Theo Sinclair
The morning rush at Chapters & Brews was already in full swing by the time I arrived. The scent of fresh coffee and pastries filled the air, blending with the soft hum of conversation and the occasional hiss of the espresso machine. Sunlight streamed through the café's wide windows, illuminating the colorful book spines lining the shelves.
Mia was behind the counter, expertly juggling a line of customers while tossing playful banter over her shoulder at me. "Don't tell me you're actually prepared for today's meeting," she said, handing off a latte to a customer before turning her full attention to me.
I grinned, setting my bag on the counter. "Prepared? Me? Always."
Her eyebrow shot up; skepticism written all over her face. "Sure. And I'm the Queen of England."
"Careful," I said, pulling out the notes I'd stayed up half the night working on. "You're going to regret doubting me."
Mia leaned forward, grabbing a croissant from the tray behind her. "Let's see it, then. Wow me."
I held up the meticulously organized papers with a flourish. "Behold! Actual effort."
She gasped dramatically. "Theo Sinclair, putting in effort? Is this because of the librarian?"
I gave her a look. "You're hilarious."
Mia smirked, leaning against the counter. "I'm just saying, you've been... different lately. Like, more focused."
"Focused on making this event a success," I corrected, tucking the papers back into my bag. "Nothing more, nothing less."
"Uh-huh," she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Well, good luck impressing her, Mr. Effort."
I rolled my eyes, grabbing my coffee. "I don't need luck. I've got charm."
Mia laughed, waving me off as the next customer approached the counter. "Sure, keep telling yourself that."
By the time I got to the library, Evelyn was already there, sitting at a corner table with her notebook open and her pen poised like she was ready for battle. Her red curls caught the soft light streaming through the windows, and her glasses had slid slightly down her nose as she focused intently on her notes.
"You're early," I said, sliding into the seat across from her.
"So are you," she replied without looking up.
I laughed, setting my coffee on the table. "Touché. What's on the agenda?"
"We need to finalize the schedule for the showcase," she said, flipping to a clean page in her notebook. "And I wanted to go over the scavenger hunt details."
"Perfect," I said, leaning back. "I've got a list of potential themes for the scavenger hunt. Wanna hear them?"
She glanced at me, her expression skeptical. "Do I have a choice?"
"Not really," I admitted. "Option one: Famous first lines. We scatter clues around the library based on opening sentences from classic and modern books."
Evelyn's pen paused mid-note. "That's... actually not bad."
"Option two," I continued, grinning, "is 'Guess the Genre.' We use props to represent different literary genres and make people match them to books."
She nodded slowly, her eyes narrowing in thought. "That could work."
"And option three," I said, leaning forward, "is a literary escape room. We lock everyone in and make them solve book-related puzzles to get out."
Evelyn blinked. "Are you serious?"
"No," I said, laughing. "But now I kind of want to try it."
She rolled her eyes, but there was a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Let's focus on the first two options for now."
We spent the next hour hashing out details, working through the logistics of each activity. Evelyn's pen moved quickly across the pages of her notebook, her notes precise and methodical. She was sharp, focused, and completely dedicated. It was impressive, even if it made me feel a little like a slacker by comparison.
"You're actually pretty good at this," she said at one point, her voice tinged with reluctant approval.
"Don't sound so surprised," I said, smirking. "I have layers, you know. Like an onion."
"Or a parfait," she said dryly, flipping to another page in her notebook.
I grinned. "Did you just make a Shrek reference?"
"Absolutely not," she said, her cheeks flushing slightly.
"Uh-huh."
As we worked, I found myself watching her more closely. Evelyn had a way of carrying herself that was both endearing and maddening—serious, meticulous, but with flashes of warmth that made her seem more human, less like the stoic guardian of tradition I'd first pegged her as. I caught myself wondering what her story was, what had made her so protective of this place.
"Why the library?" I asked suddenly.
She looked up, startled. "What?"
"Why'd you choose to run the library?" I asked, leaning forward. "There's gotta be a story there."
Evelyn hesitated, her pen hovering over the page. "It's not much of a story," she said finally. "My grandmother ran this library when I was a kid. She was the one who taught me to love books. When she got sick, I took over."
"That's not nothing," I said, my voice softer than I'd intended. "That's... kind of incredible."
She glanced down, her cheeks coloring slightly. "It's just what felt right."
"Still," I said, sitting back. "It's impressive. Not a lot of people would take on something like this."
Evelyn didn't respond, but the faint smile on her lips told me my words had hit their mark.
By the time we wrapped up, we'd finalized the showcase schedule, narrowed down the scavenger hunt options, and even agreed on a set of books for the readings. It was more progress than I'd expected, and it left me feeling... accomplished.
"This is actually coming together," Evelyn said, gathering her things.
"Told you we make a good team," I said, standing and stretching.
She shot me a look. "Let's not get carried away."
"Too late," I said, grinning.
As we walked toward the door, I couldn't resist one last jab. "You know, for someone so resistant to fun, you're actually not terrible to work with."
Evelyn rolled her eyes but didn't argue. "See you at the next meeting, Theo."
"Looking forward to it, librarian," I said, holding the door open for her.
Back at the café, I sat at the counter, nursing another cup of coffee while Mia worked behind the bar. The morning rush had turned into a steady afternoon buzz, the hum of activity filling the space.
"How'd it go?" Mia asked, sliding a mug of tea across the counter to an elderly customer before turning to me.
"Productive," I said, flipping through my notes.
"Productive? That's it?" she said, raising an eyebrow. "No juicy details?"
I smirked. "Sorry to disappoint."
Mia leaned on the counter; her expression skeptical. "You like her, don't you?"
I blinked. "What?"
"Evelyn," she said, her grin widening. "You like her."
"I don't even know her," I said, though the words felt hollow even as I said them.
Mia shrugged. "Maybe not. But I've seen the way you talk about her. She's getting under your skin."
I opened my mouth to argue, but nothing came out. Instead, I took another sip of coffee and stared at the notes in front of me. Mia's words lingered long after the conversation had ended.
As I walked home that evening, the crisp autumn air filled my lungs, and the sound of rustling leaves accompanied my footsteps. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I was building something real—something that mattered. And for reasons I couldn't quite explain, I knew Evelyn was part of that.