It always seems like a good idea, staying up all night to read a book that you can’t put down. That is, until it’s the next morning; you’re at work and it feels like someone’s socked you in both eyes. A rolling yawn escapes my mouth as I re-shelf the overnight bin returns. Thank God we can drink coffee while we work, another perk of being a librarian. Coffee and reading go hand in hand.
I’d be lying if the only reason I stayed up all night was reading, though. My brain could not erase the memory of Raiden. His square shoulders, towering above me, the way he smells, the way his eyes bore hot lava holes in my soul, gave me spank-bank fuel to last a lifetime. And I can’t be sure, but I swear he’s packing some serious heat. When I looked down at his pants, his dick looked huge. It may have even been stiff?
“Miss?” I nearly jump out of my skin. The book I’ve been holding in the air for who knows how long, tumbles from my hand and onto the floor. The voice belongs to a tiny old lady, who clasps her hand over her heart. Thankfully, it’s followed by a relieved laugh. “I’m sorry I startled you.”
I let out a breath, heart racing. “It’s okay, what can I do for you?”
“No one’s at the desk and I need to return this.” I squint at the book in her hands. It’s my turn to laugh, but I hold it in. The title:Sex at 50, 60, and Beyond.Gotta love her for that!
“I can take it for you,” I say, my breathing finally returning to normal.
“No, no.” Her gray hair bobs as she shakes her head. “I need a receipt. For proof that I returned it.” Native New Yorkers, in all five boroughs, are some of the quirkiest folks I’ve ever met.
“Of course, follow me.” We talk about the weather on the way to the desk. Actually, she does most of the talking. I’ve gotten better at small talk, but the truth is that I hate it. I’d rather sit alone in a room forever than a room full of strangers for an hour. It’s just how I’m put together. I’m nodding along, listening about her new, loud neighbor when I notice something on the front desk. I brush a stray hair back from my face and pick up my pace. Not phased, the woman continues chatting.
But I see them. Flowers at the circulation desk. Two of my co-workers are looking at me while the other one reads the card. My body’s on fire, burning with … what? Fear, anticipation, hope? It’s a pipe dream that those would be for me, but from the look on their faces, it appears they might be.
“Well, well, well Miss Popular.” Keisha’s hands rest on her hips. The woman is still talking as I make my way around the desk. My other co-worker Andréa swivels in her chair and taps at the card in the middle of the bouquet.
I can’t hide the smile threatening to explode all over my face. “No way!” I lean in and give the flowers a sniff. “These cannot be for me.”
“They are!” Andréa squeals. “Who’s the secret admirer?”
“Yeah, inquiring minds want to know.” Keisha empathizes each word with a clap in between them.
“…And I told her that she can’t play her music that loud after ten o’clock. It’s the law!” The old woman rests her elbows on the circulation desk.
“One second,” I say to my co-workers and print the sweet old lady a receipt. She thanks me, slips the receipt into her fanny pack and goes on her merry way. Once she rounds the corner, “That woman said nobody was up here. Where were you?”
“Showing off your flowers,” Keisha says. “Now open the damn card.”
“Yeah, open the thing.” Andréa echoes.
I grunt, heat rising to my cheeks as I finally wiggle the envelope open. A strange thing happens when something you hope for comes to fruition. Especially if you don’t believe it’s actually possible, but there it is staring you smack dab in the face:
Sorry I interrupted your lunch yesterday. Let me make up for it. Have a drink with me tonight?
—RAIDEN
“Raiden? Who the hell is Raiden?” Keisha says, reading over my shoulder. “Is that even a name?”
I throw my head back and cover my mouth, card still in hand. This cannot actually be happening. Guys that look like him do not ask girls that look like me out to dinner. Or lunch. Or anywhere, really. They date skinny little hipster bitches with full social calendars and wear the same size I did when I was ten.
“Don’t you even think about holding out on us. Nobody’s getting flowers at work except for you. So spill it, Mimi. Who is Raiden?”
I reach for my water bottle, thrilled beyond words that I left it on the desk, and chug until the dryness leaves my mouth. The flowers before me are stunning, and definitely not cheap. The base is a blue vintage Ball jar, the same color of the dress I was wearing yesterday.
“His name is Raiden Bringer.” I say, loving the feel of his name in my mouth. “He’s the architect in charge of the renovation in the children’s section.”
“And are you going to go out with him?” Andréa asks, face beaming with vicarious excitement.
My breath catches in my throat at the thought. I’m terrified of awkward conversations. I’m not good on first dates, hell it’s been a long time since anyone’s even asked me out. But I have to trust that this is okay. That the invitation, this romantic gesture before me is real. That I deserve to go on a date with the sexiest man I’ve ever laid eyes on.
I turn to my co-workers and throw an invisible sheet of hair over my shoulder, diva-style. “You bet your ass I am.”
Both women erupt in a mix of laughter and applause. My heart races in my chest. I hope I can keep up this level of confidence for my date tonight.
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