Chapter One
Sara
Present Day
The bookstore smelled like coffee, floor polish, and nostalgia.
Which might’ve been charming if I wasn’t currently faking my way through an identity crisis in the romance section.
The table I’d claimed was half-tucked behind a display of journals with embossed moons and sparkly foxes and was supposed to give me good visibility of the door.
Instead, I was staring down a pile of paperbacks with titles like Taken by the Trillionaire and My Billionaire Werewolf.
Do people really read this stuff?
Maybe I’d underestimated this cover. I thought romance was still “he’s mean, she’s poor, they kiss in a rainstorm.” Now it was . . . dark romance? Sentient romance? Romantasy? Reverse harems? It was all new to me.
Thankfully, it was unlikely that Enimton would be familiar with the genre either.
I scribbled something in my notebook to look official. So far, my romance author’s career revolves around stale coffee and regret.
A man at the counter asked the barista if the blueberry muffins had fruit in them. She stared at him blankly, like the question short-circuited her soul. The stare was pure wide-eyed Gen Z: a mixture of mild annoyance and blankness.
I smiled, caught off guard by a memory.
“Put it away,” Max had chided me once when he’d interrupted me from scrolling through videos. “You know we don’t use our phones at the dinner table.”
I’d given him another look that might have gained me a long lecture from someone else, but Max had simply shaken his head. “Phone. Room. Now.”
My mother had smiled with approval when I’d trotted off to do as he said. Her smile had faded a bit when I returned, sat with my arms crossed, and gave Max the same blank stare the cashier was sporting.
With a chuckle, Max passed me a slice of pizza and said, “Glare away, princess, I’m Gen X. Not only were you never going to get away with breaking the rules, but I also know you love me despite them. So eat.”
And I did, because Max was the single best thing that had ever happened to me or my mother . . . rules included.
I’d rolled my eyes. “Try to look tough, but I’m not the one who was born in the 1900s.”
“Ouch,” he’d said as he brought a hand to his heart. “Here we all were thinking the world was going soft—then bam, your generation shows up and is feral as all hell.”
“And proud of it,” I said with a smirk.
He raised his glass of diet cola. “From one feral generation to another, don’t ever let them change you.”
We’d clinked our glasses together in a toast that became more of a promise as the years passed. God, I missed him.
I was still lost in my memories when the bookstore door jingled and Enimton Gravestone walked in. Taller than most. Broad-shouldered, with hair too shaggy to be contained. His clothes were comfortable but high quality.
He held the door for a woman with a stroller, then offered a smile to a toddler sprinting past with a cookie in one hand and a toy dinosaur in the other. The dinosaur roared. Enimton roared back, softly.
Wholesome.
Innocent.
Was that the real him or was it a mask concealing something much darker?
That was what I was there to uncover.
He greeted someone straightening books on a display and they smiled as if they knew him.
Not surprising, since coming to this bookstore was part of his routine.
Every Tuesday: gym at six a.m., run at seven, bookstore by nine.
He’d buy a book, order a coffee and a muffin, then sit at the same table by the window for forty-five minutes before heading out again.
It wasn’t just a habit; it was a comfort routine.
Such patterns made access easy since most people let their guard down in places where they felt safe.
Predictable routines offered a false sense of control in an unpredictable world.
People with unresolved trauma or high-anxiety backgrounds often used structured habits to reduce cognitive load and feel anchored.
Max used to say that the people who followed the most boring routines were usually the ones with the most to hide.
That’s what I was banking on.
I adjusted my glasses and forced my hand to stay steady as I lifted my coffee. He was close now, scanning the shelves a few feet from me. I gave him a beat. Two. Then I shifted in my chair and nudged the paperback on the edge of my table just far enough for it to fall.
It landed at his feet.
He paused.
Then he crouched, fingers closing around the edge of the cover like he’d just retrieved treasure instead of a copy of Forked: A Lighthearted Utensil Romance.
He straightened slowly, then met my eyes and smiled as he read the back cover. “World War II super-soldiers trapped in silverware? Not exactly The Book Thief, but I might give it a go.”
I snatched it back. “No need. I’m not even sure I’ll read it myself.”
His expression softened. “I was being serious. I read everything and anything. No judgment.”
God help me, my stomach did the teenage-girl-bumps-into-captain-of-football-team flip. “Thanks, that’s kind,” I said, in voice I didn’t intend to sound as breathless as it did. “And helpful. I’m writing my first book, actually, and would love a well-read friend to discuss it with.”
He scanned the book pile on my table. “I don’t think I’ve ever read a romance.”
Deliberately widening my eyes, I tried to appear as shy and uncertain as an aspiring romance author might. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. Of course, you don’t want to plot a book with me.”
His head tilted to the side and scanned my face again, as if part of him sensed my subterfuge. Then his smile returned, and I quickly pushed aside the twinge of guilt that washed through me when he said, “I usually come here for a quiet place to read, but I would love to hear about your book.”
Oh, shit.
I should have plotted something out.