Chapter 14
Hollis
The morning light hit the poetry section in a way that made Neruda’s collected works look almost sacred, which was fitting because I’d always thought poetry was the closest thing to universal prayer.
I was shelving the new arrivals when movement across the street caught my attention through Pine & Pages’ front window.
Talia Quinn stood at the farmers market with Jace Maddox, her head thrown back in genuine laughter at something he was showing her.
Even from this distance, I could see the way her whole face transformed when she smiled like that, unguarded and bright.
Jace held what looked like a cluster of mushrooms, gesturing animatedly while Talia examined them with the focused attention she brought to everything that interested her.
I paused with a copy of Mary Oliver’s “Devotions” in my hands, watching them together.
But it was the way they stood that made me truly notice.
Closer than friends. Comfortable in each other’s space in a way that suggested recent intimacy.
When Jace brushed something off her shoulder, Talia leaned into the touch naturally, unconsciously.
And when he said something that made her laugh again, she reached out and squeezed his arm with familiar affection.
They’d crossed a line. Recently, if I was reading the signs correctly. And the jealousy I expected didn’t come. Instead, I felt something closer to relief settling in my chest, followed immediately by clarity so sharp it felt like waking up.
I was in love with Talia Quinn. Completely, utterly in love with the woman who drank chamomile tea in my reading chairs and asked for book recommendations like other people asked for directions to salvation.
And watching her talk with another man she clearly had feelings for didn’t diminish that love one bit.
If anything, seeing her happy, confident enough to show affection publicly after weeks of careful guardedness, made me love her more.
Jace was good for her. That was good for her.
The realization settled in my chest with the weight of truth. I wasn’t just okay with Jace being in her life. I was glad of it. Grateful that she had someone else who made her laugh, who understood her need to learn and explore, who gave her space to be exactly who she was.
The bell above my door chimed, pulling me back to the present. Mrs. Miller entered with her usual Tuesday morning energy, already talking before she’d fully crossed the threshold.
“Hollis, dear, I need something new. Something with bite to it. I’m tired of all these gentle romance novels where nothing happens.”
I smiled, setting down the Oliver collection. “Have you tried Tana French? Her Dublin Murder Squad series has plenty of bite, and the character development is extraordinary.”
“Perfect. Show me.”
I guided Mrs. Miller to the mystery section, my mind only half on the recommendation I was making.
The other half was processing what needed to happen next.
Talia clearly had feelings for Jace. They’d moved past whatever hesitation had been holding them back.
And I’d been holding back too, being patient and careful and respectful of her healing timeline.
But maybe it was time to stop being quite so careful. Time to be honest about what I wanted, even if it complicated things. Especially because it might complicate things.
After Mrs. Miller left with three Tana French novels and a promise to report back, I pulled out my phone and stared at Talia’s contact information.
We’d been building toward something for weeks now.
The long conversations over tea, the way she relaxed in my space, the lingering glances that suggested her feelings might match mine.
But I’d been waiting. Giving her time. Not wanting to pressure someone who was trying to find her feet in a new place.
Watching her with Jace had crystallized something though.
She was ready. Maybe not for everything, maybe not all at once.
But she was ready to move forward. And I was tired of pretending our friendship was all I wanted.
But more than that, I didn’t want to miss my chance.
I didn’t want her to think that I wasn’t interested.
My grandmother’s voice echoed in my memory, warm with the kind of wisdom that comes from living a full life without regrets. “The right words at the right time can change everything, Hollis. But timing means nothing if you never speak them.”
I typed out a message before I could second-guess myself: “Would you have dinner with me tonight? Seven o’clock, my place. Not as friends.”
I hit send before I could reconsider the wording, then immediately wanted to snatch it back. Too direct. Too presumptuous. What if she wasn’t ready for this from me even if she was ready with Jace?
My phone buzzed almost immediately.
“Not as friends?”
I could practically hear the careful curiosity in those three words, the way she approached new information with equal parts interest and caution.
“I mean dinner with romantic intention,” I typed. “I know you’re with Jace. I’m not asking you to choose between us. But I wanted to be honest about what I’m asking for. To make my intentions known.”
The three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again. I watched them pulse while my heart did uncomfortable things in my chest. This was it. The moment where she either understood what I was offering or decided I was making everything impossibly complicated.
“You know about Jace?”
“I saw you with him at the farmers market. I’m happy for you both. Jace is a good man.”
Another long pause.
“And you still want to have dinner? Knowing that?”
“Especially knowing that. Can we talk about it tonight?”
The pause felt eternal. Then: “Okay. Yes. Seven o’clock.”
Relief flooded through me. “Good. I’ll make something you’ll like.”
“How do you know what I’ll like?”
“I’ve been paying attention.”
Another pause, then: “I’ll see you at seven.”
I stood in my empty bookstore holding my phone and trying to sort through what I was feeling. Relief, yes. Nervousness, absolutely. But also certainty. The kind of bone-deep certainty that comes from finally admitting what you want instead of carefully managing expectations.
The afternoon passed in the usual rhythm of customer service and book recommendations, but I felt the anticipation building with each interaction. By the time I locked the front door at five thirty and flipped the sign to “Closed,” I knew exactly what I needed to say.
I climbed the stairs to my apartment above the store and surveyed the space with a critical eye.
Books everywhere, obviously. Comfortable furniture chosen for reading rather than impressing guests.
Plants clustered near windows. It was very me, which was either good or terrible depending on whether Talia actually liked who I was beneath the patient, careful facade I’d been maintaining.
The kitchen was small but well-equipped.
I opened the refrigerator and took inventory, then started prep work for chicken piccata.
Simple, classic, the kind of cooking that showed care without trying too hard.
Then I tried not to freak out too much that I was cooking dinner for a professional chef in an attempt to try and impress her. Talk about out of my depth.
At six thirty, I showered and changed into dark jeans and a soft gray henley. Barefoot, because shoes in my own home felt ridiculous, and because I wanted Talia to feel comfortable doing the same.
I lit candles on the small dining table, then left them lit. No more hedging. No more carefully managing her expectations. I was courting her, and she deserved to know it. She needed to realise it and then decide if it was something she wanted.
The knock came at seven exactly. I opened the door and had to consciously stop myself from just staring.
She wore a simple cream sweater and dark jeans, her auburn curls loose around her shoulders. But there was something different in her expression tonight. Less guardedness, more openness. Like she’d made some decision and was ready to see it through.
“Hi,” I said, stepping back to let her in.
“Hi.” She entered slowly, taking in my space with careful attention. Her gaze lingered on the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the reading chair by the window, the plants. “This is very you.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“It’s good. Really good.” She turned back to me, and something in her expression had softened. “It feels safe here. Like your bookstore, but more personal.”
Safe. The word settled in my chest with quiet satisfaction.
“Wine?” I asked, gesturing toward the small dining area where I’d already set out glasses and a bottle of Pinot Grigio.
“Please.”
I poured while she drifted toward my bookshelves, running her fingers along spines with reverence. She paused at a worn copy of Rilke’s “Letters to a Young Poet.”
“That was my grandmother’s,” I said, handing her a glass of wine. “She gave it to me when I was sixteen and having an existential crisis about what to do with my life.”
“Did it help?”
“It gave me permission to take my time figuring it out.” I touched the book’s spine gently. “She had this philosophy that the right book at the right time could change your whole trajectory.”
Talia replaced the Rilke carefully. “She was a wonderful woman.”
“Yeah, she was.” The words came out more intense than I’d intended, but I didn’t take them back. “Come on. Dinner’s almost ready.”
We settled at the table, and I brought out the chicken piccata with fresh pasta and roasted vegetables. Talia watched me plate the food with an expression I couldn’t quite read.
“You cook like you’re meditating,” she observed.
“I cook like I read. Paying attention to each step, finding the rhythm.” I set her plate in front of her. “Hoping the end result is worth the care put into it.”