Everly’s still popped up in her seat, twisted around, and her eyes connect with mine. “Sounds like the cinnamon puff pastries came out great though?”

  I tilt my head. “You knew what I was making?”

  “I shopped with Josie. Took her to my favorite grocery store in the city.”

  A warmth spreads in my chest from this knowledge, which is a stupid reaction. Of course Josie shopped for the supplies; of course she bought the ingredients. I know all this. She told me she wanted to, and she said she wouldn’t let me pay. And yet I still find it adorable, the idea of her shopping for the baking we did this morning.

  So adorable it’s making my heart flip annoyingly in my chest. What a pointless reaction. “Cool,” I say to Everly, just to say something.

  “You made these with our teammate’s sister?” Asher asks with genuine curiosity.

  “Yeah. She is my roomie,” I add. Is it weird to bake with your roommate? Am I wearing a sign that says I’ve got it bad for her? Or worse—one that says I nearly fucked her today?

  I picture Josie spreading her legs for me on the counter a few hours ago. Josie getting down on her knees after we baked.

  I smirk over my little secret. Baking is foreplay. I close my eyes to sleep even though it’s a short hop over to Vegas. “Enjoy the treats,” I say. “My roomie can fucking bake better than you clowns play hockey.”

  But as I drift off, I’m hoping Christian didn’t hear me.

  When we land in Vegas, it’s time to focus on work. Only work. I grab my bag and head off the plane, mentally reviewing the plays we’ve been prepping for this stretch of games. On the tarmac, Christian catches up to me, clapping my shoulder. “Those were good.”

  I guess the treats made it all the way around the team. “Glad you liked them.”

  “You and Josie made them?”

  Is this front page news? “Yes.”

  “That was nice of you,” he says, like I did it to entertain her. “She was always into that—baking. No idea how she got into it since the rest of us never did.”

  Seriously? He doesn’t know? “Her aunt,” I say, then correct my response to: “Your aunt.”

  Christian’s expression is blank for a long beat, then recognition must dawn. “Right. That makes sense.”

  How well does he even know his sister? Josie told me she was in a committed relationship with baking the morning after she moved in, and then she shared recently that she used to bake with Greta all the time. I’ve only known her for a month or so, but this is part of the Josie file. But I give Christian the benefit of the doubt. He’s got not one but two newborns at home.

  “Yeah, it’s one of her things,” I add evenly so I don’t let on in my voice that it’s another thing about his sister that I like. That list of things is long.

  He smiles. “I told you she’d be a good roomie. Quiet, reads all the time, likes to bake. Thanks again, man.”

  I get what he’s doing. Truly, I do. He’s still selling me on this living arrangement. Understandable. He asked the team to pitch in when his family was in a bind. I offered. He wants to make sure I’m still good with it.

  Little does he know I’m so good with it. So damn good with it I’m annoyed she’s leaving in less than two months. Josie and I have barely talked about the end of her time in San Francisco. But now that we’re nearly half done with her list, I’m thinking more about the expiration date of her stay. I’m wishing her job wasn’t short-term. I’m wishing for a lot of things.

  Like a lot less complications.

  But as Christian peels ahead of me to chat with Chase and Ryker, doing his captain duties of catching up with everyone, I study him for a beat longer. I admire the guy. He’s had a hell of a career. He’s shared some great tips since I’ve been with the team.

  Trouble is, I’m not so convinced anymore why he thinks he has a say in who his sister dates or sleeps with. Or if his opinion—if it’s even real or mere bravado— matters to me. Sure, I understand team chemistry. Truly I do. Of course it’s important. And yeah, I get that dates and romance can go awry, and you don’t want bad blood between teammates if that happens.

  But I don’t tell Natalie who to go out with. I’m not sure Christian should be telling anyone either.

  That night at the hotel when I’m alone in my room, I reach out to my sister.

  Wesley: What would you say if I told you who to date or not date?

  Ten seconds later, my phone rings. When I pick up, Natalie is cackling—a long laugh that lasts forever. “That’s funny, Wesley. That’s really funny.”

  And that’s illuminating in its own way. “Glad I amused you.”

  “Who is she? And on a scale of one to besotted, how far gone are you?”

  I scoff as I flop down on the king-size bed in the room. “I’m not far gone.”

  “Why are you asking the question then? You never asked questions like this when you were with Anna.”

  True. But my relationship with Anna wasn’t fraught with complications. It wasn’t full of reasons why we were a bad idea—although Anna and I were a bad idea in the end because we didn’t gel. “That was different.”

  “So what is it about this new relationship that’s making you ask the question?” she asks, then, as the sounds of the city play in the background, she says, “Sit, Frosty.” She must be out walking her dog and stopping on a corner.

  I drag a hand through my hair and sink down into the pillow. “It’s not a relationship.”

  “Is it with the girl in the T-shirt?”

  I am see-through. “Yes, but she’s my roommate.”

  Natalie lets out a low whistle. “Oh, that hurts.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  We shoot the breeze a little longer, and she tells me about Frosty’s day. She adopted him recently from Little Friends and has been treating him like a prince. “Today, he went to the dog camp with the indoor pool and spent most of the day fetching tennis balls,” she says.

  “So, he’s only a little bit spoiled?” I ask.

  “He’s exactly as spoiled as he should be.”

  “Tell him I’ll see him soon.”

  “I will pass on the message.”

  When we hang up, I stare at my phone. Weighing what’s next. Debating with myself. On the one hand, I shouldn’t act like I’m in a relationship with her. Especially since—I’m fucking not.

  On the other hand, I want to text her. And lately, want wins.

  Wesley: The cinnamon thingies were a hit, and the guys gave me hell.

  Josie: Because?

  Wesley: Because they’re dicks.

  Josie: Prank them!

  Wesley: Not a bad idea. You prankster.

  Josie: Do that one where you cut the bottom of their laces, so they can’t tell at first.

  Wesley: You know hockey pranks?

  Josie: Um, yes.

  I don’t ask why. It’s obvious. Her brother. And the more I get to know Josie, the less I want to make my relationship with her about him. He’s hardly the reason I need to resist her. I need to resist her because I live with her. And because she’s leaving. I shift to another topic altogether.

  She’s told me about the cat at her library and sometimes sends me pics.

  Wesley: How’s Raccoon?

  Josie: He spends a lot of time licking his balls.

  She’s so blunt sometimes it kills me.

  Wesley: I’ll probably regret asking, but where in the library does he lick his balls?

  Josie: On a big yellow chair in the children’s section. He has zero shame. And, since he’s neutered, zero balls.

  Wesley: But so much hope.

  The Vegas Sabers are sluggish the next night. But we are sluggish-er. It’s a slow game. Hardly anyone crashes into the boards. Or slams into each other. I’m not an enforcer so it’s fine by me, but we need something to liven up this game since we deserve to lose.

  During the second intermission, Christian is fired up. In the visitor’s locker room, he’s all business as he says: “We can do better. We came here to win and we’re all skating like it’s a fucking stroll in the park and we’re hungover. Get out there and show some grit.”

  It’s embarrassing, the acknowledgement of how we’re playing. But a swift kick in the uniform pants with a sharp blade is what we need. When we hit the ice for the final period, we’re chasing the puck ferociously. Making plays ruthlessly. And eking out a win on enemy ice. An hour later, we’re soaring out of the city of sin, its glittery lights and bright billboards fading in the midnight sky as we fly toward the East Coast.

  The plane is quiet, as night flights often are. There’s no trash talk at this hour, so I take out my phone to listen to some music, but before I click on an R&B playlist that helps me sleep, I find a note from my roomie.

  Josie: Nice turnaround.

  I smile stupidly against the dark window so no one can see how I look right now. The glass is cool, but I’m warm everywhere. I don’t want to talk about me with Josie. Not with my teammates around. And honestly, not that much in general. I want to talk about her.

  Wesley: It was. But what are you up to? Also, it’s late. Go to bed.

  Josie: That’s where I am.

  Josie: Here’s your proof of bed.

  She sends a picture of the lower half of the bed. Her legs are clearly under the covers. A paperback sits on the white blanket. Zooming in, I read the title. Someone Else’s Ring.

  Wesley: New book. Does this mean you’ve finished the thriller? The Woman in the Hotel?

  Josie: I did, and the thrill was thrilling.

  Wesley: How’s this one?

  Josie: It reads like you fuck.

  Forget warm. I’m red-hot under the collar of my dress shirt, remembering the words she wrote on hotel stationery more than a month ago. He fucked like a page-turner you didn’t want to put down.

  Is it just me or is Josie getting…naughtier? Bolder? More brazen? Pretty sure it’s not just me—it’s her, turning up the heat.

  I’m feeling the burn in the dark of the quiet jet, streaking across the sky. Here, it’s like no man’s land, free of consequences, devoid of risk. A place where we can flirt because of the miles between us. So I tap out a reply.

  Wesley: Bet I still “read” like that.

  Josie: You’d keep me up all night?

  Wesley: Like a page-turner, Josie. Like a fucking page-turner.

  26

  THE SAME SPACE PROBLEM

  Josie

  I have reached peak librarian awesomeness. I am officially better than an algorithm, and Amazon has nothing on me as I update our Your Next Five Reads list with fresh recommendations.

  It’s an extra thing I wanted to do, and so far, the digital initiative has been a success. It’s a new service I’ve set up during the last few weeks—something we’ve been promoting on the branch’s website since then. Patrons submit their favorite books and top authors, telling us what they liked, and then add what they might be in the mood to read next.

  We—usually me—write back within a few hours with five recommendations of books, either paperback, digital, or audio, and explain why we think they’ll like them.

  It’s a mood reader’s dream, and I review the final one I worked on today, checking each rec. Yep, these look good. Feeling like a smarty-pants in the best of ways, I hit the send button when a flurry of papers flies my way.

  I jerk my gaze away from the computer screen.

  Of course.

  A giant Siamese has landed on the counter, sending pages soaring as he gives zero fucks. I grab the papers, sorting them as Raccoon stretches his humongous body across the keyboard, belly up and carefree.

  “You bad boy. You knocked everything off the counter,” I say, chiding him, but he doesn’t respond to criticism, being a cat and all.

  Thalia’s at the other end of the desk here on the second floor. “It’s no use,” she says, popping up from her chair to wander my way. “He’s above it all.”

  “Clearly,” I say, looking down at the creature relaxing shamelessly on the keyboard. “He’s trying to lure me now with his big sexy routine.”

  “Ah, I see you’ve learned his trick.”

  “Yes! He does this long, languid stretch where he offers his sleek belly, ostensibly for petting. But if you touch him there on the very belly he’s offering, he will strike.”

  “He’s a touch-me-and-die cat,” she says nonchalantly, scratching Raccoon’s chin, the one acceptable zone on this cat for petting. “So sweet.”

  “And yet I’ll miss him,” I say, then wince, wishing I could take those vulnerable words back. I shouldn’t be putting sad vibes out in the air. I wasn’t hired for this temporary job to talk to my boss about how much I’ll miss this place when I finish the contract in seven weeks, but who’s counting?

  Thalia gives me a sympathetic look. “This place is addictive,” she says.

  But that’s all. She doesn’t add hey, how about I pry open our budget and hire you for a permanent gig? You’re the city’s most awesome new digital specialist librarian.

  “It is,” I say brightly.

  “Drinks this week with the crew? We’re doing Thursday night this time,” she says, shifting to another topic all together. “And we’re going to add trivia this week.”

  “Book trivia?” There is nothing worse than librarians trying to best each other with book knowledge. It’s like a battle royale of the nerds, and no piece of information is left un-hurled at your rival.

  “Please,” she scoffs. “We do pop culture. Sports. Music. That sort of thing, so it’s more challenging. We need it to be hard.”

  “I’m in. Librarians like it hard after all,” I add, then realize the full weight of the innuendo in the statement.

  Thalia sees it too, tilting her head in approval, then tapping her wine-colored nails against the counter. “That ought to be on a sticker, girl,” she says, then heads off in a swish of flowy magenta skirt and jingly bracelets.

  Come to think of it, that’s not a bad idea. Maybe I could become a sticker queen and stay in San Francisco on the riches I’ll amass as I peddle a line of cheeky librarian sayings.

  Meet me in the stacks.

  Let’s do it on the reference desk.

  Dewey Decimal to me all night long.

  I have a free minute so I google the price of cute stickers, then the best fonts for stickers, then where to sell stickers. But soon enough, I sigh, vanquished already by practical matters. There’s just not a big enough market for naughty librarian stickers.

  I take off my glasses for a second to pinch the bridge of my nose, since studies show ideas flow faster when you pinch your nose. Oh! I’ve got it! What if I can win another grant from The Violet Delia Foundation for Library Digital Empowerment? Thalia would probably say nice things about me to the non-profit. Maybe they’d crack open the coffers and fund this position for longer? I could look for other grants too, but most grants in my field fund professional development for librarians, not their salaries. This is a rare one. But if I can prove I’m a unicorn…

  I’m also a workhorse though. I’ve been scanning the job listings regularly in San Francisco—old habits die hard, and when I was finishing grad school I was glued to the job listings. While I haven’t found any openings yet, I can widen the search beyond the city maybe. Like San Jose, or Oakland, or Marin County. I can apply to anything within a fifty-mile radius, even though I don’t have a car. But I’ll deal with that issue later. I’m aces at applications. Not only did I apply to sixteen colleges (accepted at thirteen), I submitted my résumé for more than one hundred fifty jobs before I landed this one.

  I have an endless well of application energy, and I will put it to good use tonight in the job hunt. Because I want to stay here. Close to this lovely city. And my brother…and Maeve and Fable and Everly.

  As I leave that evening, heading onto the streets of the Upper Haight to catch my bus, I text Wes to tell him what happened today. Well, not my “blanket the Bay Area with my CV” idea. That would definitely seem clingy. Like, hey, you life-hacked a lipstick tube into a sex toy to get me off on the counter. Clearly you want me to stay in town, don’t you? Nope. I’ll keep those plans to myself. Instead, I tap out another note.

  Josie: It’s a wonder I still have a job. Today at work I said the following out loud to my boss: “Librarians like it hard.”

  As I’m getting off the bus twenty minutes later, his reply lands.

  Wesley: Can confirm.

  I laugh and blush all at once.

  The idea takes a hold of me though—the stick-around-town one. That evening, after I whip up some carrot bacon, I spend an hour crunching on my veggie food while I write a bang-up cover letter to The Violet Delia Foundation for Library Digital Empowerment, letting them know what I’ve accomplished so far and what else I hope to achieve. I send it off, then hunt for library grants, just in case there are any I might have missed. I search for more grants on the way to work the next day too. But I only unearth a few I’d really qualify for—or really that this library, or any others in the city, would qualify for to keep me on. But I check the job boards for open positions as well. I’m ready to pounce on any.

  Spoiler alert: there aren’t any for—gulp—entry-level librarians.