Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Mason
I studied the text I’d just typed, my finger hovering over the delete button. I took a deep breath and tapped the arrow.
Not feeling well tonight. Rain check on dinner?
It wasn’t exactly a lie. My stomach had been in knots since this morning, since that phone call. Since I’d heard that one word in French that changed everything: offre. Offer.
I pocketed my phone and opened the refrigerator, staring blankly at its contents. Nothing appealed to me. I finally pulled out some leftover pasta and heated it on autopilot, knowing I should eat something, even if the thought of food made my stomach revolt.
Seagulls called mournfully outside the window, their cries matching the emptiness growing inside me. I’d been so stupid, allowing myself to hope. Allowing myself to believe Caleb might stay, that we might have a second chance. That history wouldn’t repeat itself.
I pushed the ravioli around my plate, remembering how I’d spent hours every week for nearly a year studying French after Caleb left.
I’d bought textbooks, audio courses, had even watched French films with subtitles.
I’d imagined surprising him with a visit to Paris, ordering in restaurants with confidence, understanding his colleagues.
It had been one of many plans that dissolved when my emails, calls, and texts went unanswered.
My phone chimed with Caleb’s reply: Hope you feel better. Tomorrow?
I didn’t answer. What could I say? That I’d overheard his conversation? That I was already bracing myself for him to leave again? That I was terrified of how much it would hurt this time?
I’d only caught fragments of the conversation—my French was rusty after years of disuse, and Caleb spoke rapidly—but I’d understood enough.
The formal tone, the mention of an offer, and most devastatingly, Caleb’s lack of immediate refusal.
I didn’t need to know the details to recognize history preparing to repeat itself.
The pasta had gone cold. I dumped it in the trash and poured a glass of wine instead, then carried it to the window.
Below, the gentle night lights of Tides & Tales reflected off the windshields of cars parked along the quiet street.
The store had been my constant, my sanctuary through everything—my parents’ deaths, Caleb’s leaving, Pop-Pop’s passing. It would sustain me through this, too.
Why hadn’t he mentioned the call afterward? He’d looked troubled, yes, but he’d brushed it off as “gallery business.” Another lie between us. I took a long sip of wine, letting the astringence wash over my tongue.
My phone chimed again. Another text from Caleb: I have something important to talk to you about. When you’re feeling better.
Of course he did. The job offer, no doubt. My hand tightened around the wineglass. I couldn’t bear to hear him tell me he was leaving, to see the excitement in his eyes about returning to Paris. I couldn’t pretend I was happy for him while my heart shattered all over again.
I’d done that once before. “Follow your dreams,” I’d told him, meaning it even though it broke me. I’d loved him enough to let him go, to put his happiness before mine.
But I couldn’t do it twice.
The realization settled over me with surprising clarity.
I wouldn’t stop him from taking the job—I still wanted his happiness—but this time, I would protect myself.
No more intimate series binges. No more shared meals.
No more kisses that felt like promises that would be broken.
I’d maintain professional courtesy for our business relationship, nothing more, until…
until what? Until he left? Or until he proved beyond any doubt that he was staying?
Sleep came fitfully, fragments of dreams mixing with memories. Caleb in college, laughing as he sketched me reading. Caleb in the storm-darkened apartment, his arms around me. Caleb walking away, his silhouette growing smaller until it disappeared entirely.
Morning arrived with steel-gray light filtering through my blinds. My head throbbed slightly from the wine and lack of sleep, but my resolve had only strengthened. I dressed carefully, choosing a button-down and khakis rather than the jeans I’d taken to wearing lately. Armor, of a sort.
The routine of opening the bookstore soothed me—checking the register, powering up the computer, straightening already-neat displays.
I flipped the sign to Open precisely at ten, knowing what would come next.
And right on cue, Caleb appeared through the front door, two coffee cups in hand and a smile that faltered slightly when he saw my expression.
“Morning.” He held out my cup. “Feeling better?”
I accepted the coffee with a polite smile that I didn’t allow to reach my eyes. “Much, thanks.”
The lie tasted sour on my tongue. Every cell in my body yearned to step closer, to feel his arms around me, to brush my lips against his. Instead, I moved behind the counter, putting physical space between us.
His brow furrowed slightly. “Mason? Is everything okay?”
“Fine.” I rearranged a display of Ethan Quinn’s bestselling thrillers that didn’t need rearranging. “Just busy. New shipment came in yesterday.”
“I can help.” He set his own coffee down and stepped toward me. When he reached for my hand, I smoothly backed away, pretending to need something from under the counter.
“Actually, I need to handle some inventory in the back,” I said, not meeting his eyes. “Thanks for the coffee.”
I retreated to the storeroom before he could respond, leaning against the closed door as my pulse calmed. This was necessary, I reminded myself. Self-preservation. I couldn’t survive having my heart broken by the same man twice.
Through the door, I heard the bells chime as Caleb left. Only then did I allow myself a shaky breath, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes to stop the burning sensation.
This was how it had to be. I would keep my distance, guard my heart, and prepare myself for the inevitable. Because no matter how much I wanted to believe otherwise, the evidence was clear: when opportunity called, Caleb Sullivan answered.
And I would be left behind again, picking up the pieces of a heart I’d foolishly handed over twice.