Chapter 7
The bell over the door chimed.
I didn’t look up right away, just murmured my usual “Let me know if you need anything,” and kept unpacking the new shipment of trade paperbacks. Tuesdays were always the same: a cart full of books, a playlist low in the background, the faint smell of coffee drifting over from the café nearby.
Normal.
Predictable.
Safe.
I nearly dropped the box I was shelving when I heard it.
“This one any good? Or is it all just yearning and pining and almost-kisses?”
My stomach did something traitorous. I turned — slowly — and there he was.
Ansel fucking Barlowe, leaning against the display table like he was invented for it. Leather jacket. That messy, troubled-actor-who-forgot-to-sleep hair. The same crooked smile I remembered from the napkin — the night — I never threw away.
“Depends,” I answered, cocking my head like it’s no big deal he’s here, like I haven’t imagined this exact moment a hundred different ways. “You into yearning and pining?”
He didn’t miss a beat. Didn’t look away. “Lately? Yeah.”
My throat went dry.
The silence between us stretched, not awkward but… charged. Like the beat before a first kiss. Or the half-second before a firework goes off.
I shifted the book in my hands just to ground myself.
It didn’t work.
Get it together, Haddock.
“Didn’t expect to see you here.” My voice was surprisingly calmer than I had expected.
“Didn’t expect to come in,” he admitted. “But I was walking by, saw the name on the door. Figured if I was gonna buy a book full of yearning, might as well get it from someone who’s an expert.”
I laughed — quietly, but for real. “Flattery from a has-been. What an honor.”
“Ouch,” Ansel pressed a hand to his heart, grimacing. “That hurts, Juniper.”
I tried not to think about how perfect my name sounded falling off of his lips.
By now, people around the shop were starting to notice. The older couple in the corner did a terrible job covering their whispers, and I could see the gaggle of teens furiously searching away on their phones.
Even in his so-called retirement, his fame remained. I nodded, hoisting the box I was sorting up on my hip, beckoning him to follow.
As I forced myself not to turn around, I headed towards the romance section, using the new shipment of books as an excuse to get away from the front of the store.
I didn’t need to look to know he was behind me — I could feel it, the way you can sort of sense a storm in your bones before it breaks.
Every step he took seemed louder than it should be.
Or maybe it was just the blood rushing in my ears.
“Have you been stalking me, Ansel Barlowe?” I asked while crouching down to shelve the books.
He gave a dramatic gasp behind me. “You wound me.”
I glanced over my shoulder just in time to catch him leaning against the edge of the shelf, hands in the pockets of that ridiculous jacket, trying far too hard to look unbothered.
“I liked one comment,” he said, holding up a single finger. “One. And then the algorithm just… kept feeding me your posts. Book recs, mostly. Some café selfies. That one reel of you yelling about dog-earring paperbacks? That was art.”
I raised an eyebrow. “So you admit it. Digital stalking.”
“Reluctantly,” he said, grinning. “But in my defense, I didn’t know you worked here until last week.”
I blinked. “So it was a coincidence.”
He hesitated — just for a second — and then ran a hand through his hair, the first sign of real nerves.
“Kind of. I’m in town for a few weeks. New role.
Indie film. Thought I’d kill some time, wander around, maybe browse a few books, and…
okay, fine. I may have recognized the storefront from your profile. ”
I stared at him.
“Hey,” he said, holding up his hands. “It’s not like I showed up holding a boombox over my head.”
“Not yet.”
He grinned. “You saying I’d have better luck with a John Cusack moment?”
I stood and turned to face him fully, arms crossed.
The corner of my mouth twitched, fighting a smile I didn’t want to give him. “Funny,” I said lightly, “you don’t strike me as the ‘romantic gesture’ type.”
He stepped closer — not too close, not enough to draw attention, but enough that I had to tilt my chin to meet his eyes.
“I’m full of surprises,” he murmured. His voice was lower now. Rougher. Like maybe the cool, unbothered act was slipping just a little.
“Mm.” I made a show of setting a book on the shelf, slow and deliberate. “So what is this, then? A nostalgic little field trip? Come to relive your glory days in the indie romance aisle?”
He leaned in, just slightly. “Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted to see if the girl in the ancient shirt was as interesting sober.”
I stilled, pulse kicking up at my throat. He noticed. Of course he noticed.
“Well,” I said, backing up a step I immediately regretted. “I hate to break it to you, but I’m much less charming when I’m not fueled by bad wine and feminist rage.”
“Disagree,” he said softly. “I think you might be even worse for me now.”
My breath caught.
And just like that, the air changed — thickened — warped into that same feeling from the convention, the beat-before-a-kiss kind of energy. Like something sharp and inevitable was just over the edge of the moment.
But then, like the bastard he is, he smiled.
“I should go,” he said, straightening. “Wouldn’t want the internet to catch me loitering in the romance section. They’d think I was becoming self-aware.”
I found my voice again, barely. “Or human.”
He started walking backward, still watching me. “Now that’s just cruel, Juniper Haddock.”
My full name on his lips. Again. God.
“Come by again,” I said before I could stop myself.
He paused, one hand already on the door. “Careful,” he said, flashing one last grin. “I might start thinking you like me.”
The door chimed shut behind him.
And I hated that I was still smiling ten minutes later.