Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Scott
It all started over a year ago when I bought a cottage at Savannah Lake It was supposed to be my fresh start. A chance to carve out a life on my own terms, away from the expectations that had followed me since childhood.
I chose Hampstead because it's small. Quaint in a way that feels untouched by time. Tree-lined streets, mom-and-pop stores, a town square with a clock that chimes at every hour. It's the kind of place where people wave when you pass and where shopkeepers recognize their regulars.
It's quiet. Safe. And most of all, open-minded.
I've never felt more certain about who I was or where I belonged.
It's late afternoon, and I'm restless.
The kind of restlessness that settles deep in my bones, making it impossible to sit still, impossible to focus. I've spent the last few days unpacking, trying to make my new cottage feel like home, but the silence presses in on me. The empty rooms echo with a loneliness I can't quite shake.
I need to get out. To do something.
So, I head into town, letting my feet carry me down its cozy streets.
It's my first time exploring on my own, really taking in the place I now call home.
It's quieter than the city I left behind, slower, as if life here moves at its own pace.
There's comfort in that. A sense of peace I'm still learning to fully embrace.
When I spot the historic theater, I don't hesitate. The old-fashioned marquee above the entrance reads Lincoln – 2:30 pm Matinee. Perfect. I could use the distraction.
I buy a ticket and step inside, the scent of buttered popcorn thick in the air.
The lobby is small but charming, lined with vintage posters from films that came out decades before I was born.
The floors creak underfoot, worn down by time, by the footsteps of generations who have passed through these doors.
I settle into a seat near the middle of the theater, exhaling slowly as the lights dim.
History fascinates me. It's steady. Permanent. No matter how much time passes, history remains, its stories preserved, its truths unchangeable.
Maybe that's why I cling to it. Because my own story feels anything but steady.
The opening credits roll and I let myself sink into the past, into a world where decisions have already been made and where fates are sealed. Where there's no uncertainty. Only the echoes of what was.
For a little while, I let it consume me.
Allow it to be enough.
Even if I know, deep down, that the real world is still waiting for me when the lights come back on.
And sure enough, as the final credits roll and the screen fades to black, reality rushes back in.
The quiet hum of conversation, the rustling of jackets as people gather their things.
The faint scent of buttered popcorn lingers in the air as I make my way toward the exit, stepping out into the late afternoon sun.
I blink against the brightness, my eyes adjusting as I take in the street before me.
Across the street, the bakery window is lined with fresh pastries, the golden crusts glistening beneath the light.
The smell of warm bread and sugar drifts toward me, mingling with the crisp autumn breeze.
Next to the bakery, a small bookstore stands with a chalkboard sign propped outside:
New Arrivals: Small-Town Romances & Murder Mysteries
I huff out a small laugh. Oddly fitting.
And nestled between them, half-hidden in the shadow of a towering oak, is a grocery store.
I don't need much. Just a few essentials to make the cottage feel a little more like home. Milk. Coffee. Bread. Maybe something quick for dinner. I hadn't planned on stopping, but the thought of an empty fridge waiting for me and the lack of take-out restaurants is enough to make up my mind.
Pushing my hands into my pockets, I cross the street and step inside.
The scent of fresh produce greets me, familiar and comforting.
The store is smaller than the ones I'm used to, but it has its charm.
Warm lighting, tidy shelves, and hand-written labels mark the local goods.
I grab a small cart and start down the first aisle, scanning the shelves and getting a feel for the layout.
I'm focused on my mental list, moving on autopilot until I turn down another aisle.
And that's when I see him.
He's standing on a step stool, restocking a shelf, his back to me. His wavy, shoulder-length brown hair shifts slightly as he moves, and for a brief second, I wonder what it would feel like to run my fingers through it.
The thought catches me off guard.
And then he turns.
Warm cinnamon-brown eyes meet mine, and my stomach does something I can't quite explain. It's like a jolt. An awareness, a pull.
He offers a polite smile. "Hey, how's it going?"
His voice is deeper than I expect, smooth and easy, with just a hint of amusement, like he's in on some inside joke the rest of the world doesn't know.
I blink, realizing I've been staring a second too long. "Uh…good. Thanks."
I take a step past him, my brain scrambling for something else to say, something casual. Something that doesn't make me seem like I've forgotten how normal human interaction works.
"How about you?" I ask.
He huffs out a short laugh. "No use complaining. Nobody listens anyway."
I smile and murmur, "I would."
But he doesn't hear me.
He's already turning, already walking away, leaving me standing there, feeling something I can't quite place. The only thing I know is that I want to feel it again.
I shake off the moment, forcing myself to focus. I grab a few essentials, but my mind is still stuck on him.
I don't even know his name, but something about him lingers in my mind.
By the time I make it to the checkout, I spot him again.
He's at the end of the register, bagging groceries with effortless ease, moving like he's done this a hundred times before. There's a certain rhythm to it. He places heavier items at the bottom and lighter ones on top, twisting the bags just right so nothing spills.
And he's talking.
Joking, actually.
The elderly woman ahead of me narrows her eyes at him as he studies the ingredients she's placing on the belt. A block of mozzarella, a container of ricotta, fresh basil, a jar of tomato sauce, and a box of pasta.
"Let me guess," he says, glancing up. "Lasagna?"
She lifts her chin, clearly pleased. "That's right."
He lets out a dramatic sigh. "Miss Margaret, that's cruel. You know I get off work late. Now, I have to go home thinking about the best lasagna I'll never get to taste."
She scoffs, waving a hand. "Oh, don't start. I might bring some leftovers by tomorrow."
He smiles, and his eyes light up. "Seriously? Margaret, I think I love you."
She laughs, shaking her head as she hands over a few bills to the cashier. "Don't get ahead of yourself, sweetheart. I said might."
"I'll take my chances," he says, expertly tying up the last bag before placing it in her cart. "Drive safe, alright?"
"I will," she says as she pushes her cart away.
Then it's my turn.
He glances up as I place my items on the conveyor belt, his gaze flickering over me in brief recognition.
"So," he says, tilting his head slightly. "Are you new in town or just passing through?"
My stomach clenches, and for a ridiculous second, I feel like I'm sixteen again, trying not to be awkward in front of someone I secretly have a crush on.
"I just moved here," I manage.
He hums in approval, packing my items neatly into bags. "Nice. What brought you to Hampstead?"
I shrug, suddenly hyper-aware of the way his fingers brush against the plastic as he folds the bag handles. "Just looking for a change, I guess."
He nods as if he understands. As if he's heard that answer before.
When I pull out my wallet, I catch him watching me, his expression unreadable.
"Do you need help getting these out to your car?" he asks, lifting one of the bags.
It's an innocent enough question, probably something he asks a dozen customers a day, but for some reason, my pulse jumps at the offer.
"I… uh, sure," I say, mentally cursing myself for how uncertain I sound.
He grins like he expected that answer. I pay, and we step out of the store together.
The late afternoon air is crisp, the sun hanging low in the sky. My car is parked just a few spots away, and as we walk, I glance at him from the corner of my eye.
He moves with the same relaxed confidence as before, like nothing ever rushes him, like he's completely at ease in his own skin. I envy that.
When we reach my car, I pop the trunk, and he sets the bags inside with care.
"There," he says, dusting off his hands. "All set."
I hesitate for a second, then stick out my hand. "Scott."
He glances at my hand, then takes it in a firm, warm grip. "Harrison."
There's a brief pause, something unspoken hanging between us as he lets go. I rub the back of my neck, suddenly feeling like an idiot just standing there.
I clear my throat. "So, do you ever take breaks?"
His lips twitch like he's trying not to laugh. "Usually. Why?"
I backpedal. "I mean, if you do, and if you ever want to, I don't know… maybe we can grab a coffee or something. Sometime. Maybe."
Harrison's smile grows, and my heart slams against my ribs.
"Well," he says, handing me my last bag, "I get off in half an hour. If you don't mind waiting."
I grip the handle, my palm slightly sweaty. "I don't mind."
Harrison nods, his smile lingering for a beat longer. Then, before turning to leave, he jerks his thumb toward the side of the building. "There's a coffee shop just around the corner. I'll meet you there."
My chest tightens. This is really happening. I nod, trying to play it cool after my earlier stumbling. "Yeah, sounds good."
"Perfect," he says, stepping backward toward the store, his gaze holding mine for just a second longer before he finally turns and disappears inside.