AN: Here goes.

This is unbeta'd.

We will be updating (at least) daily.

We own nothing.


Between the Covers

The cool air is usually refreshing when I push open the big wooden and glass door.

But not today.

Today – even though it is unbearably hot outside – it's raining.

And as the cold air washes over me, I shiver. Goosebumps cover inches and miles of exposed skin barely concealed by too-short shorts and this flimsy tank top. Ideal for summer…not for unexpected afternoon showers and ice cold libraries.

I hide at the table in the far back corner by the periodicals while I dry. If I lean over to the left, I can see him. Although, if I lean over too far, he might see me.

I only lean a little.

Sun-kissed hair the color of terracotta tile is all I see. He's leaning over a book. I wish I knew what he was reading.

I open my canvas beach bag. Instead of towels and suntan lotion, it holds a book. One book. I checked it out yesterday. I read it last night. Well, I mostly read it. I basically just skimmed the important parts. I know the story by heart.

Did he think about the title?

About the content?

Probably not.

Pushing my damp hair behind my ears, I walk slowly, slowly, slowly to the counter. He doesn't look up. I bite down on my lip hard.

Oww…too hard.

I place the book on the counter and softly push it toward him.

And then he looks up with eyes the color of fresh-cut grass. I think they grow wide for just a moment, but that's probably just wishful thinking.

"Daughter of Fortune," he says, as he types something into the keyboard. "Card?"

I reach in my pocket and pull out the card. With fingers that shouldn't tremble, I slide that to him as well.

"Bella Swan," he says.

For a moment, I wonder how he knows my name. But then I remember that I'm not an idiot and my name is on the card.

"That's me."

"You just checked this out yesterday."

"I did," I tell him. "I'm a fast reader."

He smiles, but then quickly looks back down. And I try to sneak a peek at what he's reading. But I can't.


He pushes the card back to me without making any more eye contact. I take it and quietly walk away.

I'm not trembling now.

Maybe I've warmed up…or maybe I'm no longer nervous.

Probably a little bit of both.

I walk up and down the aisles. My fingers touch all the books on the fourth shelf from the bottom.

Until I reach the section that I'm looking for.

Searching and scanning, I trace the titles until my index finger lands on the one I want. I take it, holding it close to my chest and breathing in deeply. I walk back up to the desk and I slide it to him along with my card.

He looks at the book.

"Summer," he says. "Edith Wharton is overrated."

"That's funny," I say, looking down a finally seeing his book – Stranger in a Strange Land. "I've never heard of Robert Heinlein. You must like authors who aren't rated at all."

Without looking at him again, I take my new book and throw it my bag. I head back outside, thankful it's not still raining.

Maybe tomorrow I'll learn his name.