31

Parker

Knox thinks he’s been playing it cool, but I know he’s amped up about his Romance and Chocolate program this afternoon. Which is actually something of a relief. I’ve started wondering if he actually wants to stay in the land of the gainfully employed. He’s still blowing off Lila, and I suspect he’s just humoring me with the improvements we’re making to his blog, because every time I mention it, he distracts me with sex.

Not that I’m complaining about good sex, mind you. It’s just that he needs a source of income. Because he needs to eat and pay rent and save some cash so he can actually retire someday. So he should be ramped up about the program today.

Especially since he’s still insisting that he’ll quit if he can’t change that reporter’s mind about romance novels. The library is getting double coverage from the Times. Both the reporter he called a dick and said reporter’s managing editor will be there.

There’s also a freelance reporter who works for Bustle, an NPR editorial director, the newscaster who emceed the bachelor auction, and someone from Library Journal coming.

I’m bringing my friends as two more romance lovers. Willow’s been reading Harlequins since she was twelve, and Sia just loves a good love story. Much as I love Eloise, though, I know better than to let her near reporters, so I blackmailed Sia into making her brothers take Eloise out for the afternoon.

Which is basically the only thing that could have kept her from being here.

“Wow, this place is packed,” Willow says as we walk in mid-afternoon.

I hand our tickets to Knox’s boss, Gertie, who looks more than a little constipated. “Just…be good,” she tells me.

As if I could be anything else.

My butterflies are already starting for my own performance tonight. We’ll be cutting it close to get back to my place and get changed before the reunion, and I need to be there the whole time so I don’t miss Randy.

And after tonight—after my reunion and after this event—Knox and I are basically done.

Because that was the deal.

I refuse to think about it as we step into the community events room on the second floor. The scent of books surrounds us. I’ll never be able to sniff a book again without thinking of him.

And I’ll probably do a lot of book-sniffing in the next few months, because even though I know it’s for the best, I don’t know how I’m going to let him go.

“Hey, pretty lady.” My worries are forgotten, because Knox is suddenly there beside me, his hand settling naturally at the small of my back, tension vibrating out his pores, his smile deceptively easy and relaxed. He’s in dark jeans and a chest-hugging polo with an official library employee badge dangling from his neck.

Like it always does, the sight of him makes me tingle in all my favorite tingly spots, though I’m nervous about that tingling in my chest.

“Got a minute?” he says. “Sia, Willow, thanks for coming. Grab a seat. We’re starting soon.”

“We’ll save you a spot,” Willow tells me.

Two rows up, Lila Valentine turns and waves. She has that beautifully feminine name, like she could be Lila Valentine, Goddess of Love. Her hair is the best thing to happen to New York since Debra Messing in Will & Grace. And I have this weird feeling in my gut that we have way more in common than I ever could’ve expected.

“I have three seats,” she says to my friends, who happily skitter up the row to climb in and join her.

“Did you call her?” I ask Knox.

“Nope.”

And there goes that little hitch between my shoulder blades.

Do I think he’s right, that romance novels are wrongly dismissed in literary circles? I do, actually. I’ve listened to two this week on my commute, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hooked.

And impressed. There’s so much reality packed in so many of those books, I could cry.

But putting his job on the line to get the approval of a snooty newspaper? It’s insane. And I think he knows it. There are tight lines around his eyes. I don’t know if anybody else notices, but he’s definitely worried.

I squeeze his hand. “If you’re interested, you should do it. Sounds right up your alley. Or your bookshelf.”

“I already have a job. Don’t need a second.”

My dad worked himself to death, he’d finally confessed to me the other night. Balance is important. Then he’d poked me. For all of us.

Yes, I work long hours. But I also have an outlet in my band, and no family obligations or responsibilities. Plus, I like my job.

Except for maybe today. Ask me after my reunion.

He steers me to the side, where a woman with a pinched face and a guy in a mustard brown sport coat with elbow patches are chatting with a tall brunette woman in kick-ass boots, black leggings, a white top, and a sporty, light suit jacket with buckles on the sides. “Why would anyone question a woman’s ability to do anything in this day and age? We’re pilots and professors and researchers and scientists. What did your mother do, Mr. Sampson?”

“She was a homemaker,” poop suit says. “Happy to do it.”

“Did you ever ask your mother if she was happy to be a homemaker, or do you just assume she didn’t have any greater aspirations? Wasn’t she raising you about the same time Katherine Johnson was calculating trajectory paths for NASA?”

Knox is sporting some smug in his smile as the pinched-face middle-aged woman tilts a brow at poop suit.

Yes, I know that’s the venerated Times reporter, but I prefer to call him poop suit.

What? It’s nicer than dick.

“Interesting question,” the woman with poop suit says. “Mr. Moretti, what did your mother do?”

“She was a librarian and an inspiration. Sitting right over there if you want to talk to her too.” He points to Judy, who waves and blows us both a kiss from her folding chair in the front row. “Parker, this is Jedidiah Sampson and Ruth Aarons from the Times, and MK Meredith, who’s joining us from DC as one of our featured authors tonight.”

I hold out a hand, which MK bypasses in favor of a warm hug that smells vaguely like peanut butter. In a good way. “So nice to meet you. I was just telling these lovely reporters how romance novels could bring about world peace if more men would read them instead of mocking them.”

“Can’t argue with that.” I like her. The two reporters, I’m not so sure about. “Mr. Sampson. Ms. Aarons. Pleasure to meet you.”

Both of them smile at me. “Ms. Elliott.” Ruth’s wearing the expression of a shark circling a baby dolphin. As if she’s going to get me. “The mysterious fiancée.”

“Yep, I’m one of those mythical, mysterious New York career woman who fall in love with intelligent men who like to read. We’re enigmas. So rarely seen.”

“And you’re suddenly engaged to Mr. Romance.”

“When it’s right, it’s right.”

“You two are adorable,” MK says.

“It’s not strange that your fiancé reads romance novels?” Ruth presses.

“Love is what makes us human. Knox’s blog is beautiful, and what he does matters in this world.” The fact that this is rehearsed makes it no less true. Some of the comments I’ve seen on his blog—mothers and sisters and daughters who have sought solace in romance novels after death, divorce, illnesses, and other tragedies, much like he himself did—have made me wonder how my life would be different if I’d read romance novels during some of my darker years.

Like high school.

“I find it interesting that he’s only recently mentioned you, considering his reputation,” Ruth says.

“Mr. Romance is about great books that Knox is passionate about. And that’s why his readers keep coming back. His blog isn’t about him, it’s about them. He’s giving them what they want.”

“You read romance novels?”

“I’m new to the genre, but I could’ve used some of these amazing books Knox has introduced me to years ago.”

“Parker’s a vice president at Crunchy, and she plays in a band on the weekends.” Knox supplies.

“Not a lot of time to read for pleasure,” I add with a shrug of and that’s such a shame.

“I call it self-improvement,” MK says.

I smile at her. “My life has definitely improved since romance novels came into it.”

“There’s nothing weak or wrong about hope and love.”

Amen, sister.

Knox squeezes my waist. “Three minutes until the program starts, MK. Excuse us, Mr. Sampson. Ms. Aarons. Hope you enjoy yourselves tonight.”

“Pleasure to meet you all.” Little conversations are going on all around the room. I can’t pick out the other reporters, but I watch Knox’s gaze sweep over the room, and I know they’re there. Willow and Sia are laughing with Lila, and a squat little man with a bulging vein in his forehead is glaring at me from one side of the room as Knox nudges me toward the seats. I go up on tiptoe and kiss his cheek. “You’re doing great,” I tell him.

He meets my eyes, all green flame and determination. “Thank you.”

My belly flutters. He squeezes my hand one last time, and then he’s off to run the show.

I’m not sure how many people will fit in this room, but it’s well over a hundred. Probably closer to two, and we’re squished in like sardines. There are smiles all around, chocolates being passed from one book-lover to another, and a full panel of guest speakers lining up on the raised dais at the front of the room.

“The Times are complete and total dicks if they ruin this,” Lila says softly to me as I take the seat between her and Willow.

“Think they’ll be asses again?”

“Fifty-fifty odds. Thank you, by the way, for passing on my message.”

“Glad to help. He call yet?”

“No, but he said hi to me when I got here.”

Progress.

Mr. Jedidiah and Ms. Aarons pause on their way down the center aisle and peer at Lila and me. “Ms. Valentine, didn’t you win Mr. Romance in a bachelor auction not all that long ago?”

“Great night for literacy,” Lila says.

“And friends.” I smile, Lila squeezes me in a shoulder-hug, and we both wave at them.

Weird?

Yes.

But far from the weirdest moment of my life.

And honestly, much better than what I’m facing next.