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There are too many options to choose from, starting with the fact that I haven't turned on my heel and distanced myself from a man I've been conditioned since childhood to see as dangerous. Or maybe it's because I'm openly staring at a man, ogling the lines of his neck—both natural and inked—instead of acting like a proper lady and averting my eyes. Or maybe it's as simple as being at work and not actually getting any work done at the moment.

Whatever the reason, the guilt isn't enough to propel me into any sort of action. I stand there and I stare, tracing the different weighted lines with my gaze.

In reading fiction, I've learned that there are, in essence, three types of people. There are main characters, who are your heroes and heroines. The stars of the story. They may see conflict within their journey, but ultimately they receive their happily-ever-after in the end. Then there are the secondary characters. The supporting cast, if you will. Their job is to be a sort of shining light for the main characters, adding just enough spice to the story to bring out the flavor but never steal the show. And finally, the third category is the villain. The antagonist to the protagonist. Whether slightly sinister or downright diabolical, this is the fictional persona readers love to hate.

Personally, I'm a secondary character. For reasons that shall not be named at this time, I will likely never fit into the heroine role. Not in my own story. Not in any story. Contrarily, the level of my ability to be nefarious is set at exactly zero, therefore I don't fit into the mold of a villain either. Which is fine by me. Everyone loves a good sidekick.

But where does Mr. Tai Davis fit? I can tell that under no circumstance would he ever be mistaken for a secondary character. Maybe it's the way his presence commands the space even though he's currently the only patron in the JK aisle, no underling for him to direct. That, along with the width of his stance and set of shoulders, is just the first entry of proof that he would steal the attention on every page he stepped onto.

Which only leaves villain or hero as options. The fact that he's in a library does give him a tally mark under the Hero heading, in my opinion. All good heroes should be well-read. However, his handling of books—or mishandling, rather—is definitely a slash against him. (No, I'm not harping on the dog-ear thing too much. If people want to treat library books as their own personal collection, then they can keep the book they ruined and buy the library a new copy.) Then there's his neck tattoo. Of a rose. Does that make him bad? Or good?

The cover of a book closing with a puff of air on the other side of the shelves snaps me out of...whatever that was. Mr. Davis pivots to face the opposite direction and strides toward the exit. I wait a couple of seconds so he can get ahead of me before tailing him again since I don't know if he will bank left toward the fiction section or right toward the audiobooks and DVDs. I'm not exactly sure what he would do to mar those media platforms, but as long as I'm around, the answer will be nothing. Unless, of course, he checks them out. There's not much I can do once inventory leaves the library.

"Excuse me." A woman's voice behind me stops my feet from moving after Mr. Davis.

I turn around and smile pleasantly at the woman with her arm slung across a young boy's shoulders. "How can I help you?"

The mother looks down at her son. "Go ahead and ask," she encourages him with a small push between his shoulder blades.

"Um." The boy raises his bright blue eyes from underneath a shock of wheat-colored hair, then lowers them back down to the patterned carpet again. "I'm looking for a book."

I sneak a quick peek over my shoulder, but my mark is gone. Next time I'll just tag his return as damaged and charge him for a new copy. I glance back down at the boy in front of me and feel the muscles in my face relax. There's no question here. This boy is hero material, on par with Henry Huggins or Max Crumbly.

I squat down to eye level. "Then you've come to the right place. What book are you looking for?"

He shrugs. "A good one?"

I sneak one more peek toward the exit as I lead the mother and son toward the children's section. This time I get a glimpse of black leather as the automatic doors close, a single book tucked between the muscular curve of a hip and arm.

Pistols at dawn, I think facetiously at his retreating form before turning to introduce my new little friend to the wonderful world of Perodia, where Tag and his squirrel companion, Skyla, meet the last firehawk. Boy, is he in for an adventure.