Series: Like Us Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 241
Estimated words: 236417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1182(@200wpm)___ 946(@250wpm)___ 788(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1182(@200wpm)___ 946(@250wpm)___ 788(@300wpm)
We land on the main floor, and my phone vibrates. On instinct, I glance at the message, weaving through the bookshelves with Xander.
LUNA
Rochester. Wyatt. Professor. He works for Rochester Industries. I think he must live in a dark dungeon of hell, and I’d rather you not go there. Even if the egging might be satisfying.
My stomach recoils. Rochester. How did this fucking happen—?
I look up right as Xander swerves around the corner. I can’t catch his arm fast enough. His six-two build collides right into a girl carrying paint supplies on her binder. Said paint spills back on her white blouse in an oozy red river, staining her Dalton uniform.
I fight away a grimace. Blank-faced, just scenery. Just trying to focus. And not Luna. Push Luna back for one second. It contracts my muscles.
The girl is frozen, her mouth halfway open and unable to close. Too soon to tell if it’s because Xander Hale made physical contact with her body or if she’s distressed about her ruined blouse.
“Shit, shit,” Xander curses in a wave of panic. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t see you. Are you alright? Can I—can I help you with that?” He’s reaching out toward her binder, the paint pooling on the surface.
“Can-can you repeat what you just said?” she asks with a blink. “But slower.”
He exhales a breath. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.”
“It was an accident.” She’s juggling the canister of red paint and binder.
I try to place her, but I can’t.
Heart-shaped face. Pin-straight auburn hair like she brushes each strand ten-times a day. Tiny pieces are braided and clipped in the back, and her white skin is still ashen from shock.
She’s fumbling with the paint-splattered binder. “I just need to check my extra credit for AP Lit. I’m supposed to turn it in next period.”
My reads are off today. She’s not worried about her clothes. Or bumping into the famous teenager. She’s concerned about her grades.
“Wait, wait,” Xander says in a hurry, extending a hand for her to stop. “If you open your binder, the paint will slip in the pages.”
“I have to turn this in,” she panics.
“Okay, hold on.” He unzips his backpack and digs out a black hoodie. He mops up the paint with the fabric. The girl is a statue, like one breath will detonate her extra credit work.
I scout the first floor with a glance.
Students have popped out of their study areas. They watch Xander helping the girl, some slyly snap photos, and the librarian is marching over. If snacking wrinkles the librarian’s brows, then paint-splatters on the carpet is aging her about a thousand years.
Xander turns the hoodie inside-out, then balls it up. “It should be good.”
She carefully peeks into the binder and exhales. “Thank God.”
“Your clothes,” Xander says. “Do you have any extra here?”
And for the first time, she registers how much paint soaks her blouse. “I, um, no.” She winces.
The librarian clears her throat behind the girl. “Your name, please. And I’d like to know why you’re carrying paint in the library.”
The girl is oblivious to the librarian. After a couple tense beats, the girl sees Xander looking past her, and she spins around the same time the librarian snaps, “Are you ignoring me?”
“No, no. I…” She motions to her ear, and I see the hearing aid. The librarian doesn’t give the girl the chance to say she’s hard of hearing.
“You should not have paint in the library.”
“I know, but I was finishing an essay during my study period and Mrs. Rodriquez needed help gathering extra art supplies—”
“That’s no excuse.”
“It was my fault,” Xander cuts in, and the librarian goes quiet, as though she’s just realizing Xander Hale is involved. “I ran into her. I’ll try to clean it up after school.”
“That’s not necessary,” she says, more calmly. Her decrepit face is hard to stare at, no lie. She zeroes in on the girl again. “This is your warning. If something like this happens again, Miss…”
“Spencer.”
“Full name, please.”
“Spencer Sadler.”
“Miss Sadler, you won’t be allowed in the library for the rest of the year. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Xander’s face has twisted in confusion. “It’s just paint. Jeez, you’re acting like she murdered another student.”
I almost smile. That’s my elf.
The old bat bristles. “Dalton expects its students to take care of its property.”
“It was an accident,” Xander emphasizes.
“I’m not arguing with either of you about this.”
“I’m not arguing,” Spencer says quickly. “I understand. I won’t make this mistake again.”
Hell hath no fury like a librarian scorned—I’ve never said until now. I love librarians. I’ve met my fair share growing up and all of ‘em let me eat while using the computer. They didn’t care if I greased up the keyboards, as long as I wiped them down before I left.
Anyway, she should be protecting the books, not the carpet.
Xander is glaring at the librarian all the way back to her casket—I mean, desk. Then he asks Spencer if she’s okay. She assures him, and he offers her his navy-blue blazer, shrugging it off.