Knox

Tuesday at lunchtime, the West Park Branch Library is hopping. Toddler story time is over, which means the adult section on the third floor is currently overrun with frazzled mothers in need of some solid escapism and their adorable, wound-up, hungry children who don’t care if Mommy gets her own book before they head off for hot dogs or tofu nuggets or whatever it is that kids eat for lunch these days.

Manning the adult services desk and recommending books is only a fraction of what I do. I can research the shit out of weird questions that come in from our patrons. I’m our designated bouncer when lowlifes come in to use our computers to look at porn. Programs and community outreach take up over half my time. But this hour after toddler story time, and the hour after baby play group on Fridays, when I’m in the thick of recommending romance novels to these women, are usually my favorite parts of the week.

Even when there are pint-sized pirates in Pull-ups threatening to climb the stacks and mutiny unless they’re given their grapes and Goldfish soon. Because these patrons know and love the same books I do, and usually, that’s a high like no other.

It’s not quite doing it for me today though.

Easy to blame the distraction of my exploding Mr. Romance email inbox, except every time I get another interview request, virtual high five, or the occasional ass-chewing from someone offended by the word dick in my post from Sunday, I find myself wanting to forward it to Parker.

Possibly because as soon as I launched the blog, she texted me Holy duck, you’re about to do the ho Virginia. You’re going to need a pubic retaliations and meerkat staff.

I don’t have a clue what that do the ho Virginia part was about, and the truth is, I like my blog small, manageable, and for fun, but you can see why she’s hard to forget.

Even when I’m in the middle of my favorite part of the week.

“I’m a little bored with paranormals, but I don’t want something contemporary. Nothing too real,” one of my regulars is telling me at the high counter that serves as our desk.

I thumb a Manda Collins novel off the shelf of the rolling cart I stocked this morning to prepare for the onslaught. “Try this. Regency romance with some mystery and intrigue.”

She eyes the soft-toned cover with the smiling young model in period dress, then gives me the dubious eyeball.

“Trust me.” She doesn’t smile back, even though I’ve never let her down and I know she’ll be hooked as soon as she tries it, so I go back to my shelf and produce a Bec McMaster romance. It’s possible I’m off my game today. “And a steampunk for backup.”

“Steampunk?”

“Like historical paranormal with technology. Big bads. Cool gadgets. But you have to promise to read both.”

Now, she beams at me.

The next woman in line lunges across the counter and squishes me in an awkward hug. “I just wanted to say thanks for what you did on your blog,” she gushes. “The world needs more men like you.”

“My pleasure.”

She’s in my age range, but the big rock on her left hand tells me she’s not trying to cop a feel. Which is also a danger when you’re known as Mr. Romance. More so than dancing in a loincloth at a bachelor auction had been, if you can believe it. I pat her shoulder, hands above the danger zone and in clear sight of anyone watching or snapping photos with their phone, because my regional manager is a romance-hating prick who’s been looking for an excuse to fire me for months.

Buy his grown daughter a book at the bookstore and take her out to coffee, and suddenly you’re enemy number one.

The next patron steps up. She’s also a regular, pulling two little rugrats behind her while clutching a stack of kids’ books to her chest with her other hand. “I can’t find the next Lucky Harbor romance. I need the next Lucky Harbor romance.”

I peel a Jill Shalvis off the shelf. Saw it come back in yesterday, and I know from experience that this particular mother doesn’t get our online reservation system. “This one?”

“Ohmygod, can you come home and give my husband lessons? He can’t even read my mind about picking his socks up off the floor.”

“Does he have to wear socks?”

She straightens. “You know what? You’re right. If he wants clean socks, he can either hit the hamper or he can clean them his own damn self. God, you’re good.”

Nah, I’ve just read a few thousand romance novels.

None of which have prepared me adequately for the walking contradiction that is Parker Parker Elliott.

I help the mom restack her books so they don’t slide out of her arms while her adorable blond daughter picks her nose and her rambunctious son strains against the chest harness disguised as a teddy bear backpack that he’s strapped into.

Children’s leashes. I’ve helped enough women search the stacks for hiding rugrats to appreciate the utter brilliance.

The chaos fades as the women and their little grumpapotamuses straggle off the floor, leaving a more manageable crowd in the adult section. I flag down my partner-in-crime, a friendly single mother of two who’s helping an elderly gentleman search for a particular book on the history of World War I, and offer to pick up her usual from the corner deli.

I make my way downstairs and almost miss Gertie, my branch manager and immediate supervisor, giving me the shut the fuck up and get in here if you don’t want to die glare from the doorway leading to our small office area. She and I go way back, and she’s always been more like a second mom than a boss. The fact that I’m reading profanity into her body language can’t be a good sign, because to the best of my knowledge, Gertie’s never even used the word fart. She prefers to call it tooting.

Also, she likes to remind me from time to time that she, too, used to change my diapers.

Her boss, however, who’s standing wide-legged in my cubicle, his face mildly reminiscent of a pickled beet that needs to sneeze, has probably never touched a diaper in his life. As I mentioned, he’s never been my biggest fan.

The feeling is mutual. I don’t have much trust in people who mock romance novels. Especially when he’s a librarian whose family members love to read them.

“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t fire you right now.” Marty Dorky—yes, that’s really his name—slaps a piece of paper on my utilitarian cubicle desk, his finger bending backwards from the motion of jabbing it.

I’d say that piece of paper must’ve fucked up pretty badly, except I have a strong suspicion I know what’s on it.

Yep, that’s my blog.

“What I do on my personal time has no reflection on this library,” I tell Marty. “Besides, it’s all accurate.”

“Knox,” Gertie hisses.

“Your revolving string of loose women may not reflect on my library, but this does.” Marty steps into my face. “I’ve tolerated that filthy blog of yours—”

“Watch yourself,” I growl.

“—long enough. Our patrons know who Mr. Romance is. We’re not here to call journalists names and insult newspapers. We’re here to help the public.”

“I am helping the public. I’m helping the public stand up to the ridiculous notion that fiction written and read primarily by women is somehow less worthy than any other fiction or literature.”

“You cannot call venerated journalists dicks on a library blog.”

“Venerated journalism and egotistical dickism have never been mutually exclusive. He is a dick. And that’s not a library blog.”

“Knox, shut up.” Gertie shoves between us and pushes us apart. She points at me. “Apologize and redact the name-calling.”

Like hell. That piece isn’t for me. It’s for my readers. It’s for my patrons.

It’s for Parker. “No.”

Marty’s got a vein throbbing so high on his forehead it’s disappearing into his receding hairline. “Too late. The editorial director at the Times book section wants a one-on-one with you.”

Holy fuck.

Sarah MacLean and Lauren Layne write eloquent responses to idiotic reporting on the romance genre, and the Times wants the guy who calls their reporter a dick. Go figure.

Also?

If the Times is reaching out to my boss for an interview instead of me through my blog, he’s right. I’m wading up one of those proverbial shit creeks that sometimes flow through Manhattan.

Marty’s vein is still throbbing. “I’m waiting on that reason I shouldn’t fire you.”

I point to my wall of fame, which is littered with notes of thanks and praise from the comment box. “You fire me, you have to answer to them.”

“Them? You mean all the women you sleep with that you’ve picked up here?”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”

“And you take advantage of being called Mr. Romance to parade around nearly naked at public events—”

“That bachelor auction raised over two hundred thousand dollars for literacy, and I went for almost half of that.”

“Romance Librarian Poses Nude for Bachelor Auction,” Marty fires back. “You think the Times won’t dig that up?”

Pretty sure he’s not interested in how many fucks I don’t give, so I go for the silent you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about glare.

“Mr. Sampson’s been a journalist a lot longer than you’ve been a librarian, son. He decides to do some digging, he’s going to print an article about the Playboy of West Park Library, and then I’m going to get fired for not sacking you a long time ago.”

My jaw’s clenched so hard I’m cracking molars. “I don’t date patrons.” On purpose, anyway. Never know who you’re going to meet. Or where. There was that one time I stepped in when a lady’s blind date stood her up at the Laundromat. Long story. Happy ending. For both of us. Until she showed up three days later at toddler story time and followed the crowds to my section afterwards.

She’s happily married to a dude who runs a pizza joint now.

Whereas I’m still getting shit from Dorky over the whole incident.

“You’re on probation for the next month. You’re also going to apologize to Mr. Sampson, and the Chocolate and Romance program is canceled.”

I don’t give a fuck about probation, and I’ll eat shit for breakfast before I apologize to the condescending asshole, but canceling my romance program? Too far, Dorky. Too far. “The hell it is.”

“Marty, well over one hundred patrons have registered,” Gertie interjects. “We have authors and a couple bloggers flying in from all over the country to sit on the panel.”

This is ludicrous. “You want to put me on probation? Fine. But that program is mine. Call the Times back. Invite them. Invite all of them. Especially the asshat. The only redaction getting published is his.”

Marty actually laughs. “You’re going to get Jedidiah Sampson here, for a romance and chocolate program.”

“Damn straight. His boss wants me, she can bring him along. And I’ll get him to admit he’s a dick, and they’ll write up a glowing review of our library and the program, or I’ll hand you my resignation myself.”

“You’ll quit if Jedidiah Sampson doesn’t confess to being a dick.”

“Dream opportunity, Marty. I won’t be your problem anymore.”

He levels a look on me that sends a chill through my body. Fucker’s a librarian. He shouldn’t be scary.

But he can still fire me. I don’t take much seriously in life, but I love my job.

“You go ahead and try,” he says. “No flirting with the ladies, no auctioning your naked butt off again, no more insulting anyone here or on that ridiculous blog of yours, and if you give the Times any reason to report this event is just a glorified dating game for you, you’re done.”

He jabs a finger at me, his vein throbs harder, and he turns and stalks out of the office.

To his credit, he didn’t add no dating any more of my daughters to his list of demands, but that’s a given at this point.

Gertie looks me up and down. Usually she shows her exasperation with a smile.

Today, she grips me by the ear, shoves me into my chair, and grunts like a caveman who’s run out of raw buffalo meat. “If you would’ve just settled down with that sweet girl two years ago, none of this would be an issue.”

I don’t have a clue which sweet girl she’s talking about, but even though I’ve read this book, and probably a hundred more like it, I suddenly realize just how perfect it is to have Parker Parker Elliott in my life right now.