Chapter 4 #3
I should tell her I’m V. Langley. That I’ve been writing her letters for months, falling in love with her honesty while hiding behind my own walls.
That every word she just said about my books is true, and I’m trying to fix it, and she’s the reason I’m trying.
But the words stick in my throat, blocked by years of hiding and fear and the certainty that honesty will cost me everything I can’t afford to lose.
“I should go,” I say instead, because I’m a coward.
“You should sign the papers first.”
Right. Business. The thing I’m supposedly here for.
I watch as Jessica scrawls her signature on the appropriate lines, her handwriting the same careful script I’ve seen on her recommendation cards. The same script Between the Lines uses in her letters.
That’s been slowly breaking my heart for six months.
“Thank you,” I say, taking the folder back.
“Don’t thank me for signing away my livelihood.”
“That’s not what—” I stop. Start again. “Jessica, I don’t want you to lose your shop.”
“Then why did you give me an ultimatum I can’t meet?”
Because I’m a scared idiot. Grayson was right in saying I engineered this entire situation just to have an excuse to see her regularly while the board pressures me to fix the property situation.
I don’t know how to admit I’m in love with her without revealing every secret I’ve been hiding.
“It’s complicated,” I say again, and I hate myself for it.
“Everything with you is,” she responds, and this time it sounds sad instead of angry. “You know, for a man who reads poetry, you’re remarkably bad at saying what you actually mean.”
I turn to leave, and Austen chooses that exact moment to launch his attack.
The cat jumps from the counter to a nearby bookshelf, miscalculates spectacularly, overcorrects, and launches himself directly at my shoulder like a furry missile with claws and murderous intent.
I yelp—actually yelp, like a grown man being murdered by a house cat, which is essentially what’s happening—and stumble backward into a spinning display of paperbacks.
The display does not survive the impact.
Neither does my dignity.
Books cascade everywhere. The display spins, wobbles, and crashes to the floor with a sound like the universe laughing at my suffering. I try to catch the falling books while maintaining some shred of professional composure and fail spectacularly at both objectives.
Austen clings to my shoulder like a furry, judgmental backpack, digging his claws through my very expensive suit jacket. Through my shirt. Into my actual flesh.
“Ow—stop—your cat is—Ow.”
“Austen!” Jessica rushes over, but she’s laughing, the sound bright and real and completely worth the humiliation and probable need for a tetanus shot.
“Your cat is trying to murder me.”
“He’s very protective.” She gently extracts Austen from my shoulder, cradling him like he’s an innocent victim instead of a furry terrorist. “Also, you kind of deserved it.”
“I’m not sure assault by cat is a fair response to real estate negotiations.”
“Isn’t it?” She’s still smiling, her eyes bright with amusement. “He has strong feelings about community values. And your suit.”
“My suit didn’t do anything wrong.”
I look down at my jacket. There are visible claw marks. There may also be blood. The suit is definitely ruined.
I should care, but I don’t.
Because Jessica is laughing, and for one perfect second, we’re not landlord and tenant. We’re just two people standing in a disaster zone of fallen books, surrounded by the evidence of my complete lack of grace.
“I should help clean this up,” I say.
“You definitely should. You made the mess.”
“Excuse me? I’m pretty sure that was your cat.”
“He was defending his territory. You were trespassing.”
“I was conducting business.”
“You were lurking in the stacks like a man who forgot how to leave.” But she’s still smiling. “Come on. Books don’t shelve themselves.”
I start picking up paperbacks, and she kneels down to help. Our hands brush, reaching for the same book.
This time, neither of us pulls away quite as fast.
“Thank you,” Jessica says softly. “For not being a complete monster about the lease.”
“The bar is impressively low.”
“Well, you did threaten my livelihood. So yeah, the bar is basically subterranean. You’re like a limbo champion of basic decency.”
I laugh despite myself, and her expression shifts like she’s seeing something she didn’t expect.
“You should do that more often,” she says.
“What? Get assaulted by your cat?”
“Laugh. Be human.” She stands, still holding several books, and there’s a gentleness in her voice that undoes me. “You’re less terrifying when you remember you’re allowed to have feelings. The whole ‘corporate shark with no emotions’ thing is very intimidating, but it’s also very lonely.”
She doesn’t know how right she is.
I should leave this bookstore before I do something incredibly stupid like tell her the truth or kiss her or both.
But I’m still holding books, and she’s still standing close enough that I could reach out and touch her if I was brave enough, and somewhere in the last five minutes, this stopped being about business.
“Jessica—”
“Scott—”
We both stop. Both wait.
“You first,” I say.
“I just—” She takes a breath. “I don’t hate you. I want to, because it would be easier. But I don’t.”
My heart does something acrobatic and painful.
“I don’t hate you either.”
“Good.” She takes the books from my hands, and our fingers tangle briefly before she pulls away.
“Because hating your landlord is exhausting, and I have enough stress without adding that to the list. Plus, you’re friends with Grayson, who is with Michelle, and if I hate you, book club gets awkward. ”
“Book club?”
“Bookaholics Anonymous. We meet monthly with wine and strong opinions. If you and I are enemies, I’ll have to make pointed comments every time your name comes up, and frankly, that sounds exhausting.”
“I appreciate your willingness to tolerate me for the sake of book club.”
“Don’t get too excited. Tolerating is not the same as liking.”
“I’ll take what I can get.”
For what it’s worth,” I say, “I hope you find a way to keep the shop. I mean that.”
“I know.” She looks up at me, and there’s something searching in her gaze. Like she’s trying to figure out which version of me is real. “That’s the confusing part. I think you actually do.”
I do. More than she knows. More than I know how to explain without revealing everything.
The bell chimes and another customer enters. The moment breaks.
“I should let you work,” I say, backing toward the door with the lease documents clutched like a shield. Also, I should probably find a first aid kit for my shoulder.
“Probably.”
“Jessica—”
“I know. Sixty days. I’ll figure something out.” She’s already turning toward the new customer, slipping into her welcoming smile. “And Scott? Maybe next time knock before seven-forty-five. Like a normal person. Who understands social conventions.”
“I’ll add it to my list.”
“You have a list?”
“I have many lists. I’m a very organized disaster.”
She laughs again—quieter this time, just for me—and I’m dismissed.
I make it to my car before I allow myself to feel the full weight of what just happened.
She doesn’t hate me. She thinks I’m lonely and wants to understand me.
And I’m lying to her about absolutely everything that matters.
I sit in my car in the parking lot, watching the bookstore through the windshield, and pull out my phone. Open the burner app I use for V. Langley correspondence.
There’s a new message from Rodney, my agent.
Scott. We need to talk about the manuscript. It’s incredible. Raw. Honest. Everything the last three books weren’t. But it’s also clearly based on someone real. Are you ready for that level of vulnerability?
I respond.
No, I’m not ready for vulnerability. But I’m going to try anyway.
That’s either brave or stupid.
Probably both.
I close the message and start my car, glancing one more time at The Fiction Nook. Through the window, Jessica’s helping the new customer, animated and warm, completely in her element.
I have no idea how to tell her the truth without revealing everything I've been hiding.
To decide if I’m brave enough to tell her the truth and become the man my characters are brave enough to be.
It’s not enough time, but it’s what I have.
So I drive back to my sterile condo, patch up my cat wounds, and open my manuscript.
One honest word at a time.
And maybe, if I’m lucky, a few less cat attacks.