Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

J osie heard the front door of the building slam shut and, with a groan that bordered on a growl, buried the fingers of both hands in her hair.

She tugged until she felt the pull against her scalp. This infuriating man was literally making her tear out her own hair.

The universe—fate, whatever—was clearly testing her.

Or, more likely, laughing at her. Because it had to be some kind of cosmic joke that the boy next door who had moved away more than ten years ago to traverse the globe would be home the exact same time she had flown back from California to cat sit.

If this were a cheesy movie, the plot would have been that his and her mother had conspired to get the two of them together. Because, in true rom com fashion, she as the heroine and he as the hero would be too clueless or too stubborn to see on their own that they belonged together.

But her life was far from a movie. And she and Corey most definitely did not belong together.

Drawing in and blowing out a breath, she turned to face the room she'd endured Corey's presence just to be allowed into. The sight was enough to calm her frazzled nerves and make her forget the torturous encounter with him.

Books always did have a calming effect on her. When they were old and rare books kept in an off-limits area away from the public—even better.

But this room housed not just books, but also shelves and shelves of what she could only describe as curiosities.

A set of model trains designed to look like the real ones that would have run through this area over a hundred years ago. In the same vein, a railroad spike tagged to indicate it was one of the original ones from the first length of track laid in this county.

An old can of condensed milk with a sign to honor the inventor, Gail Borden, who'd been born in the area in the 1800s.

Amid a couple of early copies of the local paper, The Mudville Inquisitor , there was one yellowed copy of the Troy Sentinel . Dated from December 1823, it contained the first printing of Clement Moore's A Visit from Saint Nicholas , although it had been published anonymously at the time.

There was a Victorian craft pillow that featured local scenes. An old Boy Scout uniform dating back to the year of the founding of the local Troop 1. A sign from the old Mudville railroad station.

An advertisement for a long defunct local company that had produced a patented type of shoelaces. Another printed ad for a 1950s ice cube tray that made cylindrical ice specifically for a thermos, made by another long-gone local company.

The collection encompassed a small leather calling card case, some old bottles and other common items. Some had become significant because of association with an important owner. Others simply for its age and the fact it somehow still existed after all these years, having survived the ravages of time.

It was an amazing collection, but what she was really looking for as her eyes scanned the many objects housed in the room was the founder's compass.

Then, there it was. High on a shelf just out of her reach.

Josie spotted the chair by the desk in the back and strode toward it, figuring that for lack of a ladder she could drag it over and be able to reach the high shelf.

"Oh, thank God," she breathed when, reaching for the chair, she spotted the A/C unit mostly hidden behind the desk.

She was extra grateful for that find as she climbed on the chair and got hit with the exponentially hotter air up near the ceiling.

As the room slowly cooled below her, she balanced on top of the chair and cradled the compass in both hands.

Worried she'd drop it as she climbed down, she bent and placed it on a lower shelf, then used both hands to steady her during the descent from her precarious perch on the old wooden desk chair.

This would have been one thing—the only thing—Corey might have been useful for had she let him stick around. Reaching high stuff.

If nothing else, he was tall. But she'd proven she was a capable, independent woman—in spite of her recent failure during the kittens-trapped-in-the-wall incident.

Once her feet were firmly on the old wooden floor once again, she reached up and gripped tightly the object she'd placed on the slightly lower shelf—evidence of her planning abilities and independence.

The founder's compass. In her hands. And she couldn't wait to dive into all the rest. Books. Files. Papers. Everything that surrounded her in this treasure trove of the past.

She needed photos. And history. And facts. About the founder as well as the compass itself, such as about the company that had produced it. Details about how rare it was and its value.

So much to research. But she was in the right place to do it. And so, she got right to work.

Hours later, she was tired and still hot. The old unit in the window chugged along to the best of its ability but it might have been as old as some of the artifacts in the collection.

More than that, she was so thirsty. In her excitement to get there this morning, she'd forgotten her water bottle at home.

It was definitely time for a break. She'd gotten a decent amount of work done already today. She had pictures and pages of notes on history and facts. Enough to get her started on the website and the social media accounts for the event.

Being her own boss meant she could call it a day if she wanted to.

She could come back tomorrow, rested and refreshed and prepared with provisions. Tomorrow, when—and she'd checked the sign on the door after the encounter with Corey so she knew—the librarian would be on duty to let her upstairs.

It was a good plan. So she gathered her things—notebook, pen, phone, and the damn keys she'd have to return to Corey's house tonight—and shoved it all in her bag.

Then it came time to put the compass back. She eyed the chair and the high shelf. She might need the compass again tomorrow, if the photos she took today didn't work for what she had planned. And every time she climbed up there she risked breaking the chair, or the compass, or her leg.

In a snap judgment, she decided there was no reason the compass shouldn't live on a lower shelf. At least for the duration of her project. Then, when she was done, it could go back up to its lofty perch.

Satisfied with that idea, she placed it safely in reach, then rolled the chair back to the desk and flipped off the poor old A/C.

Glancing around to be sure she'd left everything else the way she'd found it, she pulled open the door and screeched.

"Jeez. I didn't mean to scare you."

"Well, you did," she said breathlessly, one hand pressed to her chest.

Yes, the tall, muscular blond man in the tank top and shorts was gorgeous, but that didn't mean he wasn't also a murderer or rapist.

"I'm sorry. I'm Kirk. I'm the handyman here."

"Oh. Hi." She breathed out in relief. "I'm Josie."

He smiled with a nod. "Josie. I like that name."

"Um, thanks." She felt her cheeks grow hot and found she couldn't hold direct eye contact with this golden-eyed god.

He smiled broader and hooked a thumb toward the staircase behind him. "So I was downstairs watering the hanging flower pots on the front porch when I heard the air conditioner running up here. Figured I'd better check it out."

"Yeah, I'm sorry to worry you. I'm just here doing some research. The Sidney Historical Society loaned me the keys to the archive room for the day."

"So I see." He glanced past her and into the room, since the door was still open behind her. "I have the key to the front door but not this place. Looks interesting."

"Oh my God, it is. So interesting. There are so many amazing old things in there." Her enthusiasm bubbled over.

She'd spent the day alone and after all the incredible discoveries she'd made, she'd been dying to tell someone.

Should she invite him in? It wasn't really her place to do so. But she had to assume he was trustworthy. He had been hired by the town to maintain the property. And she would be here to supervise.

Just a peek wouldn't hurt. Right?

"Did you, uh, want to take a quick look around?" she asked.

His gaze had been glued to the bookshelves until her question.

No surprise. That was where all the fun stuff to look at resided. The rest was just shelves and cabinets filled with books and papers, all similarly boring until she really dove into them and started reading.

"Nah. I'm good. Thanks." He took a step back. "You looked like you were leaving. I'll walk out with you."

"Oh, sure. Thanks." She pulled the door closed, making sure it was securely locked by trying the handle one more time before she turned back to her escort.

Pro—he was polite and handsome.

Con—they might have nothing at all in common.

He didn't seem to be a history nerd, like she was. He seemed more the type that finished his job, grabbed a six-pack and hopped into his kayak for a few hours on the river. While she was excited to rush home and get on her computer.

He was golden tan with sunny highlights in his hair and dirt under his fingernails from gardening.

Her exposed skin was as white and pasty as flour, proving that even living in California on the beach wasn't enough to lure her off the covered porch and into the sun and sand. And the dirt on her hands was from all the dusty old books she'd handled today.

Opposites. But they—whoever they were—said opposites attract. Quinn and Bailey certainly proved that.

They'd reached the bottom of the stairs and the front door of the building. He opened the door and swept an arm for her to precede him. "Well, it was very nice meeting you, Josie."

"You too," she rushed to respond as he pulled the front door closed then turned to face her on the front porch. More slowly, she added, "Maybe I'll, um, see you around here again some time. Just because, you know, I've got more research to do."

"Sounds good." He flashed white teeth at her, tipped his head and headed toward the riding lawn mower parked just below them.

She watched as he mounted the mower, fired up the engine, touched one finger to his forehead in a goodbye salute to her and then drove away. Like a hero in a western riding his horse into the sunset.

It took her a few seconds to reorientate herself.

Finally, she broke free of the Kirk stupor—which was a nice palate cleanser from her Corey obsession—and turned toward where she'd parked her car.

It had already been one hell of a day and it wasn't over yet.