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CHAPTER ONE

Libraries aren't famous for their penal codes, but some literary offenses deserve due punishments. I haven't decided yet where I stand on late fees—for or against—as I truly can see both sides of the argument on that one. As someone who has impatiently waited in the digital queue for my turn for a book to become available, a little incentive to the lackadaisical reader to get a move on is useful. However, I also understand the desire to linger between the pages of certain books and how hard it is to move on after a literary hangover.

On the issue of mishandling of books, however, I am firmly in the camp of some sort of consequence, for to mistreat a book is most certainly a punishable crime.

I unfold the dog-eared corner and smooth out the cream-colored paper of the hardcover in my hands, making soothing, cooing noises under my breath. A book doesn't have feelings, but it does have a soul. Life exhaled into every word by the author and then breathed into each person who reads those same words. So, in a sense, books are both alive themselves and give life to others simultaneously. Which is why they should be treated with care and not irresponsibly—something the patron who folded these pages clearly disagrees with. I turn the page and unfold another corner.

"Uh-oh. I know that look. Did someone write in a book again, Evangeline?" Hayley teases as she retrieves a paper from the printer, one bearing the list of titles to be pulled from the shelves and set aside for patrons who put in holds on the library's website.

I turn to her, frowning. "I'm not against writing in books. The margins are great for that and so are a rainbow of highlighters. If someone wants to commit marginalia by engaging with the text in their own copies, who am I to judge? What I'm against is people writing in library books. There's a big difference." I turn a few more pages and hold up the offending evidence. "But some Neanderthal dog-eared at least seventy percent of this title. Seventy percent! He should be dragged from his cave and beaten with his own club." I mutter that last part under my breath.

Hayley gasps in mock horror. "A duel for the author's honor must be in order. It's pistols at dawn."

I shake my head while swallowing back a grin. "You know I prefer swords for a duel."

"Swords? Really?" Her button nose scrunches. "I'd imagine they'd be really heavy to hold out in front of you. Wouldn't your muscles tremble and your palms get so sweaty they'd lose their grip on the hilt? Then you'd be run through and I'd be left alone to do the reshelving by myself. Oooh!" Her eyes alight with mischief the second a new thought enters her head. "Unless you're dueling some regency rogue and he decides that instead of running you through, he'll teach you the proper way to wield that deadly weapon." She shimmies her shoulders. "The perfect excuse to get close and use his charms to seduce and disarm you."

My cheeks twitch at her theatrics, a smile threatening to unleash. With sheer willpower, I force a deadpan look onto my face. "I changed my mind. I choose pistols. Pull the trigger. Bam. Done."

She tries to push out her bottom lip to pout, but her laughing makes it impossible. "You're no fun, you know that? Besides, the hero coming up with an excuse to teach the heroine a skill, eliciting the need to put his arms around her, is a well-established device of romance novels for a reason. Plus, bullet wounds bleed a lot. You don't want that. Think of the mess you'd have to clean up."

I'd rather not think about it, thank you very much. Somehow our conversation has gotten off topic, although that's not exactly unusual when it comes to Hayley.

She extends the paper with the list of holds out to me. "Want to keep an eye on the dastardly dog-eared deviant under the guise of getting actual work done?"

"Nice alliteration, and yes, I do." I take the paper.

I'd only gotten a quick look at the retreating form of the patron who'd turned in this mistreated book. He'd headed toward the nonfiction aisles, specifically the biography shelves near the back corner, opposite the children's section.