Make Me Bad - R.S. Grey Page 0,14

mean as I walk down the stairs and into the area of the library that’s been designed with children in mind. There are colorful art installations hanging from ceilings, rows of computers, a section of bean bags and tiny chairs, and stacks upon stacks of books. Oversized stuffed animals sit on top of the shelves, and whereas the areas upstairs were quiet, down here, the atmosphere is alive and happy. A toddler runs right into my path and I have to stop on a dime to keep from toppling him over. His mom runs after him and shouts a quick thank you to me before she catches up and whisks him off the ground into her arms. He laughs like it’s the funniest game he’s ever played, and I’m smiling like an idiot before I realize and wipe it off.

I scan the area and spot a sign hanging from the ceiling that points me in the direction of the help desk. Surely someone there will be able to tell me where the hell I’m supposed to be. Of course, no one is currently manning it. There’s a small bell sitting near the edge, so I ding it once and wait, hands in my pockets, eyes scanning the room.

After a few moments, I realize with the noise level down here, it’d probably be hard for someone to hear the bell, so I try again, dinging it twice this time.

“I’m coming! I’m coming!” a feminine voice calls out.

I catch movement to my right and look over just in time to see a brunette pop out from behind one of the shelves with a dozen children’s books piled in her arms. She blows a few strands of hair out of her face and then announces in an annoyed voice, “Eli, if that’s you—”

Then her green eyes glance up and her sentence cuts off sharply when she sees it’s me.

6

Madison

Well, it turns out, I’m a witch. It’s the only possible explanation for the turn of events currently taking place in my life. There I was, just a few moments ago, re-shelving books and daydreaming about Ben Rosenberg, as I’ve often done in the weeks since I last saw him. I was lost in thought trying to recall the exact shade of his eyes—amber or more of a pale honey?—when the bell rang at my desk and low and behold, here he is, in the library, waiting for me.

I must have conjured him up out of thin air, and I did an excellent job recreating him from memory. He’s wearing dark jeans and a gray crewneck t-shirt. His brown hair is shorter than it was the last time I saw him and styled like he came straight from the office. He looks severe, daunting, beautiful. He’s not smiling. No, in fact, he looks sort of annoyed, I think. His features—the strong brow, sharp cheekbones, and pronounced jaw—are so easily swayed to look menacing. I could faint from the sheer shock of seeing him again, but I square my shoulders and try to affect a cool, calm exterior.

“Ben Rosenberg. Come to take the library back from us once and for all?” I quip as I round the corner and start to walk toward him. I take a very quick, very thorough stock of my appearance, trying to visualize how I look to him in this moment. My jersey dress is a pale shade of blue, long-sleeved and knee-length. The top is fitted across my chest, but the skirt flows around my hips and thighs. All in all, it’s more comfortable than cute, as is much of my wardrobe. My hair is in a loose braid, and damn it all to hell, would it have killed me to apply a little makeup before work this morning? A swipe of daring lipstick? Some false eyelashes? A smoky eye? I want to turn back around and pinch my cheeks—or better yet, slap them—in the hopes that I’ll appear youthful and glowing rather than tired and overworked.

“Retake the library? Eli did mention something about all these books belonging to me.”

Oh good, his tone is hard and emotionless. Maybe he’s trying to seem as unflustered by our reunion as I am—or, you know, maybe he actually is unflustered.

I step closer and drop the children’s books onto my desk, working up the courage to glance up at him. He really is tall. If I had to look up at him for long, I’d get a crick in my neck. “He was exaggerating.