Her hair is pulled up in a loose ponytail on top of her head, and long curls cascade around a pale, heart-shaped face with eyes the most fascinating shade of soft green I’ve ever seen. Her mouth is a slash of black lipstick, and massive rhinestone earrings hang from her ears. Her perfectly shaped eyebrows draw together in a confused, irritated expression. She glares at the metal bar and pushes again, wriggling it with her hands. Her wide hips are squeezed inside the turnstile, and it’s a sight that does unexpected things to my body. I don’t understand it. Why do I love that her large, soft body reminds me of a fluffy, sparkly bunny in a trap?
I shouldn’t reduce a grown woman to prey, but I guess it’s the nature of my gremlin brain.
Fortunately, I get control of that gremlin brain pretty damn quickly because although I am lonely and horny, I am a human being with compassion.
I can see no one currently at the desk to buzz her through the turnstile. And that nobody else left in this joint is jumping up to help her. Whoever sang praises about southern hospitality and manners was overselling it. That’s fine because I don’t want anyone to help her but me.
My feet sprint into action.
“You have to scan your card first,” I quietly tell her as I approach.
The most astonishing young woman I’ve ever seen in my life stands in front of me, staring back at me, looking mortified.
I try hard not to stare at what’s visible down the front of her tank top from this angle and focus on the problem at hand. Concentrating on anything with this urgent tightness in my jeans is tough.
“Ah shit,” she hisses. “I forgot my card, and everyone is going to think my huge ass got stuck in the turnstile.”
“Not if I can help it,” I say, turning to face the central area of the library, where people are already staring at us. “She’s not stuck; she forgot her card,” I stage-whisper.
People murmur about this being none of their business and return to whatever they were doing before I interrupted.
“Oh my god,” she whispers squeakily as I use my card to let her in.
Once she’s through the turnstile, I follow her like a puppy. I can’t help it; I am laser-focused on that pink, round rump, and I will follow it until the ends of the earth.
This woman carries a huge tote bag with iridescent LVs all over it. Everything about her looks expensive, but not in a subtle way. Fascinating.
When I dash forward to pull out a chair at the table she’s headed to, she acts surprised that I’m still here.
Yep. I’m just …. Here.
“Well…thanks!” she says, a bit loud. It doesn’t bother me. In fact, her voice makes me smile.
Her eyes dart to the backpack on my shoulder. “On your way out?”
I look dumbly to the side, then lie. “No, I was on my way in.”
She looks at me skeptically. “And you decided to double back to help me?”
“Yeah,” I lie again, nodding.
She clearly doesn’t believe me but keeps her face trained in the picture of politeness. “Well, thank you again. That’s very sweet. Happy studying!”
She plonks her bag on the same table where I had been studying and bends over to search through the contents, snapping her gum and muttering to herself.
I look around to check and see if anyone I know is here—if they saw me leaving and then deciding to stay. I don’t care what they think if they pick up on this fact, but if anyone says anything, I want to be prepared to pound them into the ground with my Star Wars backpack.
And now, I’ll pretend to study for a few minutes. Is that how one wins over the heart of a beautiful woman? Heck if I know, but let’s see what happens.
Over the next hour, I pretend to read my book, stealing glances up at her. Glances turn into stares, stares turn into outright ogling.
Her eyes are serious, and her perfectly drawn eyebrows come together in an intellectual seriousness.
Long, soft curls twist around her face. She reads the book open-mouthed, almost mouthing the words.
Imagine if I brought home a woman in tight, loud clothes and glittery flip-flops, black lipstick, and rhinestone earrings? She’s shockingly gorgeous but…absolutely nothing like my sisters or sisters-in-law.
But who am I to judge a book by its cover? She might be loud and sassy, but who’s to say she’s all that brash once you talk to her?
Another hour passes, and my ass is really starting to hurt. Finally, she begins to pack up her things and stands up.
Acting out of character for me, I stand at the same time and offer my hand to the woman. “Hi, I’m Ozzie. Oswald. Gwynn. Ozzie Gwynn.”
The woman smiles and looks me up and down in a not at all subtle way.
“Nice to meet you, Ozzie Gwynn.” She extends her hand and places her pale fingers in mine, with nails that look like sharp weapons of murder.
She’s completely wrong for me.
And in that way, she’s absolutely perfect. And I don’t even know her name.