Rafe Sorenson, 58, retired wildland fire crew boss, showed up to the annual Maple Ridge volunteer fire chili cookoff only because his old crew badgered him into being a judge. He’d spent six years sticking to the edges of small town life after his wife died, preferring the quiet of his off-grid cabin 12 miles out of town to crowded events where everyone felt entitled to ask how he was holding up. His biggest flaw, the one he’d never admit out loud, was that he liked being miserable almost as much as he hated being lonely.
He was halfway through his third bowl of over-salted beef chili when the woman set up her folding table two feet from his judging station. She was Elara Mendez, the new town librarian, 54, who’d moved to the area three months prior, and he’d pointedly avoided speaking to her every time he snuck into the library to check out Louis L’Amour paperbacks on Wednesday afternoons. She sold tattered used romance novels for the library’s summer reading fundraiser, and he rolled his eyes at the garish cowboy-themed cover art on the top stack.
When she leaned over to adjust a wobbly table leg, her wool sweater brushed his bare forearm. He flinched so hard he spilled hot sauce on his work boots. She smelled like jasmine hand lotion and cinnamon chili, and the scent hit him like a punch to the chest—he hadn’t been touched by anyone who wasn’t a cashier handing him change in more than four years. She looked up, laughed, a low warm sound that cut through the crowd’s yelling over contest announcements, and held his eye contact three full seconds longer than polite. He looked away first, face heating, and rubbed at the hot sauce stain like it was the most important task in the world.
He made a snarky comment about the romance novels being brain rot, half under his breath, and she heard him. She leaned against his table edge, hip propped an inch from his knee, and raised an eyebrow. “Funny coming from the guy who checks out three westerns a week, all with the exact same ‘gruff cowboy saves the damsel’ plot you’re mocking.” He froze. He’d thought no one noticed his library runs, always wore a ball cap pulled low, always got in and out in five minutes flat. She held up a dog-eared paperback, a western with a faint pink cover tinge, and offered it to him. “This one’s got a fire crew boss protagonist. Figured you’d relate. Free.” He shook his head, said he didn’t read that garbage, and she leaned in further, tucking the book into his flannel breast pocket. Her fingers brushed the soft hair at his collar edge, and he held his breath until she pulled away. “Sure you don’t. We’ll see what you say after you finish it.”
The sky opened up ten minutes later, fat cold raindrops pouring down so fast everyone scrambled to pack up tents and coolers before their stuff got soaked. Rafe grabbed two heavy boxes of books off her table before she could protest, his hand brushing hers when he took the second one, and carried them to her beat-up 2008 Subaru Outback parked at the field edge. They were both soaked through by the time he set the boxes in her backseat, rain dripping off his hat brim onto her shoulder, and she reached up to pluck a wet pine needle off his collar. Her face was inches from his, he could smell the mint gum she chewed, see gold flecks in her hazel eyes, and he didn’t pull away. It would be so easy to lean in, to kiss her, and he was half convinced he was hallucinating until she smiled, soft, no teasing for the first time that day.
He blurted the invitation out before he could talk himself out of it, said he had beer in his fridge, a dry porch, they could wait out the rain if she wanted. He made it sound casual, like he asked strangers back to his cabin every weekend, but his hands shook a little where they rested on her car door edge. She nodded, grinning, pulled a pen from her jacket, and scribbled her cell number on the paperback’s first page before he could stop her. “I’ll follow you. Don’t drive too fast, I’ve got a dozen first edition L’Amour books in the back I don’t want sliding around.”
He got in his beat-up Ford F-150, turned the ignition, and pulled the paperback out of his pocket to look at the number. She’d scrawled “No takebacks” under the digits in loopy blue ink. He tucked the book back into his pocket, turned on his windshield wipers, and waited for her to pull out behind him.
