Chapter Two
Enimton
The bookstore’s hum, the coffee brewing, pages whispering, sneakers squeaking on polished wood steadied me. Gym at six, run at seven, bookstore by nine. It was not just a comfortable rhythm; it was a bastion of normalcy in a world I’d never understood.
Nothing too good or too bad ever happened in a bookstore.
Until that day.
I was seated across from a woman with the most beautiful brown eyes I’d ever seen. Everything about her looked harmless and frilly, but her scent had me leaning in. It was flowery, but in a fresh, bold way. Although it didn’t match her vibe, it had my heart racing.
She pushed her pink glasses up her nose, ink smudged on her fingers, and grinned like she’d just confessed to a petty theft. “Last chance to run away.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” And I meant it. Not a single book, new release or old favorite, held more temptation than whatever she was working on.
“I haven’t gotten very far with this book,” she said, her voice wobbling like she was stepping onto a stage for the first time.
“But I want this—so badly.” Her eyes flicked to the stack of paperbacks teetering on her table.
“My idea is a romance, so I’ve been researching what is selling.
I didn’t realize the genre had gotten so . . .”
My mouth twitched with a smile. “Open-minded?”
“That’s one way to put it.” She barked a laugh that she seemed to instantly tone down.
Enjoying the banter, I picked up the utensil romance. “People say to never judge a book by its cover, but that’s a fine-looking fork.”
This time she covered her mouth as she laughed. “The author actually wrote a four-book series about utensils. And it’s selling. I’m using that as a sign that no matter how my book turns out, if I pour my heart into it, it’ll find readers who enjoy it.”
“I have a feeling your book will be as fresh and inviting as you are.”
Her mouth tightened briefly at my compliment. Was she not used to people saying nice things to her? Had I crossed a line? Nobody’s out here saying I’ve got rizz when it comes to women reading about dragon kings and sentient utensils.
I lowered the book and added, “If you’re wondering, I don’t say things I don’t mean. Good or bad. I’m at a place in my life where I’m just trying to be me.”
Her lashes swept down and for a moment I wondered if I’d been too direct. When she raised her gaze to meet mine again, my breath caught. There was a storm raging behind those dark eyes, one she concealed behind a quick smile.
Nice woman with problems of her own.
I should’ve left.
Routines kept me grounded, kept others safe.
After Dylan—after those journals—I’d sworn to return to being a shadow, unseen, and harmless.
But this woman, with her chaotic books and too-bright smile, pulled at me like a tide.
Shy but bold, clumsy but deliberate, like the book she’d dropped at my feet.
Accidental?
Or an update of the old handkerchief trick women once used?
Did it matter?
“Tell me about your story,” I ordered gently.
Her eyes widened briefly, then she adjusted her glasses again. “It’s about a man and a woman . . .”
I coughed on a chuckle. “A time-tested, solid choice.”
Her cheeks went the most adorable shade of pink, and she referenced the stack of books beside her. “Or outdated.”
“Unless you throw a squid in the mix.” It was a random thought I normally would have kept to myself, but it felt wrong to hold back when she was being so open with me.
Her mouth rounded then she let out a hearty laugh. “You know what? I might. The first time the plot lags, I’ll add one. Regular or giant?”
“Giant. Always. I’m sure size matters, even in fiction.”
She bit her bottom lip. “I’ve just realized something. I don’t know what the private parts of a squid look like or if they have them.”
“Should we google it?”
“And put that in our search algorithms? Can you imagine the ads we’d receive after that?”
We. It had been a long time since anyone included me in a group without adding a warning tag. We don’t behave like that. We don’t do anything that puts our family in the spotlight.
We came with a litany of rules, and none of them brought joy. I shook that thought-tangent off and focused on how good it felt to even for a moment be part of a lighthearted we. “It might even put us on some government list.”
“An animal activist watch list.”
“So, perhaps, we shouldn’t add a giant squid to your romance.” I should have said you, but the lure of her and our connection was strong.
Her smile was wide and genuine. “See, you’re already helping improve the book.”
“I do what I can.” I shifted, flexing my fingers, an old tic from nights spent fighting the haze of sedatives I’d only recently, secretly ceased taking.
Which might have led to everything I was currently regretting, but having tasted the clarity that came without the pills, I couldn’t force myself to go back to them.
“You saved me from what could truly have been a disaster,” she added with warmth.
Saved her? Me? I sat back, recoiling from the idea of ever trying to save anyone again. I was what some might call an anti-hero. Only send me into a situation you’d like made worse.
What am I doing here?
I don’t deserve this comfort.
Still, I couldn’t see potential harm in one conversation about her book.
We didn’t need to see each other again.
For a few more minutes, I could be just a man talking to a beautiful woman about something she cared about. And maybe, just maybe, if I said the right things, she would go off and write a book that would bring her everything she was currently hoping for.
In a hesitant, soft tone, she said, “It’s so good to finally have someone to talk to. . .” She stopped, then added, “about my book.”
And just like that, I was hooked.
Nothing mattered more than her story and helping her.
Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, like we were plotting a heist. “Writing’s actually the easy part.
It’s the idea of marketing it that terrifies me.
TikTok dances, Instagram reels, Pinterest mood boards, YouTube vlogs—How does anyone do it all?
” Her hands flailed, nearly knocking another book to the floor.
Okay, so maybe the first one hadn’t been a ploy to grab my attention. Disappointing, but also intriguing. Perhaps I’d read too many books where a downtrodden hero is offered a lifeline, and it changes everything.
Could she be that for me?
No, that’s too much pressure to put on anyone.
Focus on the now.
Stop being impulsive.
You can do this . . . without the pills.
She straightened the pile, winced, then her eyes widened, pleading. “I don’t need anyone to tell me what to do, I just need someone to believe in me.”
That was a sucker punch to my soul. Me too, Brown Eyes. Me too.
Although I was born to a wealthy family, I had an extremely limited allowance and a shorter leash than a man in his mid-twenties should. Independence was something I yearned for, but achieving it wouldn’t be easy.
And recently, I’d given myself reason to believe everything my parents had told me about myself was true. The beauty before me gave me an encouraging look, and I realized she was waiting for me to respond. I said, “I don’t do social media, but that does sound overwhelming.”
Her eyes widened. “Anti-social media or just shy?”
I held her gaze. The truth was murky and something I’d made peace with. “Some lives are best lived privately.”
She nodded with understanding that felt like the greatest gift I’d ever received. “My parents were very careful to keep my face offline. They were so worried about identity theft, I am virtually invisible online as well. That’s probably why the idea of putting my face everywhere scares me.”
“Every problem has a solution.” That was the mantra I clung to.
It was a spark of hope when life became dark and confusing.
A thought hit me. “Have you looked into making an avatar of yourself? AI is capable of more and more every day. You could use your own image and your own voice, but change it enough that people wouldn’t recognize you if they met you in person. ”
She adjusted those adorable glasses of hers again. “I could make myself beautiful.”
I sucked in breath and held back from telling her she was already that. Flattery wasn’t what she was looking for. “You could make yourself whatever you want to be.”
“I’m fundamentally opposed to AI.” She wrinkled her nose. “I figure if I ignore it long enough, it’ll go away.”
Oh, yes, I’ve tried that method of coping. “What scares you the most about it?”
She looked down before meeting my gaze again. “That people will believe it’s writing my stories.”
“But you’ll know the truth, so it doesn’t matter what people believe.”
“Doesn’t it? Public opinion and reputation can make or break careers.”
I shifted and tensed. “People will think what they’re going to think anyway, so you might as well live your life the way you want to.”
That was my goal, anyway, and it felt good to say it aloud.
She pursed her lips. “So, the truth is more important to you than reputation or public backlash?”
My chest tightened because that was a question I struggled with more and more the longer I stayed off medication.
Reading Simmons’ journals about his obsession with using twins as part of some sick desire to prove circumstance shaped a person more than their genetics had shaken me to the core.
And knowing that he’d blackmailed my family into bankrolling his work?
Knowing there were still twins out there who might never learn about each other or why they’d been separated?
I’d considered taking the journals to the news or publishing them online for everyone to see.
But that would have destroyed my family.
I couldn’t do that.
I was still struggling with what I’d read meant about them . . . and me.
Was my silence a worse crime than running Dylan off the road had been?
On one hand, Dylan had nearly died because of my ill-conceived plan to scare him.
So many mistakes: Stealing the journals.
Trying to silence the twins who’d already found each other.
Returning the journals as a frantic attempt to stop the avalanche of trouble I’d set into motion.
All of that had been bad choices birthed in my impulsiveness and a desire to protect my family.
But . . . maintaining silence about the greatest wrong I’d ever brushed against? That choice had the frightening ability to define my very soul.
Her hand touched mine lightly. “May I ask you for a favor?”
My attention whipped back to her. “Anything.”
“Would you help me figure out how to make an avatar? I think I’d like to at least see what’s possible . . .”
I swallowed hard. I didn’t know how to make one, but I was confident I could learn the steps. Saying yes to this would mean agreeing to see her again.
Saying no was inconceivable.
“I come here on Tuesdays.” God, that was lame.
She smiled. “Then I will too, if that’s okay with you.”
With my heart thudding wildly, I nodded.
She opened her notebook, scribbled something in it, then smiled at me. “I have an idea. Hear me out. You should write a book too. We could go on this adventure together.”
We.
Not for one chance meeting.
Not for a quick lesson in how to create an avatar.
We for a shared adventure.
Holy shit.
“I don’t have a story in me,” I said in a thick tone.
Her expression softened. “I thought that in the beginning too, but I’m not letting that stop me.” Amusement brought a twinkle to her eyes. “What if we start with something simple like helping each other choose pen names?”
“Pen names?”
“Well, I haven’t chosen one for myself yet, and you’ll also need one.”
“Because I’m going to write a book?”
Her lowered lashes and slow blink nearly robbed me of my ability to breathe.
“Only if you want to. Don’t feel like you must agree to any of this.
You probably have a million things to do that are more important than wasting time here with someone who doesn’t even have the first chapter of her book written, but thinks her biggest hurdle will be promoting it. ”
She tipped her head to one side in question.
I added, “Your pen name: Helen Bart. Helen as in Jane Eyre’s Helen Burns. Strong in the face of adversity. Bart from Lily Bart in the House of Mirth. Another strong character.”
For an instant I thought the woman across from me had a guttural rejection to my choice. Her eyes narrowed and her face tensed. I must have misread the response, though, because a moment later she beamed a smile at me. “I love it. Helen Bart. From now on, call me Helen.”
It was only then that I realized we’d never introduced ourselves. A good thing, I supposed. For many reasons. “Hello, Helen.”
She leaned forward and touched my hand again. “Can I choose a name for you?”
My throat tightened. “Sure.”
“Don’t laugh at my choice. I’m not as well-read as you are.”
I scratched my chin, leaned forward, and doubted the accuracy of that statement. “No judgment.”
She chewed her bottom lip, and I held my breath.
“Ashen Ryse. Ashen like something born from the ashes of a great fire. R, Y, S, E is how rise used to be spelled. So, like a phoenix rising from the ashes.” She wrinkled her nose at me. “Do you hate it?”
I gave myself a heartbeat or two to sit with the name before holding out my hand to her. “Hello, Helen, my name is Ashen Ryse.”
Her small hand was dwarfed by mine but gave a surprisingly strong shake. “It’s nice to meet you, Ashen.”
I held her hand longer than necessary. “The pleasure is all mine.”
She blushed and looked down.
I released her hand.
When she raised her gaze to meet mine again, her eyes sparkled, daring me to play along. “We’re doing this?”
I can’t remember another time when smiling had come as easily as it did that day. “We’re doing this.”
“And you’ll meet me here next Tuesday?”
“Or tomorrow.”
I inwardly groaned, but my embarrassment over the words that had burst from me faded as soon as her expression lit with delight. “Ashen Ryse, did we just become best friends?”
No response came from me because her optimism and openness had slashed through my ability to think straight. I was temporarily one big ball of yearning.
Not just for the taste of her . . . but also for a version of me she’d want as a best friend. She asked me for my phone number, and I gave it to her without hesitation.