Chapter 7
SEVEN
JESSICA
The planning meeting starts in twenty minutes, and I’ve changed cardigans four times.
The first one was too casual. The second was too “I’m trying to look like I didn’t try.” The third had a coffee stain I’d forgotten about. The fourth is the same as the first, which means I’ve essentially accomplished nothing except proving to Austen that I’m a disaster.
He’s watching me from his spot on the register, tail flicking with judgment.
“Don’t glare at me like that,” I tell him. “This is a professional meeting. I need to dress my best.”
He blinks slowly, which in cat language means “You run a bookstore in a beach town and you’re worried about looking good for a man you claim to dislike.”
“I do dislike him.”
Another blink. “You’ve checked the front window three times to see if he’s coming.”
“I was looking at the...weather.”
“It’s July. In North Carolina. The weather is hot. It’s been sweltering for weeks. You’re spiraling.”
I hate that my cat is right.
“You’re talking to Austen again,” Caroline observes from where she’s pretending to dust the shelves. “Out loud. With pauses like he’s responding.”
“He is responding. He’s very articulate.”
“He’s a cat.”
“With opinions.”
“You need help.” But she’s grinning. “You also need to stop changing clothes. The first cardigan was fine.”
“That one says ‘I woke up like this.’”
“And that’s bad because...?”
“Because I didn’t wake up like this! I woke up like a nervous wreck who practiced saying ‘hello, Scott’ in the mirror until it stopped sounding like words!”
Caroline stares at me. “You practiced saying hello?”
“It’s a complicated word when you’re saying it to someone irritatingly attractive.”
“You just called him irritatingly attractive.”
“I said no such thing.”
“You absolutely did. I’m writing it down.” She pulls out her phone. “For posterity. And blackmail.”
“Don’t you have class?”
“Not until noon. I’m not missing this.” She grins with the gleeful malice of someone who’s about to watch a disaster unfold. “Michelle says the tension between you and Scott could be seen from space.”
“Michelle needs to stop analyzing my personal life like it’s a romance novel.”
“You literally own a romance novel bookstore. Your personal life is a romance novel. You’re just in denial about what chapter you’re in.”
Before I can respond, the bell above the door chimes, and Scott Avery walks in carrying a cardboard tray of coffee cups and looking like a man who got dressed in the dark and still somehow landed on “casually devastating.”
He’s wearing jeans.
Jeans.
I’ve never seen Scott Avery in jeans. I didn’t know he owned clothes that weren’t professionally dry-cleaned. I half-expected his closet to be just rows of identical suits, like a cartoon character.
“I brought caffeine,” he announces, then stops when he sees my face. “What?”
“Nothing. You’re wearing jeans.”
“I own jeans.”
“Since when?”
“Since approximately fifteen years ago when I purchased them at a store, like a normal person.” He sets the coffee tray on the counter. “Why are you looking at me like I’ve grown a second head?”
“I’ve just never seen you dressed like a human before.”
“As opposed to?”
“A very stressed robot who irons his pajamas.”
Caroline makes a sound that might be a laugh or might be a choke. Scott’s mouth twitches.
“For your information,” he says, “I dress casually on weekends. I also eat food, sleep in a bed, and occasionally experience emotions, though I try to keep those to a minimum.”
“How restrained of you.”
“Thank you.” He slides a cup toward me. “Oat milk, alarming amount of vanilla syrup. Michelle’s words, not mine.”
“It’s not alarming.”
“She used the phrase ‘genuinely concerning.’ I’m paraphrasing.”
I take the coffee because I’m not an idiot, and also because I don’t know what to do with Scott Avery being thoughtful while wearing jeans like some kind of cozy ambush.
“Thank you,” I manage.
“You’re welcome.” He looks around the shop, taking in the summer reading display I set up last week—beach reads piled in a vintage rowboat I found at a yard sale, complete with a hand-painted sign that says “Get Lost at Sea (Metaphorically).”
“You put books in a boat,” he says.
“It’s thematic.”
“It’s a fire hazard.”
“It’s whimsical.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.” But he’s almost smiling. “Where are we setting up?”
“Back table. Try not to critique my decor on the way there.”
“I wasn’t critiquing. I was observing.” He pauses at the shelf nearest the boat, where I’ve displayed my favorite summer romances. “You have a whole section labeled ‘Morally Ambiguous Love Interests.’”
“It’s a popular subcategory.”
“There’s a sign that says ‘He’s problematic, but he’s pretty.’”
“Hey, it’s true.”
Scott makes a sound that might be a laugh. It’s surprising enough that I almost drop my coffee.
“Did you just find me funny?”
“I find you amusing on occasion.” He says it like it’s a confession. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late. I’m already composing my acceptance speech.”
The bell chimes again, and suddenly my bookstore is full of people.
Michelle breezes in with Grayson attached to her hip.
Jo arrives carrying a massive binder labeled “Aesthetic Vision” in glittery letters.
Amber shows up with a basket of pastries.
“Okay, team!” Michelle claps her hands like a cheerful drill sergeant.
“Let’s make this the best literary event Twin Waves has ever seen.
Everyone grab a seat and a croissant. We have decisions to make. ”
We gather around the back table—me, Scott, Michelle, Grayson, Jo, and Amber—with notebooks and laptops.
“First order of business,” Michelle says, pulling up a document on her laptop. “The author reveal. How are we actually doing this? Jessica, it’s your program.”
I take a breath. “So, the Letters to Local Authors program has been running for eight months now. Readers write to anonymous North Carolina authors, the authors write back, and nobody knows who’s who. The reveal is when the authors finally unmask.”
“Like a literary masquerade,” Jo says approvingly.
“Exactly. We’ve got twelve authors participating—some from right here in Twin Waves, others coming from as far as Raleigh and Wilmington.
I’m thinking we do a staged reveal. Each author gets an envelope with their pen name on it.
They come up one at a time, read a passage from one of their letters, and then reveal their real identity.
Their correspondents are in the audience—”
“That’s a lot of pressure,” Scott says. “What if someone’s correspondent isn’t there? What if the author freezes? What if—”
“What if it’s magical and beautiful and everyone cries happy tears?”
“That’s not a contingency plan.”
“It’s called optimism. You should try it sometime.”
“I do. I optimistically assume everything will go wrong so I can plan for it.”
“That’s pessimism with extra steps.”
“It’s preparedness.”
We’re both leaning forward now, and I’m vaguely aware that everyone else at the table has gone quiet. Michelle is grinning like Christmas came early. Grayson is eating a croissant with the air of someone watching excellent entertainment.
“How many authors are revealing?” Scott asks, pulling out a notebook.
“Twelve confirmed so far. A few maybes.”
“And how many correspondents per author?”
“It varies. Some authors have been writing to one or two people. Others have five or six pen pals.”
“So potentially sixty to seventy people who need to be in the audience at the right moment, watching the right reveal, having the right emotional experience.” He taps his pen against the notebook. “That’s a lot of variables.”
“That’s a lot of magic.”
“Magic doesn’t scale.”
“You must be fun at parties.”
“I’m excellent at parties. I make sure there’s enough ice.”
“That’s the saddest party skill I’ve ever heard.”
“Ice is important! You know what ruins a party? Warm drinks. You know what doesn’t ruin a party? Having enough ice.”
“I cannot believe we’re arguing about this.”
“You started it by dismissing the importance of logistics.”
“I didn’t dismiss it. I just think there’s room for spontaneity.”
“Spontaneity is what happens when planning fails.”
“No, it’s what happens when you trust people to have genuine moments!”
The table goes very still.
“This is better than television,” Amber whispers to Jo.
“Should we leave them alone?” Jo whispers back.
“Absolutely not. This is the best thing that’s happened all week.”
“Can we please,” Michelle interjects, still grinning, “find a middle ground? Scott’s right that we need structure. Jessica’s right that we need heart. Both things can be true.”
I take a breath. “Fine. Compromise. We do the staged reveals, but we have backup plans. Authors who freeze get gentle prompts. Correspondents who can’t make it get video messages. And we build in buffer time between reveals so people can process.”
“I can work with that.” Scott is already typing on his laptop. “Twelve reveals, five minutes each with buffer, that’s ninety minutes minimum. We’ll need a holding area for authors before they go on. Seating charts so correspondents are near the front—”
“You’re making a seating chart for an emotional literary event.”
“I’m making sure people can see and hear. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
“There’s a huge difference. Good logistics enable good emotions. Bad ones create frustration that blocks emotions.” He glances up at me. “I’m not trying to kill the magic. I’m trying to give it room to happen.”
Oh.
That’s...actually kind of sweet.
“Fine,” I say. “You handle the logistics. I’ll handle the magic.”
“Deal.” He turns his laptop toward me. “I made a column for ‘Jessica’s wild cards.’ Unscripted moments you want to build in. I left it blank so you can fill it with whatever whimsy you want.”
“You made me a wild card column?”
“I made you a dedicated space for unplanned magic.”