FRAUD.

I am a fraud.

I have committed fraud.

The word keeps slicing at me—unraveling my fragile ecosystem, poisoning it.

A panic spiral I don’t have time for is heading my way. If I was at home, I could succumb, let the anxiety wash over me and drag me down. But I’m at work, and my shift at the library doesn’t end for several more hours. I slip my finger under the hair tie around my wrist and pull it away from my skin, letting it snap back into place.

I repeat the action a dozen times, fighting to contain the panic before it can turn into a prickly weed and wrap me in its unrelenting, thorny hug.

The paper in my hands taunts me as I will the words and numbers to change, but they remain the same. I owe $105,300.27 in back rent (with interest) to the new apartment manager. I should have realized the rent I was paying was far too cheap for the building I was living in, but I didn’t question it, and now here I am—because my name is the same as my late grandmother’s, and until the management company changed, they continued to charge me what she’d been paying. Now I’ve made the leap to current market value and have to fill in the five-year gap I created.

I stop snapping the hair tie before I break the skin, fold the letter, and slide it back into my purse. Looking up, I grasp the edge of the sink, meeting my distressed gaze in the reflection. “You do not have time for a breakdown,” I say aloud. “Put it on hold. You can lose it when you get home. But you cannot do it here. You will figure a way out of this. You always do.”

I hope I’m right.

I take a deep breath, put my feelings on lock, and step out into the hall. I have five minutes left on my break, enough time to make tea. And then the after-school crowd arrives, which means my favorite twins Victor and Everly will grace me with their vibrant energy—which I could use right about now. They live at the group home a couple of blocks away, and I adore them.

Except as I turn toward the staff lounge, I run smack into a very solid chest. Warm hands wrap around my shoulders to steady me, sending an unexpected jolt through my body. I recognize the cologne immediately. I frown as I look up and am met with a closeup of the very chiseled jaw of Connor Grace.

He’s irritatingly attractive, and his presence is wholly disarming.

Also, we’re making physical contact, and my body enters haywire-mode as a result—like I wasn’t already distressed.

Connor’s piercing, steel gray eyes are locked on me, and his full lips tug down at the corners, as though the world is an irritant he’s forced to endure.

I know two versions of the man standing before me.

The first is the archenemy of my best friend, Flip Madden—that Connor is a Terror enforcer with a nasty reputation on the ice and professional hockey’s favorite villain.

The second Connor is the pro hockey player who attends his coach’s younger sister’s practices and games because she’s his number one fan, and he’s hers.

These are vastly different sides of the same man. The latter is a glimmering ruby of kindness I want to tuck in my pocket like a treasure.

For the past year, Connor has taken up space in the seat next to mine at Callie’s games on a nearly weekly basis. We both love that little girl.

New panic takes hold. Callie. “What are you doing here? Is Callie okay? Is Lexi?”

Lexi Forrest-Hammer is Connor’s pregnant coach and my best friend.

“Lexi is fine. So is Callie.” He drops his hands from my shoulders. “I’ve been looking for you.”

His tone makes it sound like it’s my fault he couldn’t find me. Like he wasted precious time, and I should feel bad about it.

Looks like our shitty moods match.

“Well, here I am. What do you want? I’m on break.” For three more minutes.

He rubs the back of his neck. “I need Meems’s books.”

“Who?”

“Meems. My grandmother. I need her books.”

I ignore the soft feeling that blooms in my chest at the adorable nickname this hard-edged, posh-as-fuck man has for his grandmother.

I have so many new questions. Like, why am I the person he’s sought out? Also, he and his family are billionaires. Why in the world would he need books from the library for his grandma when she can probably afford to buy every bookstore in the city?

I link my arms behind my back so I can snap my hair tie a few times. I’m still fighting my panic spiral. “The world doesn’t revolve around you and your needs, Connor.”

“Oh, I’m highly aware.” His steely eyes stay fixed on me, full of secrets and sadness. “My needs are generally at the bottom of everyone’s list. But my world revolves around Meems, and right now she needs what you have.”

Is this emotional manipulation? Connor knows how soft I am for Lexi’s sisters. Maybe he’s exploiting that for his Meems. My natural reaction is to dig my heels in. “So my world is supposed to revolve around her now, too?”

The harsh slant of his brow softens slightly, despite my sharp words. “Meems has an appointment in less than an hour. I’ve been looking for you for twenty minutes already, and I’m supposed to meet her at the doctor’s office. I just need her books.”

I cross my arms, frustrated by his pretty face and his entitlement. “Why is your lack of time management my problem to solve, Connor?” I have my own crap to deal with, but my compulsion to fix problems wants to win this battle. Which is so damn annoying.

Dorothea, the ancient and unfortunately unfriendly head librarian who has worked here longer than the world has been turning, rounds the corner. The lines in her face deepen. “Mildred! You are not allowed to bring nonemployee guests into the staff room! Tell your boyfriend he can visit you in your off-hours.”

“He’s not my boyfriend, and I didn’t invite him back here.” I take Connor by the elbow and ignore the warmth that travels through my arm at the contact. “I’ll just show him out.”

“Your break is over in one minute!” she calls after me.

“She seems fun,” Connor mutters.

“You have no idea.” I usher him through the door and steer him out from behind the counter, putting much needed space between us. “How did you even get back there?”

“I walked through that door.” He points to the one clearly labeled Employees Only with a long, perfectly manicured finger.

He pulls a list out of his pocket and holds it in front of me. I snatch it from him. The handwriting is familiar. “Please explain.” Because I don’t have the mental or emotional bandwidth to decode this mystery on my own.

“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 crosses his thick arms over his thick chest and stares down at me with expectation and irritation. “She said you would have them ready for her.”

From the little I know about Connor, his grandmother is one of the only members of his family who supports his career. “I’ll need to look her up. Is Meems her real name?”

“No, it’s Lucy Drake. Do you have the books or not?”

The dots connect. Oooohhhhh. I know that name well. In all the months he’s been sitting next to me at Callie’s games, Connor has never once mentioned his family. Although, when we attend Callie’s hockey games, Connor is focused on cheering for Callie and makes the most limited of small talk. But he always sits beside me. Every time. And he’s stiff and awkward with me and sweet as a gooey marshmallow with Callie.

Of course this means I find him endlessly fascinating.

And this new information only ups that intrigue. “Lucy Drake is your grandmother?”

“Isn’t that what I just said?” his voice drips with impatience.

“Why doesn’t she go by Grace?”

“Because it’s less recognizable.”

“Right.” Another wave of panic hits, and I reflexively snap my hair tie half a dozen times. “Why isn’t Lucy here? What kind of appointment does she have?”

His jaw tics, and his eyes flash. “She’s been unwell. As I said, she has a doctor’s appointment. I’m her errand boy, hence my request for her books.”

“How ill? Is she okay?” Lucy is one of my favorite library patrons. I look forward to her weekly visits. She’s always dressed like she’s ready for Sunday service, which makes sense now that I know she’s richer than God. I always reserve one of my breaks for when she comes in.

Connor purses his lips, like offering personal information is painful. “She’s felt better. May I please have the damn books?”

“They’re not ready yet. She doesn’t usually come until later in the afternoon, and I’m waiting on one to be returned. It should be here before the end of my shift.”

He runs a hand through his hair, his discontent shifting. “She needs the books. I can’t disappoint her.”

His swell of anxiety softens the edges of my own, like my body is trying to neutralize it. I know that Lucy reads in the morning and in the evening before bed. It’s part of her routine, and I understand how hard it can be to lose that. “I can bring them to her tonight. I’m off around six.”

His shrewd gaze doesn’t leave my face as his tongue drags across his delightfully plush bottom lip. He seems to be assessing my level of honesty.

I’m not used to seeing Connor off the ice or outside of the arena. This version is in distress and out of his element. Like a cheetah who has escaped its enclosure, he’s exotic, beautiful, and potentially lethal. Despite knowing how much Flip despises him, my girl parts appreciate Connor’s hotness, which feels like a betrayal to my best friend.

Connor holds out his hand. “Give me the list.”

I pass it back to him, unsure where we’re going with this.

He pulls a pen from his pocket and scrawls something on the back. “This is her address, and this is my phone number. Message when you’re on the way. You’ll bring the books?”

“I promise.” Like I need this hot, entitled douchebag wreaking havoc on my ovaries two days in a row with his furrowed brow and expectations. But curiosity has gotten the better of me. Also, I want to see for myself that Lucy really is okay.

He passes me back the paper. “You better mean it.”

“I won’t let Lucy down.”

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