2019-08-02 - I'll Take Jelly Beans for the Win, Alex

In a town built of horror and nightmares, the Gray Harbor Public Library should be a relative sanctuary. Upon passing through the double glass doors, one will find that the space within is largely contained to the ground level with some hints at special and rare collections upstairs by appointment in addition to the meeting rooms one can reserve there. Near the back of the space is a door labeled 'Staff Only' that looks as if it leads to a room, a labeled fire exit, and a stairway to a possible basement. The circulation desk in the front center about fifteen paces in from the double front doors. Non-fiction via Dewey Decimal along the right wall. Fiction by genre and author in rows of tall shelves in the near-center, 'the stacks'. Dismally old computers line the back wall of the room, though most people bring their own and use the library wifi. A noteworthy section just in front of the Non-Fiction entitled 'LOCAL' sports both historical and informational books about Gray Harbor as well as books by local authors of the past and present. Childrens' and YA books are to the far left. And periodicals can be found between that section and the front entrance. The place is a juxtaposition of old and new. Old: A slightly musty smell likely from the age of the building and the frequent rain, the 1970s colors and aged decor. New: a bright, open, and cheery air to the place, fliers on the corkboards by the front doors that announce all sorts of community activities and an upcoming Read-In for kids ages 10-18. Comfortable, padded, reading chairs are interspersed amongst the more traditional chairs and tables spread around the entire place.

Stepping inside the library, it's a force of habit for the large man to duck. Pausing at the doorway, armed with but a manila envelope. Being tall, thick... built like a gorilla as he is, afflicts a certain reputation. Which, after the impartial glare is concluded, he gently enforces by heading towards the left for the children's section.

Friday. Midday. Not a particularly busy time at the Gray Harbor Public Library. The Senior Book Club will be ending upstairs in another 45 minutes. There are a few people at tables with laptops making use of the library's wifi. A mother and little girl of pre-school age are over in the children's section. And Harper is shelving books in the fiction stacks, keeping an eye on the circulation desk as well as the comings and goings at the entrance since the Assistant Librarian, Melinda, is on her lunch break.

Harper pushes a cart around the end of a bank of the stacks and then scans the shelves closest to that end with black glasses on the tip of her nose, her lips pursed as if she were trying to figure out some puzzle. (outfit, not pb: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/493073859203768887/) Although it's sweltering outside, the Library HVAC keeps the space welcomingly cool, allowing Harper to wear a sweater without looking like a wilted flower.

Harper's gaze flickers toward the entrance as she catches movement in her peripheral vision, then the brunette does something of a double-take. That's a tall man. It takes her longer than usual to stir from where she's standing, but then a smile tips at her lips and she pulls off her glasses to tuck them in the hip pocket of her skirt as she drifts over toward Everett, unhurried. "Good --" She glances at the watch on her thin wrist before continuing, "--afternoon, sir. Welcome to the chillest lunch spot in town." Some self-awareness at her too-old word choice tangles with the dance of her brown eyes. "I'm Harper Price. Can I help you with anything this lovely afternoon?"

Crouching low so as to be able to pull a book out and look at its face of the smaller shelves, Everett pauses, caught, like a dear deer caught in headlights at the first sound of the voice. To stand quickly, and overcoming his momentary embarrassment, he pushes the spine of the book he had pulled out back in with a black jean cuff, letting his ankle slowly slide the book back where it had been resting while he regards the woman. As though the slower he goes, the less likely she'll notice. A pause, after her name, for his composure to return, and he gives a large, single nod to her question, lifting his folder.

Opening it, and rustling the few pages within, drawings and scribblings from a man-man's hand, eventually, hurried, Everett finds what he's looking for. And presents to the librarian a little four by three card. Two books are hand-written on it.
- The Jelly Bean Tree by Toni Yuly
- How Many Jelly Beans? by Andrea Menotti and Yancey Labat.

The big man cants his head, to regard the card while closing the manila folder so he can use the fore finger of that hand to double tap the card with which he presents and, with the cant of his head, better read his own hand-writing from more of her point-of-view. And once thus presented, he looks down and then up, taking the time to notice her for the person she is and not a laminate badge with legs.

Speaking of badges, Harper does wear one on a lanyard that hangs down nearly to her waist. The title there is Lead Librarian. Shiver and fear all ye anti-literates! Harper stops within arm's reach of the man and watches what he does, all the different pieces of it, even if Everett rising back to his full height is somewhat overwhelming. The book pushed back into the shelf. The folder. Scribbled pages. A single card. Though somewhere toward when the card comes into view, she sketches a gaze upward to measure the expression she sees there. No words spoken. Perhaps the man is mute? Clearly he heard her. She lifts a hand to touch thumb and fingertip to the card without removing it from his hand. "Someone likes jelly beans," she murmurs. Though not as if to a child. "I'm quite sure we have both." Her fingertips fall away from the card and she leads the way to one end of the picture books to pull out the Yuly book. This she offers up to Everett. "Do you have a child?" she inquires congenially, keeping track of motions he might make in case the mute option is an actuality. She rises and moves about six low-set shelves down and pulls her glasses from her pocket to push on as she crouches quite smoothly in that skirt and trace a fingertip along the row of books, "Ah, yes! Here you go." She pushes easily to her heeled height of 5'11. "Hold just one second though. I think...Morrison or Mortimer..." She doesn't have to move too much further to pull out 'Jack and the Jelly Bean Stalk' by Rachael Mortimer. "Would this suit your purposes as well?" She slides the glasses down the bridge of her nose and smiles a sparkling smile at the hulking man as she offers it, brows tipping upward with the query.

Once she's touched thumb and finger to the card, it's hers now, even with the drawings of a table and jars. Banners and printed graphics of treats had flipped through the folder to get the silly thing. Possession being nine points of the law and what not. An affirmative, albeit, small not of his head is given of his head of her assessment of the enjoyment of the bean du jelly and his regular burning glare chills by several degrees to become outright stoic. He's there again to catch the card when she's let go, his expression turns soulful when he shakes his head twice after a short pause and a quick glance down towards the floor.

Following a short step or two behind, he differs between watching her and watching her scan the books for the two be wanted, accepting them both when offered. When the third book is offered, Everett's left brow quirks ever so slightly. He looks down again, but this time not to the floor but to her waist while transferring folder and books to his left hand so when he reaches out to take her lanyard and lift it, his hand is otherwise bare.

It doesn't take him long to read what he wants from it, and he lets it go from about his belly height to fall and dangle. Lips part to make a soft tsk sound, as though he'd been holding a soft vacuum in his mouth, and with a sonorous tone, he says with effort to be softly least be he Ssh'ed, "I need to speak with you."

He's the worst kind of mute. The kind that can talk.

"No children of your own then. Well, now you've certainly piqued my curiosity," murmurs Harper after the shake of Everett's head. "Planning an all-jelly-bean after-dark party, then? I see those all the time," she murmurs playfully, her brown eyes sparkling merrily as she does the last of the retrieving. She had just handed that third book over when her lanyard is caught up and Harper is pulling her glasses off. The Librarian stops with glasses midair as if she'd just been leashed and she watches the man stare at her badge with an expression caught in the headlights between teasing and startled. Her badge looks positively small as he holds it. Slowly her gaze rises and inquires in silence.

The lanyard drops with a harmless slap of plastic against her abdomen and she waits, easily sliding those glasses back into a hip pocket, and strangely patient for one so relentlessly amiable and outgoing. It's when he speaks that her laughter lifts toward the ceiling, delighted and not at all worried about disturbing the other patrons. The regulars are used to Harper. The mother with the little girl glances over, but seems relaxed by Miss Price's easy-going manner. "That's what I'm here for," she answers, not nearly as clear ringing a tone as her laughter, perhaps she matches his tone intentionally. "Well, it's one of the reasons I'm here. There are several." Then she asks the man, "Here? Or ...?" She gestures as if the library is his oyster. He need only choose the pearl of a spot to do this thing called 'speaking'. Brown gaze settles upon green and that smile is a breath of a curve at the corners of Harper's lips.

The laughter, or the volume, catches the bull off guard. With a visible flinch, his green eyes, the same shade of army green as his t-shirt go momentarily loud, and brows uplifted. He is unaware something hilarious just occurred, nor that he was at the center of it. And while the other patrons, the regulars, may he accustomed to it, Everett looks around just to make sure nobody else is either as surprised as he, or someone isn't throwing an accusatory stare his way.

It wouldn't be the first time he was accused of doing something untoward with this town's women.

"Somewhere," he pauses and brings his steely gaze back and down to her. Alone. Private. He strokes his tongue against the inside of his left cheek, "you feel safe," he finishes, and cants his head softly, his brows uplifted, living the question at her and there-by making it her choice. And while he waits for an answer, his lips purse for a blink before turning back into a straight line. His hands come around to his back where he uses both hands - mostly both hands -- to hold the folder.

As if on cue, a fifty-something woman who actually looks like the stereotypical librarian -- that would be Melinda, the assistant librarian, slightly sour expression and stodgy clothing included -- returns from her lunch break from behind the staff-only door and catches Harper's eye, pointing to the circulation desk where she's heading. Melinda nearly trips, craning her neck to see the hulk of a man speaking with Harper in the Children's Section, of all places. Harper's brown gaze flickers to the side and she dips her chin in recognition of Melinda's return before turning the whole of her attention back to the man with the three jelly-bean books clasped in one strong arm. The 'somewhere' has her tipping in toward him fractionally, as if she were indeed on her toes, or at least the balls of her feet.

"Why, Mister ... ," Nope. She has no name for him., and so speaks in a quieter tone as if they were in a play and he'd just asked for his line, "What's you're name?" Then she continues at her previous volume without giving him much time to answer, "I don't think there is a place that you could choose that I wouldn't feel safe. Not with a man like you around." Harper does so enjoy flipping life on its head and resettling things in her own peculiar way. "There are some tables out front if you prefer to be out of the cool air and in the sun." Or away from other people's ears. "There are also some tables upstairs in the second conference room, if you'd rather be inside," she volleys right back to his court with a little underspin to let him know she doesn't feel uncomfortable in the slightest. Or it doesn't seem that way, at least.

The glance away from him isn't given an acknowledgement even if some people would look in the direction she would, just to see what she's looking at. Harper's his focus, his singular focus at the moment; save for running his left hand through the left side of his head, fingers apart, to comb his long hair back and off his shoulders before returning that hand behind his back.

Lips are sucked into his mouth before he answers in the same manner, leaning down even further than leaning forward while he even more reservedly speaks his name, "Woods." It's when she's describing the places they can go to spend some quiet time together, that his eyes widen, and he interjects, "I mean, my name. It's Woods."

He next looks up, showing amble throat, and back down. With folder in his right hand he offers a sweeping gesture towards the stairs, remembering how sweltering it is outside; his milky-white skin looks as though he had enough sun merely under the library's amble lighting. The invitation for her to show him the way he thinks is clear, his arms drops to the side, save tucking his left hand into his back pocket.

Some women would get antsy or shifty with so much singular attention, Harper just floats right back into it, gazing upward with a half glance to hair prettier than her own before she's looking into green eyes once again. "Woods," she echoes, trying it out. "Got it." She holds out a hand in that spare space between them where he holds the books, intending to shake the man's hand if he cooperates. And it's almost a game now. Harper's pretty certain that half the time he's going to refuse to do what she offers up. That capricious gaze warms her smile as she holds her hand out. "I like it."

Everett either shakes her hand or he very overtly refuses to before Harper pivots and leads the way toward the stairs. "Up in Con-two, Melinda. Let me know if you need me." Melinda looks horrified, as she always does, when Harper uses a regular volume tone in the main room of the library, but she nods wordlessly and begins to start checking books from the book drop back in using the computer scanner.

Or there's a third option altogether.

Everett looks down as the hand is offered and back up, "Um," a softly uneasy sound uttered. "Thank you," he adds to the end of his uncomfortableness and takes her smaller hand in his almost as she intended. They're in the children's section, and he's clearly misunderstood, but holding her hand so she can escort him upstairs rather than a grasp, pump and drop. His palm is dry and hands are calloused from use and the hold on hers is firm enough not to lose her during the swing of arms, but light enough, unsure enough, that withdraw wouldn't prove difficult.

Maybe they do this in libraries across the nation. His eyes look around at the other patrons noting perhaps few are emulating the practice or Melinda either, when he looks at her upon their passing when the two librarians speak. But, in keeping a half-pace behind, Everett follows his guide, since she knows the way. It's somewhere along that route he realizes something and adds, "Ahh. Harper's a pretty name."

It takes an eternal handful of moments for Harper to catch on and then that sparkle touches her brown eyes again. Challenge accepted. She doesn't shy away from touch like some women might. Neither has she been drooling over the man or lusting after his hair. Harper is just, well, Harper. So she pivots in one of those black heels and shifts her smaller, softer hand in his, her fingers tangling with his so long as he maintains this mis-perceived contact; with a light touch, she draws him up the stairwell after her. Sure some eyes will follow that little journey, but Harper has never, ever been one for appearances.

They reach the top of the stairs and she draws Everett after her to the locked door of the unoccupied conference room. The window in the door shows a conference table and the fact that the lights are out in the room. Comfortable, wheeled chairs are pushed in around the table. But first, they have to get in. She looks back at him and lifts their tangled fingers and murmurs, "Keys." A hint that she needs her hand to fish out the keys from the pocket the glasses aren't in at her hip. There's a quieter smile about her now, as if the farther away she is from the main library floor the more hushed she becomes. Or maybe it's the fact that the Seniors' book group across the hall is getting close to finishing up.

Once she regains her hand, she fishes her keys out of her pocket and deftly unlocks the door, opening it and reaching in to power half of the light switches so the room is half lit and half dim. That way people will be less likely to think there is an activity going on and interrupt whatever Woods has to speak with her about. "Ah!" she says, spinning around and facing him. "There are jelly beans downstairs. Shall I retrieve some for our tete-a-tete?" Oh, she's teasing him. Her smile leads into quiet laughter that thrums around in her throat, and the librarian walks over to the end of the table to settle into one of the chairs, folding one leg smoothly over the other after she's seated. She is clearly expecting him to sit at one of the end chairs on either side so they'll be ninety degrees facing one another closely, rather than side by side.

The call for keys is one he knows and in time of her hand signaling for release, his does as well. As the door unlocked, and the room briefly prepared, the thug silently looks at his hand stoically, perhaps wondering what just happened, or how it had betrayed him. He follows in, not looking when he can note through his periphery that the path if clear, so when Harper stops short and delivers her quip about jelly beans, he's a little closer then he intended.

She turns and he mouths 'tit-ah-tit?' with an overly bewildered expression that leaves his mouth parted, then snapped shut when she sits. With a brief jolt of his head, he sends those confusions off to dalliance among themselves the back of his mind. She may have expected him to sit across from her but he's proved anything but unexpected thus far and it's no different in the room among themselves.
At first he drops the folder on the table, and then pulls the nearest chair a little closer to hers before sitting delicately on the edge of the chair, as though he's uncertain if it's rated for his weight or this isn't the first time a chair's attacked him. When nothing happens, he slides back the rest of the way into the chair, and opens the folder before he starts arranging the paper she'd spied before into the story he wants to convey, more than he wants to speak.

A drawing of a table, with pamphlets and books. A jar of jelly beans. The three books he's brought with, balanced to stand up. Graphic designed pamphlets and finally a label: Sweet Retreats, the ice cream parlor on the boardwalk. He looks over to her and looks expectantly. This might be some business proposal and Everett... he's not the business proposal sort.

So that leaves Harper nearly colliding with Everett when she spins around to tease him, friendly and laughing. She has to arch her head up a bit more to meet his gaze that close, otherwise she's stuck staring at his chin. It's a shame that she misses his reaction to her colloquialism, but things can't always go perfectly.

Sitting now, she leans in, forearms on the table as she looks closely at the strewn out collection of images and pamphlets, picture books and drawings. "That's the --" She snaps her fingers. "-- sweet little ice cream parlor. It's on the boardwalk, isn't it? Are you doing their advertising?"

There's an adorable little furrow between her brows as she tries to figure out the jelly bean angle. "You're going to have to use your words, Woods," she murmurs in that teasing tone, touching at a drawing, another image. This close there's a bit of cinnamon to her scent. That and rosemary-mint shampoo. She lifts a hand to push her hair out of her eyes, musing and intrigued at all the hints.

With a powerful exhale, Everett then leans towards her. It may seem like a move, but his hand reaches behind his back, and he pulls out his wallet, attached to the chain at his hip. Snapping open the two clasps with little effort, he opens the leather, and pulls out a business card. While rummaging, his wallet on the table, his life is open to Harper. A fair amount of money, a Florida driver's license, and even super market cards.

He offers her his card, placed on the table and then pushed to her with one thick fore finger, the one with the pink cupcake on it, before leaning towards her again to put the wallet back into his back pocket.
- Everett Woods, Co-Owner, Sweet Retreats.

When resettled, he looks up from his offer, and smirks. So much for self-evident. Another tsk when he opens his mouth, "I thought," he starts, his deep voice still low, they're still in a library, so he leans in, "I could offer a count jelly bean jar for the library. Top few winners could get books to promote children reading, gift certificates to my store for the others to help out business." He touches his chest with his left hand, the one with the tattoo of '1310' across the knuckles, "I'll pay for everything. I have to ask my tax guy, but I think it's all a write off. And I heard somewhere that if you get children interested in reading when they're young they're more likely to stay out of trouble." He licks his lips after delivering his speech, looking over to her after a quick look at the material on the table, his mouth dry from delivering this epic dialogue.

Harper doesn't swerve at that particular game of chicken, neither is she fluttering her lashes and parting her lips. She simply watches Everett swoop in close only to produce his wallet and her brows tip upward. She makes no effort to hide her examination of all the things his wallet reveals. Really, by her logic, he owes her for the significant lack of actual words coming from his mouth.

She does lift one forearm off the table and touches a fingertip to the business card, sliding across the smooth tabletop toward herself. "Everett Woods. Co-Owner. Sweet Retreats." He likely doesn't need her to read him the words on the card, but he'll have to put up with it. "I like your name." Interesting timing and choice of comments to make. When he smirks, she curves a grin back at him. "Yeah, no. I wouldn't connect you to an ice cream parlor, either. But that's what makes life an adventure, right? The surprises?"

That's when the Christmas miracle happens: he opens his mouth to speak! Harper lifts the arm that remained on the table so that her chin is resting on her knuckles and her elbow on the table as she soaks up the words, her gaze animated. And as he speaks, something melts in the librarian's brown eyes. He could be speaking a love sonnet and she wouldn't fall for the words as much. "Woods," she begins, then lifts her chin from her knuckles to rest her open palm to her chest. She shakes her head slowly, taking her time to rally her literary delight and humanitarian thrill back so she can speak. "That sounds simply -- spectacular." The way she says that superlative, each syllable draws out with the little thrum to her voice.

"What -- why -- how did this whole creation come to you as an undertaking you wanted to pursue?" There's not an insult there that some might take from the breathless query. "Somewhere between Florida and here?" So many questions prop up that last one. Literacy? Children linking sweet desserts with reading? The donation of time, space, and money? For the children of Gray Harbor? Harper's eyes shine. It wouldn't be difficult for someone who walked in at this moment to confuse the picture she sketches as that of a woman in love.

\Her appreciation of his name, is it the second time now, has an effect. His green eyes cast towards the door, while his head tilts down. His left hand rises and runs through his hair, shaking while combing his fingers through the strands. And then, there, against the milkiness of his skin tone, redness begins to blossom on his cheeks. Everett's first words get lost in his throat with his mouth closed. The second attempt has his Library volume cut in half, "... thank you..." with an emphasis on the second word.

Stricken with confidence, his brows knit together when she vocalizes what appears to be the best idea she's heard, "Yeah? I wasn't sure." More confidence grows from the seedling, he gives a glance to the seat across from him before returning to looking into her milk chocolate eyes, "It was just an idea I had. I didn't-- I didn't know if it was a good idea. But kids like sweets. I wouldn't have a business otherwise. And positive reinforcement works. So..." he lingers, somehow hoping she'll connect the dots, waving his meaty right hand as if to help the thought processes run. He doesn't wear much to cover his natural musk, but the hint of spices. Spices that may have been laying about for some time, say, Old Spices begins to find the way to the olfactory glands. "I didn't even mention that I thought maybe sharing the profits with the Library would be fair too. Or maybe a reading or two. I really like kids," Everett confesses.

Then he pauses, confused, "How'd you know I was from Florida?" he asks. He gives his left hand a look and pulls it under the table, into his lap.

Harper watches the man sitting so close to her at the large conference table. She watches him closely and without apology. The blush earns him a little lick of her lips, the pressing together of those lips then to quell a smile that might embarrass him further. "I don't make insincere compliments, Woods. You're welcome." These are Harper's words in response as she devours the non-verbal conversation the man has with her.

"You weren't sure," she echoes breathily. "Only a man who likes kids would think of such a splendid idea, would spend his business' money on it, would give back to them in a way like this. And I'll bet," Harper pauses, her gaze skates over his bold features, still reading what she can. "-- I'll bet that people don't often guess that about you. Am I right?" She closes the hand that was pressed over her chest into a fist.

"Perhaps I'll ask more of you than all that." More than a librarian could dream, really. "Perhaps I'd ask you to be a regular reader, request a commitment from you. You could join me on the weekends or on Monday or Thursday nights. It's one of my favorite times of the week," is Harper's confession. "And I'll bet kids adore you. I can picture them crawling all over you." If Harper weren't talking about children, it might seem like she was flirting. The altruism, the out-of-left-field offer of help in her efforts to promote literacy among the children of the horrific little town: it has left the librarian breathless like a roller coaster or a first kiss.

He speaks his 'So' and she grows silent, rivetted, unwilling to connect the dots for him. The way he does it is so much better. His confusion crawls to the top of the heap and she grabs for his hand before he can hide it away. "I'm observant." This is her answer of how she knows where he was from. "Are you going to tell me why you chose Gray Harbor? You're a co-owner, so there's a story there..." If she successfully catches at that hand she rubs a thumb slowly across those numbers tattooed across the man's knuckles. There's a husky quality to her voice, though the laughter lives always on the edges of it. Delight and optimism in a world full of tragedy.

His other hand is placed over hers over his, dwarfing her smaller hand in his inked paw. From the right cover of his mouth, he smirks with amusement, his eyes partially hooding. "Everett. Or Ev. Please." Her hand is patted, twice before he withdraws his right hand to the table's surface. Her assessment of him has him averting his gaze again and clearing his throat. His large thumb begins to respond, but not after a long moment for her to have decided to take her hand back, stroking against her first two fingers as they curve over his hand. Everett drags his eyes over the table and back up to her, holding her gaze and then shakes his head softly, causing his hair to cascade both being and in front of his shoulders.
"No. Presume nothing; but when people see me, they just see," he looks down at himself holding his hands up. "Well," after a breath, he continues, and puts his hands back on the table as they were before so he can continue the self-soothing thumb stroking, "you know. But I like kids." He smiles briefly before adding from the memory that recalled, "a friend used to say, 'yeah, but I beat you can't eat a whole one'. Truth is, I wish I had my own. Since I don't; this is kinda my way of spoiling everybody's kids. Like I would mine."

The offer to have him be more involved looks a step to far, as uncertainty creeps into his features again, brow wrinkles, knots with worry. "I'm not. I mean, I'm not particularly well read, if you know what I mean? I'll be more than happy to help my community where I can, mind you." The imagery of the giant turned into gym equipment has his partial smile returning again, "And I really would like to spend time with kids. If you can use another volunteer, I guess I have no choice but to lay here and be used, right?" he asks with an air of chastity of his phrasing.

When she asks about the co-owner, he looks down and shakes his head softly. Looking back up from the table, a soulful shake of his head is repeated, the topic having him, his speech, retreating on itself.

"Everett or Ev. Which do you prefer?" Harper wants to know. After the brush of her thumb along those knuckles, and the responding touch from the man, Harper draws her hands back and laces her fingers together against the tabletop. More discomfort from Everett doesn't cause Harper to relent, nor does she seem to like making him uncomfortable. She offers a curving smile. The hair is hard to miss.

"I'm not sure I know. I've found people surprise you if you give them the opportunity. You present as an intimidating wall of a man who looks as though he could spit nails and take names. But there's something -- an undercurrent to you, also. Someone who was comfortable with stereotypes would miss it, I think. And how sad for them." Harper has opinions and she's not hesitant to share them. "Maybe someday you will have your own, Everett. But there are dozens of children in our community who could benefit from a positive, strong, male role-model. A father figure or a big brother. Someone who gives them a safe place to be the children they should be allowed to be. I suspect children see you for who you are, not who society would label you to be."

"Some time here at the library on kids' nights -- you could sit with us in the reading nook and I could read, if you liked. It wouldn't only be good for them, I can attest to that. And it couldn't be bad for business, either. Think about it. I don't mean to demand more of you than you want to give, you've already made such a generous offer. But I'd like to think the library gives back ten-fold what the community puts into it. And I'd like you to be as much a recipient as a generous altruist."

Harper likes the thoughtful smile that comes over Everett's features as he considers the human jungle-gym position. She shakes her head, agreeing with him, "No choice at all."

Harper lifts a hand once more to rest her chin lightly atop her knuckles, simply watching the man, as comfortable with silences as it appears he is. Finally she murmurs, "I'd still like to hear your story. But I suspect you are not telling it for a reason." Harper holds that green gaze for a long moment, then softens her voice as most would have expected her to do downstairs. "Not only do I withhold judgement and maintain an open mind about a variety of things that I suspect you think I would not care for, Everett. But I pride myself on keeping confidences." It's an opening. Whether he takes it is another thing entirely. He has, after all, only just met the Librarian.

"Whichever you prefer to call me," is his simple and quick answer, compounding on it, "Just not Evie." A small smile appears on his lips, both of them this time, "I don't like that one." He is either easy going or truly has no opinion on the matter, not for the first time deferring to her preference when he has none. But then, she has a way of making him pick, doesn't she. It's a short pause, that has him answering with a humourous tone to his smile, his deep voice raising, forgetting his in the Church of Silence. "Ev'll do," it almost sounds like he said Evil Do.

As she continues speaking, he puts his elbow on the table, and promptly slides his square jaw into his palm, his appearance may seem slowly sliding into stoicism, but the ends his lips are uplifted, making a long, not altogether subtle grin. His eyes shift down and back up, occasionally looking to her mouth while makes pleasant noises with it before returning to her brown eyes. At appropriate points, here, there, he proves he's listening with a throaty, "Nmm" sound, and a nod, as one would when on the telephone with someone.
And the longer it goes on, the wider his smile gets.

When her hand goes to her chin, he lifts his head from his and reaches over to the hand still on the table top of hers, and gives her forearm a soft squeeze. "It's a lot. And I don't doubt that you practice the vows of a priest, it's really a lot and it." He pauses to take his hand back, opens his mouth to say something else and closes it. Squirming a little, under her stare, he offers this: "I've confided in someone already. It didn't end well. So poorly that while I was asking her to be with me, physically. Uh, not. Um. Like that." He waves a hand over the air to clear it, while taking a long blink, "Anyways, while I asked her that, her offer was that I should leave town. When I suggested she come with, she just said I should leave."

His brows lift while he confesses this much. "So I'd rather not have that situation repeat itself to whomever I tell." Everett looks across the table for a moment and then sighs, heavily put upon, before he turns his head back. Since it's still there, he reaches for his card, and slides it back towards himself and flips it over. While he speaks, he looks around and makes the international sign for writing something: his fingers pinched together and then wiggling his wrist in the air, "Suffice it to say that the other Co-Owner is still around; and that love can make a bad man good."

"Ev it is, then. But I promise you now and again I'll slip up and use your other names. But not the truncated version." Harper smiles a winning smile there, and implies there will be a multitude of other times that she'll be speaking to the man, despite his past experiences with women, or his tendencies away from conversation.

It's an enjoyable thing, being on the receiving end of that measured gaze, that tipping smile, that baritone 'Mmm' of response. Harper finds herself pausing here and there to simply enjoy the experience, her smile curving and then ebbing, her brown eyes alight with animation and sincere demonstration of the words she speaks.

He squeezes her forearm and Harper tips her cheek to her shoulder for a moment, regarding Everett from a new angle for a few heartbeats.

But when the biker shares his past experience, Harper's gaze slowly darkens to what is likely an unexpected, foreboding shadow. "Forgive me, Ev, but I can't help but say I'm glad someone with such a fickle heart is gone from your life." However he meant it. "Of course you would rather not go through that again. Life's traumas steal from us."

She stills, then takes a deep breath in and exhales it slowly. "Perhaps one day we will have been friends long enough that you will feel safe giving up your nightmares to me to hold for you for awhile. But--" she tries to lighten her tone. "-- asking you that on the day we've only just met is foolish of me. Forgive me. I have a tendency to ..." And here Harper takes her turn to wave her hand as if to sweep away her iniquities.

The librarian pulls a pen she has tucked behind her ear out and offers it with a raised brow to Everett. She looks as though she is prepared to swipe that business card away from him if he's not writing a number down on it.

He takes the pen from her hand and causes a light caress of her fingers with his when he does so. For once, just once, he proves predictable, glancing down to scrawl a cell phone number on the back of the card along with ''Ev'', incase she has so many of them she'll forget. He starts speaking then, a little absentmindedly while he draws in the little space that remains in the card. "I haven't decided if I want to shorten your name," he briefly looks up to her, "Harper's pretty enough as it is."

His musings is easy enough to discern before he's finished, he is no artist. A quick flower with petals. Putting the pen down on card, he slides them both back over with that one, thick finger. When he looks up again it's a little remorseful, "I've probably said to much as it is. I don't like spreading rumors, and besides, chances are you know her. I could be bad-mouthing a friend of yours and not know it." He makes a face to signify his awareness of his gaff and then smiles. "If that's the case, I'm sorry. But," he skips to a new topic, "I can understand the curiosity of something new. And wanting to know about that thing. But. If you really want to know, there's always taking things slow, like you suggest. And maybe I'll know more about you then you're a librarian who is very dedicated to giving back to the community like I am, who loves want she does, who's a little rebellious, but still gets results. A little." His mouth quirks a soft smile, "To cute. So there's nothing to forgive. Promise." He starts to gather his papers together, back into the folder he came with, then the three books placed down, and sorted by size. He's not a librarian, after all.

Harper takes the card and sets it squarely in front of herself with an inwardly turned smile. Then she takes her pen when it is handed back and catches at Everett's nearer hand. "I see you don't mind ink ..." And with that she's grabbed the thumb of his hand in the circle of her own thumb and first finger and pulled his knuckles face down against her forearm as she'll -- if not stopped -- begin writing the digits of what look like a phone number along with her name slowly across the callouses of Everett's palm. She takes her time and the pen marks are a strangely intimate sensation.

She looks up midway through and smiles at him for the compliment about her name. Had he used it at all before that moment? She missed it the first time around.

"Don't hesitate, Ev," she murmurs. A brow tips upward at news that the woman he confided in being local. She assumed it was someone he'd left behind in Florida. "It is a small town," she agrees. "But in time you'll learn that unless it comes down to the darkest of choices, I most often remain neutral, even between friends." She curves a smile and goes back to slowly writing her number. "You say ;take it slow; like a promise, Ev. I'll bank that promise."

What follows are a slew of compliments that leave her lowering his hand once she's finished writing, but gazing at it rather than into those solemn-yet-sometimes-warm green eyes. Finally she releases Everett's hand so he can put away his papers. "Would you like me to check out these books for you, or were they simply a means of relaying your proposition?"

Her observation of his ink draws silence, if but for something to say, and when she's drawing on him, Everett but grins broadly, and three digits in, remarks, "Should I have these tattooed in, so everybody knows who to call if I get lost?" his eyes daring her to reply to his implication. To her ownership. His green eyes flicking up from her eyes and back down, so he won't forget the numbers should the gorilla do something stupid, like wipe a sweaty forehead with a palm.

When the books are mentioned he shakes his head softly after a glance towards them, "No, they were just props. Though, probably my reading speed," he still hasn't moved his hand from where last manipulated to, but leans into it. He opens his mouth, and looks down at hers before looking up, and further extends his lean, drawing closer and closer still until he's within her personal space and the volume on his voice lowers once more. There's a sideways shift, a glance towards the seat across from his again, before he looks to her pert lips and then back up to her, "I would,"

He pauses, "really like to see you again."

Harper's laugh is light and breathy, though she may perhaps miss the deeper implication, giving the tenor of her own life experiences. "I can think of better things," she begins, lifting that pen to tuck behind her ear. "Much better things than my cell phone number to have permanently inked on your skin." The poor librarian has no idea what she's unintentionally implying.

"They were lovely props, but I don't think you realize how little you needed them, Everett Woods," she murmurs with a warm smile. "The children adore that reading speed." She won't allow for self derision.

But if Harper can be oblivious to the first implication, she cannot play naive to the way Everett drifts into her space. Her lips part and she breathes more slowly, perhaps only belatedly reminded of the loom of the hulking man. There's something to the catch of her breath. He just seems to move closer until breath is almost shared and she only eventually replies, "That's --" She swallows. "-- probably for the best. I expect you here for Story Time in the very near future." She's nearly whispering by the time she finishes speaking.

One of the elderly book club members takes that exact moment to wander into Conference Room 2. "This isn't the elevator!" he complains loudly. "Margaret, it's the other way. Get your walker down here!"

By that time, Harper's standing, flushed but with a bright smile toward the senior citizen leaving book club. "Have a nice day, Harold. See you next week."