Excerpt
“I thought you were supposed to tell them a Christmas story.”

“I don’t read on Mondays.”

“Then make it up as you go. Who knows, you might be a born storyteller.”

“That’s a fact,” I said, hoping he didn’t read more into my statement than necessary. “But it’s also pre-coffee and unless you have a keg of caffeine nearby, storytelling probably won’t happen.”

“Ida Belle and Gertie would be proud of their protégé. Let me ask you something, Fortune.” Carter closed the distance between us and I backed up quicker than he stepped forward. “Are you an experienced librarian or not?”

He was still stuck on that. “Carter, we’ve covered this.”

“I don’t remember. Refresh my memory.”

“Trust me. I have experience with books.” I’d used them as weapons at least twice in my life, once as a child and again as an adult.

“Hard to trust someone who can’t tell the truth.”

“Why Carter LeBlanc, are you suggesting that I would lie to you?”

“Twice a day, five times in the evening, and double that on weekends.”

“Now who sounds like Gertie?”

“We didn’t discuss this,” he deadpanned.

“Of course I’m a librarian.”

“Who wrote The Giving Tree?” A lanky boy in the back of the room waved a bright green book high in the air and then tucked it behind his back. “Who, Miss Morrow, who?”

“That’s easy,” I said flippantly. “A brilliant author who wanted to entertain intelligent students, the kind of children who know better than to test the teacher—or the librarian.”