Chapter 2
Talia
Istood at my kitchen window for the fourth time that morning, watching the sunlight catch on the leaves of the trees outside, and trying to pretend that I wasn’t hiding in this cottage and avoiding the rest of the world.
Three days in Hollow Haven, and I’d managed exactly one expedition to the grocery store at dawn when the aisles were empty except for the produce manager stocking apples.
Time to stop being a coward. Time to prove I could exist in public without dissolving into panic, and there was one place in Hollow Haven that I used to gravitate towards that was still calling out to me.
My reflection in the hallway mirror looked pale but determined. The cream cardigan felt like armor, soft wool protection against whatever judgment waited in town. I’d faced hostile food critics and screaming dinner rushes. I could handle a bookstore.
The fifteen-minute walk into town stretched to thirty as I catalogued every detail, slowing my pace with every memory that came to life.
Mailboxes with hand-painted names. Gardens transitioning from summer abundance to autumn preparations.
A tabby cat sunning itself on a front porch, opening one green eye to assess me before dismissing me as harmless.
Main Street unfolded like something from a magazine spread about perfect small towns. Brick storefronts with painted wooden signs, flower boxes still bright with late-season blooms. My chest tightened with unexpected longing. This was what I’d been running toward without realizing it.
It was exactly as I remembered and yet everything was different at the same time.
Pine & Pages sat between a hardware store and what looked like an apothecary, its forest green awning and gold lettering promising sanctuary. Through the large front windows, I could see towering bookshelves and the warm glow of reading lamps.
The brass bell above the door announced my arrival with a gentle chime that seemed to echo through carefully arranged spaces. I stepped inside and felt my shoulders drop for the first time in months.
This wasn’t a chain bookstore with harsh lighting and bestseller displays.
This was a curated world. Floor-to-ceiling shelves crafted from warm oak held books arranged not just alphabetically but thematically.
“Stories of Resilience” shared space with “Love Letters to Small Towns.” A section labeled “Books for Rainy Afternoons” beckoned from beside a window seat piled with jewel-toned cushions.
The air carried layers of scent that told stories of their own. Old paper and leather bindings, the vanilla sweetness of aging glue, beeswax from candles flickering on scattered tables. Underneath it all, something that reminded me of morning walks through pine forests, clean and grounding.
“Good morning.”
The voice came from behind a counter built from reclaimed barn wood, gentle and unhurried. I turned toward the sound and found myself looking at the most unexpectedly calming alpha I’d ever encountered.
He was tall but not imposing, with strawberry blond hair pulled back in a loose knot and skin that spoke of someone who spent time outdoors reading instead of commanding attention.
Wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, and he wore a cardigan the color of sage over dark jeans.
When he smiled, it carried no edge of possession or demand. Just welcome.
“I’m just browsing,” I managed, grateful my voice emerged steady. “Your store is beautiful.”
“Thank you. I’m Hollis.” He set down the book he’d been reading, something with a worn spine that suggested frequent revisiting. “Like Thoreau wrote, ‘Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads.’ I try to create a little heaven here among the books.”
The literary reference surprised me. Most alphas I’d known treated intelligence like a weapon to be wielded. Hollis offered it like a gift shared between friends.
“Talia,” I said, then because his quote deserved acknowledgment, “Walden?”
His smile brightened. “You know Thoreau. Excellent. Though actually, that particular line is from ‘A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers.’ Easy mistake. Most people only know the pond.”
Heat climbed my neck. Of course I’d gotten it wrong. “I haven’t read that one.”
“Few people have. It was his first book, less famous but perhaps more honest about the work of finding peace.” Hollis moved from behind the counter with unhurried grace.
“Are you looking for anything specific, or would you like to wander? I believe in what Virginia Woolf called ‘the cotton wool of daily life,’ those moments when we’re not actively seeking but simply allowing ourselves to be found by what we need. ”
I blinked at him. When was the last time an alpha had offered me space instead of demanding explanation?
“I’d like to wander,” I admitted. “I haven’t been in a real bookstore in months.”
“Then let me suggest starting with fiction. Third aisle, but I’ve arranged it by mood rather than alphabet. ‘Books That Feel Like Coming Home’ might appeal to someone who’s recently arrived in Hollow Haven.”
He’d identified me as new without making it feel like interrogation. Small town observation delivered with kindness instead of nosiness.
I drifted toward the fiction section, running my fingers along carefully arranged spines.
Instead of rigid alphabetization, Hollis had created ecosystems of story.
“Tales of Quiet Courage” neighbored “Stories That Prove Love Isn’t Always Loud.
” A section marked “Characters Who Chose Themselves” made my throat tight.
I pulled a worn paperback from the last collection, something about a chef who opened a small restaurant in a Maine fishing village. The cover was soft with handling, and pages fell open naturally to passages other readers had found meaningful.
The reading nook by the front window called to me like a siren song.
A burgundy leather armchair worn smooth by countless readers, a small oak table, and a reading lamp that cast warm circles of light.
I settled into the chair and opened the book, immediately lost in prose that tasted like sea salt and possibility.
“Emma Straub.”
I looked up to find Hollis approaching with careful, unthreatening steps, carrying a steaming ceramic mug.
“The author,” he clarified. “She has a gift for writing about people who find themselves by feeding others.”
The mug smelled like summer gardens and peaceful sleep. Chamomile, but complex, layered with other herbs I couldn’t identify.
“I didn’t order tea,” I said, confused.
“I know. But you’ve been reading for two hours, and the afternoon light suggested you might be thirsty.
” He settled the mug on my table, movements deliberate and soothing.
“Elias next door at the apothecary blends this particular combination. He calls it ‘Quiet Mind’. Chamomile, lemon balm, and a touch of lavender. Perfect for settling into a story.”
Two hours? I glanced at my phone in shock. The last time I’d lost track of time had been in a dissociative panic, not peaceful absorption.
“This is incredibly kind,” I said, accepting the warm ceramic. “But I should pay you something.”
“Absolutely not. Virginia Woolf also said that books should be a drug for the mind. If my shop is working properly, you shouldn’t notice time passing at all.
” Hollis gestured toward a matching chair across from mine.
“May I? I’m curious about your thoughts on Straub’s approach to small-town dynamics. ”
I nodded, surprised by how much I wanted his company. He settled into the opposite chair with the fluid grace of someone completely comfortable in his own space.
“I love how she writes about food bringing people together,” I said, taking a sip of tea that seemed to warm me from the inside out. “The way cooking becomes a conversation between chef and community.”
“You speak like someone who knows kitchens.”
The observation was gentle, curious rather than prying. I found myself wanting to answer honestly.
“I was a chef. In Chicago.” The admission felt rusty from disuse. “Executive chef at a fine dining restaurant.”
“Was?” No judgment in his voice, just invitation for whatever I chose to share.
“Career complications,” I said carefully. “I decided it was time for a change of scenery. Though I suppose coming back to Hollow Haven feels like coming home. I lived here as a child.”
Something shifted in his expression, warm recognition mixed with understanding. “I thought you might have local connections. There’s something about the way you looked at the mountains through the window. Like you were seeing old friends.”
“Fifteen years away, but some things don’t change.” I traced the rim of my mug, surprised by how much I wanted to share. “I reconnected with Jace Maddox yesterday. We used to explore the forests together when we were kids.”
“Jace is good people,” Hollis said with genuine fondness. “He’s been helping me identify the local plants I reference in my reading recommendations. There’s something poetic about a ranger who understands both conservation and literature.”
Hollis nodded as if career complications and childhood returns were the most natural thing in the world.
“Like Rumi wrote, ‘Let yourself be silently drawn by the strange pull of what you really love. It will not lead you astray.’ Sometimes we have to leave one kitchen to find the one we’re truly meant to cook in.
And sometimes the place that calls us home is exactly where we started. ”
The acceptance in his voice nearly undid me. No demands for details, no alpha posturing about fixing my problems. Just literary wisdom offered like a warm blanket.
“You quote a lot of writers,” I observed.
“Occupational hazard of surrounding yourself with brilliant minds.” His eyes crinkled behind wire-rimmed glasses. “Books are like people, each with their own wisdom to offer. I’ve learned to listen to what they teach.”
“And what do they teach about career complications?”