**Chapter 1** Fraud. I am a fraud. The word ricochets in my mind like a cracked mirror, splintering my fragile world into shards of panic. I can feel it festering, an unwelcome intruder, probing the edges of my consciousness as if seeking to unravel the very fabric of my being. On any other day, in the comfort of my own space, I would have succumbed—let the waves of anxiety wash over me and pull me under. But not today. Today, I am ensconced in the familiar refuge of my librarian’s domain, and my shift won’t end for several tedious hours more. With a practiced flick, I slide the hair tie from my wrist and let it snap back with a satisfying *thwack*. I repeat the ritual a dozen times, fighting to cage the rising tide of dread before it can take root, wrapping me in its unyielding, thorny embrace. The crumpled letter in my hands seems to taunt me, the printed numbers glaring back like a predator. $105,300.27 in overdue rent—to the new apartment manager, no less. How could I have let this happen? The rent calculation had seemed too good to be true, but I’d buried my doubts beneath a carpet of complacency, and now reality had come crashing back with a vengeance. My name, shared with my late grandmother’s, had masked my impending doom—until the management company changed hands and the rose-tinted veil was lifted. Now, I was left to contend with the gaping void of five years of rental history. I force myself to stop snapping the hair tie before I break my skin, folding the ominous letter and shoving it into my purse with an urgency that betrays my calm veneer. Looking up into the sink’s reflection, I clutch the edge, eyeing the frantic version of myself staring back. “You do not have time for a breakdown,” I tell my reflection. “Put it on hold. You can lose it when you get home. But not here. You’ll figure this out. You always do.” I hope I'm right. With a deep, fortifying breath, I stow my feelings away like a secret and step into the hall. I have five precious minutes left on my break—a small window of time enough to make a cup of tea before the after-school crowd descends. My favorite twins, Victor and Everly, are sure to brighten my day with their effervescent energy. They live in a group home nearby, and I adore them—it’s a welcome distraction in the otherwise drab rhythm of my workday. Yet as I turn toward the staff lounge, I collide headfirst into an immovable wall of muscle. Warm hands instinctively grip my shoulders, and an unexpected jolt of electricity courses through my body, igniting every nerve. I recognize the fragrance of his cologne—heady and undeniably Connor Grace. I fight my instinctual reaction as I gaze up into the chiseled facade of a man whose very presence is both infuriating and disarming. Connor is notoriously attractive, with those piercing steel-gray eyes that seem to cut straight through me, paired with a mouth that curls down at the corners as if life is a nuisance he’s forced to tolerate. In my mind, two versions of him exist—the notorious bad boy of hockey, sworn enemy to my best friend, Flip Madden, and the devoted figure who shadows his young coach’s sister, cheering her on with a warmth that contrasts his icy reputation. Today, however, those two faces of Connor seem to meld disturbingly together, creating an intriguing enigma that pulls at me. Just as rapidly, a wave of panic crashes over me at the thought of Callie. “What are you doing here? Is Callie okay? Is Lexi?” My words tumble out, urgent and breathless. Lexi Forrest-Hammer, Connor's pregnant coach and my close friend, hasn’t been herself lately. “She’s fine. So is Callie,” he assures me, retracting his hands with a languid grace that somehow accentuates the tension in the air. “I’ve been looking for you.” His tone holds a hint of blame, as if my unawareness had robbed him of precious moments. “Here I am," I say, irritation flaring. "What do you want? I’m on my break.” And only for two more exasperating minutes at that. He runs a hand through his dark hair, the motion adding to my mounting frustration. “I need Meems’s books.” “Who?” I ask, my brow furrowing in confusion. “Meems. My grandmother. I need her books.” An unexpected warmth unfurls in my chest at the endearing nickname this polished, high-profile man uses for his grandmother. Yet, my logical mind takes over. Why am I the one he’s looking for? Surely he could have anyone fetch a few books for her—someone with more means than I possess. I link my arms behind my back, snapping the hair tie again—my go-to coping mechanism. “The world doesn’t revolve around you and your needs, Connor.” “Oh, I’m highly aware,” he shoots back, his steely eyes narrowing as the hint of a smirk attempts to breach his frown. “My needs are usually at the bottom of everyone’s list. But Meems is top priority. She needs those books.” “Right. And I’m supposed to drop everything because of someone else's schedule?” The words slip out, barbed with irritation. Despite my frustrations, I can see the flicker of vulnerability in his expression that disarms me a little. “Meems has an appointment in less than an hour. I’ve been searching for you for twenty minutes. I just need her books.” A part of me softens to his plea, yet I refuse to let this towering figure’s distress pull at my own heartstrings. “Why is your lack of time management my problem, Connor?” I feel like a mixture of a school teacher and social worker, battling against instinctual compassion. Just then, Dorothea—the ancient head librarian with a reputation that precedes her like a shadow—rounds the corner, her face darkening with disapproval. “Mildred! You are not allowed to bring non-employee guests into the staff room! Tell your boyfriend he can wait for you outside.” “He’s not my boyfriend!” I protest, furiously grabbing Connor's elbow to usher him out, ignoring the warmth that races up my arm at the contact. “I’ll show him out.” “Mildred! Your break is over in one minute!” she calls after me as I lead Connor out of the backroom. “He seems pleasant,” Connor murmurs under his breath. “You have no idea.” I roll my eyes, finally ushering him past the counter, placing much-needed distance between us. “How did you even get back here, anyway?” “I walked through that door,” he points out, gesturing to the clear ‘Employees Only’ sign with a smirk that strains my patience. With a sudden urgency, Connor pulls a crumpled list from his pocket and holds it out expectantly. “What’s this?” I grab it to find the familiar handwriting of his grandmother. “That’s Meems’s—my grandmother’s—list. She comes here every Wednesday to return her books and take out new ones. I’m here to pick them up,” he states with a certain impatience that only heightens my curiosity. “Is Meems her real name?” I probe, my intrigue piqued. “No, it’s Lucy Drake. Do you have the books or not?” Suddenly, everything clicks into place. Lucy Drake—a pillar of our library community, a woman draped in love and wisdom, and the very grandmother of this hockey terror. “I know her! She’s one of my favorite patrons!” I exclaim, my heart racing. “Why isn’t she here? What kind of appointment does she have?” His jaw tightens slightly, irritation bubbling to the surface. “She’s been unwell. As I said, she has a doctor’s appointment. I’m her errand boy, hence the request for her books.” Concern sets in. “How unwell? Is she okay?” I ask, my feelings of anxiety morphing into genuine worry. I always look forward to Lucy’s visits—the way she dresses with the grace of someone on her way to an afternoon tea, the poise that commands respect and love. “She hasn’t been herself,” he admits, his voice low. “I just need the books. Can you help me out?” Crushed by the weight of his request, I feel my own resolve faltering. “They’re not ready yet. She usually comes later in the afternoon. I’m waiting on one to be returned.” His expression shifts as he runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “She needs the books, and I can’t disappoint her.” Somehow, Connor’s swell of anxiety has a softening effect on my own. I know how vital those books are to Lucy, how they stitch her days together. The thought of her losing a refuge troubles my soul. “I can bring them to her tonight,” I offer, uncertain, but wanting to help. “Promise?” His gaze sharpens on mine, the weight of his desire piercing through the space between us. “I promise,” I reply, feeling the curve of the moment change in intensity. As he hands me back the paper with urgency radiating from him like sunshine, I can’t shake the feeling that this encounter could change everything. The hotshot athlete who’s somehow penetrated my world of books and routine stands before me, expectation in his posture. “You better mean it,” he warns, and despite the weight of that proclamation, I find myself drawn in by the glimmering possibility of this connection. “Wouldn't dream of letting Lucy down.”