Coffeehouse Confessions (The Alphabet Sweethearts #3)

Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Maggie

" A little to the left," I direct, watching Ethan adjust the display shelf. "No, my left. Your other left."

"You know," he says, carefully shifting the stack of books, "when you asked for my help, I thought you meant with book recommendations, not manual labor."

"Consider it research for your novel. What if your time traveler needs to rearrange furniture in the past?" I hand him another stack of carefully curated sci-fi romances. "Besides, you're tall. I'm maximizing our resources."

The last rays of the setting sun streams through the windows, catching the dark waves of his hair and the way his face softens when he thinks I'm not looking. I'd asked him to help with our new display for the bookstore section after the shop closed. Not that I need it, but I’m enjoying the company. And it gives us a chance to talk before my brother shows up.

"What do you think?" I step back, tilting my head to examine our work. "Too much?"

The display is a meeting of worlds—literally. We've arranged the books in a spiral pattern, starting with pure romance on one end and hardcore sci-fi on the other, with genre-blending titles meeting in the middle. I've added fairy lights that twinkle like stars, and Ethan contributed some surprisingly artistic sketches of galaxies and hearts intertwining. It's meant to catch customers' eyes and showcase how beautiful these genres can be when they come together. Though I might have ulterior motives for choosing this particular theme.

"It's..." He pauses, studying our creation. "Actually quite beautiful. The way the genres flow into each other, like?—"

"Like time streams converging?" I bump his shoulder with mine. "I've been paying attention to your scientific metaphors, you know."

His laugh is soft and warm. "I was going to say like poetry, but yours is better."

"Ethan Ward, secret romantic. Who would've thought?" I reach up to adjust a book that's slightly out of alignment, and he steadies me with a hand at my waist. The touch sends sparks through my whole body.

"I think," he says quietly, not moving his hand, "you might be a bad influence on me."

"Me?" I turn to face him, hyper-aware of how close we're standing. "I'm not the one writing swoony scenes about love transcending space and time."

"No, you're just the one who makes me want to write them."

Oh. Oh.

My heart does a complicated little dance in my chest. Before I can lose my nerve, I blurt out, "Have dinner with me."

His hand drops from my waist. "What?"

"Dinner. At The Copper Kettle." I force myself to meet his eyes. "Tonight, maybe? To celebrate finishing the display?"

Something flickers across his face. "Maggie, I..."

"Unless you don't want to?" My confidence wavers at his hesitation.

"No, I do. I really do." His voice is rough with emotion. "What about your brother?"

"Andrew is not invited to dinner." I take his hand, threading our fingers together. "This isn't about him. This is about you and me and whether you want to have dinner with me at a diner that makes the best apple pie in three counties and where the coffee's always fresh, even at night."

He looks down at our joined hands. "You've thought about this."

"Maybe a little." Or a lot. Every day for weeks. "So?"

The silence stretches between us, full of possibility and hesitation. Finally, he squeezes my hand. "What time?"

"Seven?" My heart leaps. "I know the owner. I can get us that corner table by the window."

"The one with the vintage reading lamp?"

"You've noticed it too?"

His smile is soft and sure. "I notice everything about places you love."

And just like that, my knees go weak. It's ridiculous how he can do that—turn a simple observation into something that makes my heart stutter.

"Seven it is," I manage. "And Ethan?"

"Hmm?"

"Wear that blue sweater. The one that matches your eyes when you're really excited about a plot point."

A blush creeps up his neck. "You notice things too, huh?"

"Everything," I admit. "I notice everything about you."

The look he gives me then—tender and terrified and hopeful all at once—makes me think this thing between us could be our own kind of time-traveling miracle. A convergence of two people in exactly the right place at exactly the right moment, creating something new and wonderful and entirely unexpected.

Now I just have to make it to seven o'clock without spontaneously combusting from anticipation.

"The display really does look perfect," he says, still holding my hand.

"Yeah," I agree, but I'm not looking at the books anymore. "Perfect."

The walk home from The Copper Kettle feels like something out of a dream. Crickets chirp in the warm evening air, and the streetlights cast pools of gold on the sidewalk. Ethan's hand brushes mine as we walk, sending little sparks up my arm until I finally gather my courage and lace our fingers together.

We talk about everything and nothing—books we loved as kids, his latest chapter, my secret dream of maybe writing something of my own someday. His thumb traces circles on my palm, and I wonder if he can feel my pulse racing.

Too soon, we're at my front door. I turn to face him, and the porch light catches his eyes, turning them the color of twilight. "I had a really good time," I say, meaning so much more than just dinner.

"Me too." His voice is soft, intimate in the quiet night. He steps closer, still holding my hand. "Maggie, I?—"

And then he's kissing me, and everything else fades away. His lips are soft against mine, tasting of coffee and apple pie. One hand cups my cheek while the other slides around my waist, pulling me closer. I sink into him, breathing in the clean scent of his skin and the slight roughness of his evening stubble against my palm. The kiss deepens, tender and unhurried, like we have all the time in the world.

When we finally part, I'm dizzy with it. "Wow."

"Yeah." His forehead rests against mine, and I can feel his heart racing to match my own.

"Want to do this again sometime?"

"The kiss or the dinner?" His smile is playful, happy in a way I've never seen before.

"Both. Definitely both."

He kisses me once more, quick and sweet, before stepping back. "Goodnight, Maggie Carter."

"Goodnight, Ethan."

I watch him walk away, touching my fingers to my lips where I can still feel his kiss. When I finally turn to unlock the door, I'm floating on air.

Until I step inside and find Andrew sitting in the dark living room.

"Really, Maggie?" He switches on the lamp. "A date? After everything I said?"

Just like that, my happy bubble bursts. "You were waiting up for me? What am I, sixteen?"

"I'm trying to protect you."

"From what? A good man who treats me like I matter?"

"From someone who's going to disappoint you." He stands, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "He quit his job, Maggie. Threw away a solid career to write science fiction, of all things. What happens when the money runs out? When he has to face reality?"

"Then we'll face it together." My voice rises despite my efforts to stay calm. "But you know what? At least he's brave enough to try. To chase something real instead of playing it safe."

"Playing it safe?" Andrew's laugh is bitter. "You mean like providing steady jobs? Creating stability? Some of us have to be responsible, Maggie."

"And some of us have to actually live." I square my shoulders. "So here's how this is going to work. You're going to back off and let me make my own choices, or I'm moving out and finding another job."

"You'd quit over him? Someone you barely know?"

"No. I'd quit because my brother doesn't trust me to make my own decisions." My voice cracks. "Because you look at me and still see the scared girl who came home from the city, not the woman who's finally figuring out what she wants."

"Maggie—"

"I love you, Andrew. But this isn't your choice to make." I head for the stairs, then pause. "And for the record? I know Ethan better than you think. I know he stays up late writing because the words come easier at night. I know he takes his coffee black but secretly loves the caramel lattes I make him. I know he's terrified of failing but writes anyway because the stories inside him need to be told." I meet Andrew's eyes. "Do you know any of that? Or have you been too busy judging him to actually see who he's become? What happened to my big brother with even bigger dreams? The one who risked it all for an empty building on Main and the dream that became Novel Sips?"

I don't wait for his answer. I climb the stairs to my room. My lips still tingle from Ethan's kiss, and not even Andrew's disapproval can dim the warmth in my chest.

Because for the first time since coming home, I know exactly what I want. Who I want.

And I'm not letting anyone talk me out of it.