t look familiar. It had a delicate, if well-used appearance, and wasn’t one that he’d placed in the hands of the elderly librarian working at the checkout counter. He wasn’t sure where it’d come from.
He lifted it and noted that there was no writing anywhere on the outer cover. A faint, familiar scent tickled his senses, and he lifted the book to his nose. He opened it, to find that there was no pocket holding a due date card on the inside cover, only a phrase handwritten in black ink: December 7, 2011. The handwriting was distinctive, neat, and boxy, as though the author had taken drafting classes, but feminine too.