I have a weekly routine of going to the library. I love finding new books to read, and perusing the aisles has always felt somewhat intimate. Alone, but still in public. As a child, it excited me to quietly walk the aisles, unseen to everyone; now as an adult it excites me in a completely different way.
So when I turned in to an aisle looking for an author and locked eyes with him, my heart skipped and sent a jolt of electricity to every last nerve ending tucked between my legs. He smirked at me, then returned his eyes to the book he was looking at. I turned around and faced the shelf behind him, my fingers shakily reaching for the first book I could find. Something, something, murder mystery…