Coffeehouse Confessions (The Alphabet Sweethearts #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Maggie

T here's something magical about Novel Sips in the late afternoon, when golden sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows and turns our dark wood shelves into something from a fairy tale. The scent of fresh coffee mingles with the leather and paper notes from thousands of books, creating what I like to think of as the perfect reader's potpourri. Today, that familiar comfort is exactly what I need.

I tuck a fresh pen behind my ear and survey my domain. Well, technically it's Andrew's domain. My brother owns Novel Sips, but I've worked here long enough that I consider myself the unofficial guardian of this hybrid paradise of caffeine and literature.

The café side bustles with its usual Wednesday crowd. Mrs. O'Connor occupies her favorite table by the window, red pen poised over a stack of essays. The regular group of college students has claimed the long farmhouse table, their laptops forming a silver archipelago among coffee cups and scattered notebooks. And then there's him .

Ethan Ward. My brother's former college roommate turned Juniper Falls' newest resident and Novel Sips' most predictable customer. Same corner table every day, same black coffee, same weathered leather notebook that looks like it's survived more adventures than its owner.

I've known of Ethan for years through Andrew's stories, but the man himself has been something of a mystery since he arrived in town three months ago. Quiet. Reserved. The kind of person who seems to take up less space than he should, despite being tall enough that he has to duck slightly under our lower hanging pendant lights.

"Order up, Mags," Andrew calls from behind the counter, pushing his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose with that familiar worried expression. "Table four needs their chai latte and that blueberry scone needs to go to?—"

"Mrs. Peterson by the mystery section. I know, I know." I grab the plates and cups with practiced ease. "I haven't forgotten how to do my job in the last ten minutes."

Andrew's sigh follows me across the hardwood floors. "Just making sure you're focused."

He's been extra hovery lately, ever since I moved back home after my less-than-triumphant attempt at "making it" in the city. Sometimes I think he forgets I'm twenty-five, not fifteen.

Today's different though. Instead of Ethan's usual solitary writing session, he's here for the bi-weekly writer's group. I watch him settle into one of the mismatched armchairs we've arranged in a circle near our river rock fireplace. His shoulders are tense, notebook clutched like a shield.

"Welcome everyone," Gloria begins, her silver hair catching the light. She's been running this group since Andrew opened the shop. "We have a new member joining us today."

I slow my steps as I clear nearby tables, definitely not eavesdropping.

Ethan clears his throat. "Hi, I'm Ethan Ward." His voice is rich and deep, with a quiet confidence that makes me pause mid-wipe. "I'm working on a science fiction novel about time travel and second chances." He pauses, fingers drumming against that well-worn notebook. "After years of writing other people's stories as a journalist, I figured it was time to write my own."

Something in the way he says it—like he's admitting to a secret dream—resonates deep in my chest. I know that feeling intimately. It's the same one that brought me back to Juniper Falls after my own creative dreams crumbled into student loan debt and half-finished projects.

"Maggie." Andrew's voice snaps me back to reality. "The espresso machine won't clean itself."

I jump, nearly knocking over the stack of cups I'd been slowly collecting. When I glance back at the group, Ethan's looking my way, the hint of a smile touching his lips. His eyes are kind, warmer than I expected given his usually serious expression.

I quickly walk back and turn my attention to the espresso machine, my cheeks burning. Through the steam and familiar whir of grinding beans, I hear the group launching into their discussion. Ethan's voice rises and falls with the others, and I find myself straining to catch his words while pretending very hard that I'm not.

Great. Real smooth, Maggie. Getting flustered over your brother's best friend is definitely not part of the "rebuild your life" plan. Even if he does have incredibly nice hands wrapped around that notebook of his.

The writer's group disperses like cherry blossoms, drifting toward the door or lingering among the bookshelves. Gloria picks up the latest Louise Penny mystery, while Ted—our resident poet—orders his usual americano for the road. But Ethan stays put, shoulders hunched as he flips through his notebook, making small marks with a silver fountain pen.

I shouldn't find his furrowed brow attractive. I definitely shouldn't notice how his dark hair falls forward when he concentrates, or the way his long fingers trace the margins of his pages. But here I am, wiping the same spot on the counter for the third time while stealing glances his way.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I'm making him a fresh cup of coffee. Black, like always. But this time, instead of calling his name, I carry it over myself.

"Looks serious," I say, setting the cup down. "Time travel giving you trouble?"

He startles slightly, as if he'd forgotten there was a world beyond his notebook. "Oh. Thank you." His eyes meet mine briefly before dropping back to his writing. "Just processing feedback."

"Good feedback or 'back to the drawing board' feedback?"

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Is there a middle ground? 'Your premise is interesting but your protagonist needs more personality' feedback?"

"Ah." I tap the pen behind my ear. "The dreaded character notes. Want to know a secret?" I lean in conspiratorially. "Most of our regulars are character people. They'd happily read six hundred pages about someone grocery shopping if they loved the protagonist enough."

That gets me a real smile, small but genuine. "I'll keep that in mind." He hesitates, then adds, "Though I'm not sure my grocery shopping scenes would be particularly riveting."

"Even with time travel? Come on, there's got to be some potential there. Milk going bad before you bought it, eggs unscrambling themselves..."

"Are you always this..." He pauses, searching for the right word.

"Chatty? Annoying? Overly invested in fictional dairy products?"

"I was going to say imaginative." His tone is careful, like someone testing ice to see if it'll hold.

Heat creeps up my neck. "Occupational hazard. Spend enough time around books and coffee, and your brain starts making up stories about everything." I gesture to Mrs. O'Connor, still grading papers. "See her? I've decided she's secretly working on a thriller about a teacher who solves crimes using clues hidden in her students' essays."

This time his laugh is unexpected and real, a warm sound that makes something flutter in my chest. "Does Andrew know you're creating backstories for all his customers?"

"Andrew's too busy alphabetizing the business section to care." I shrug. "Besides, what's the point of working in a bookstore if you can't imagine stories everywhere?"

Ethan studies me for a moment, and I fight the urge to fidget under his gaze. "I used to do that," he says finally. "Make up stories about people. Before journalism beat it out of me."

There's something heavy in those words, something that makes me want to pull up a chair and ask questions until I understand every layer of what he means. But Andrew's voice cuts through the moment.

"Maggie! Phone!"

"Coming!" I straighten up, suddenly aware I've been standing at Ethan's table far too long. "Enjoy your coffee. And hey—" I tap his notebook lightly "—don't let journalism or criticism beat anything out of you. Some of us like a little imagination with our time travel."

As I head back to the counter, I feel his eyes on me. And I know, with the same certainty that tells me which customers need their coffee before they speak and which books belong face- out on display, that I'm going to figure out the story behind Ethan Ward's careful smiles and hidden layers.

Even if my brother might kill me for trying.