Chapter 7 #2
“That’s...” I don’t know what that is. It’s the most Scott Avery thing anyone’s ever done for me, and somehow it’s also sweet. “Thank you?”
“You’re welcome.” He turns the laptop toward me. “Does this work?”
I look at his document. It has tabs for “logistics,” “romance,” and “Jessica’s wild cards.” The romance tab has subcategories for “dramatic reveals,” “potential happy tears,” and “extra tissues just in case.”
He made a backup tissue plan.
“This is the most thoughtful planning document I’ve ever seen,” I admit.
“High praise, given your earlier comments about my number friends.”
“I may have been hasty about the number friends.”
“I’m writing that down.”
“Please don’t.”
“Too late. I’m adding it to the document.” He types something. “Under ‘unexpected nice moments.’ Jessica admits she was hasty.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
He’s right. I don’t.
That’s becoming increasingly problematic.
The meeting lasts three hours.
We finalize the venue layout (staged area for reveals, seating for correspondents, mingling space for after).
We debate food options (Amber advocates for “desserts that photograph well,” Scott advocates for “desserts that fit the budget,” I advocate for “desserts, all of them, immediately”).
We assign responsibilities for the next few weeks.
Scott is handling logistics, venue coordination, and “anything that requires a list.”
I’m handling author communication, the reveal ceremony, and “anything that requires feelings.”
Michelle is handling promotion and making sure Scott and I don’t kill each other.
“Or kiss,” Amber adds.
“Why would we kiss?” Scott asks.
“Chemistry,” everyone says in unison.
“There’s no chemistry.”
“There’s enough to start a fire,” Grayson says. “I say this as your best friend and a man who has eyes.”
“Your eyes are wrong.”
“They’re perfectly functional. They’ve watched you stare at Jessica approximately forty-seven times since you arrived.”
“I was not staring. I was...observing.”
“Observing what?”
“The way she argues. It’s chaotic but somehow persuasive.”
“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about anyone,” Grayson says. “I’m genuinely touched.”
The meeting wraps up around two pm, and people start filtering out. Jo leaves with her massive binder. Amber takes the leftover pastries. Michelle drags Grayson away with a meaningful look at me that clearly communicates “we’re discussing this later.”
And then it’s just me and Scott, standing in my bookstore surrounded by empty coffee cups and the aftermath of three hours of collaborative chaos.
“Same time tomorrow?” he asks.
“We’re meeting again?”
“We need to finalize the food details. And you still owe me your wild card items.”
“That’s not due for two weeks.”
“I like to plan ahead.”
“You like to have excuses to come back.”
He doesn’t deny it.
The same electricity sparks between us as from the fireworks, the boardwalk, and every conversation we’ve had that’s felt like a game where neither of us wants to win because winning would mean it ends.
“Maybe I do,” he says quietly.
“Maybe I don’t mind.”
We stand there for a moment, not quite looking at each other, not quite looking away.
“Tomorrow,” Scott says finally. “I’ll bring coffee.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” He holds my gaze. “See you then, Jessica.”
He leaves, and I’m left standing alone in a bookstore full of romance novels, wondering when my life became one.
I wait until closing to check the brass mailbox.
There’s a letter with Coastal Quill’s handwriting. My heart does something complicated as I carry it upstairs.
Austen is waiting by his food bowl, radiating judgment.
“I know,” I tell him. “I’m late. It’s been a day.”
He blinks at me with the air of a creature who has never experienced inconvenience and cannot fathom why I’m making excuses instead of providing salmon.
I feed him, pour myself a glass of wine, and settle into my reading chair.
Dear Between the Lines,
Yes. I’ll come.
My heart lifts.
He’s coming.
He’s actually coming.
I’ll finally meet the person behind these letters—the anonymous author who’s been writing to me for months.
The one who asks questions about storytelling and second chances and whether characters can truly change.
Whose letters make me feel like I’m talking to someone who understands what it means to love books so much they become part of you.
I pull out my stationery. Time to write back. Time to tell Coastal Quill I’m glad he’s coming, that I’m terrified too, that August ninth feels like a countdown to something I can’t name.
Dear Coastal Quill,
I’m glad you said yes. I’m also glad I’m not the only one who’s terrified.
August ninth feels very close and very far away. I keep counting the weeks and wondering what it will feel like to put a face to your words. To hear your voice instead of imagining it. To finally know who’s been writing these letters that have meant so much to me.
I started this program because I thought local authors deserved to hear directly from readers. I didn’t expect to find a correspondent who made me think so deeply about stories and why we need them. Your letters have been a gift.
I hope I don’t disappoint you in person.
I spent my evening planning your reveal event with someone who makes me want to argue about seating charts. He’s infuriating and unexpected and he made me a column for wild cards in his perfectly organized document, which might be the strangest act of kindness anyone’s ever shown me.
Maybe we’re all more complicated than the versions we show the world.
Maybe that’s what makes the real versions worth meeting.
Four weeks. I’ll try to be brave enough to deserve whatever comes next.
Yours in mutual terror and stubborn hope,
Between the Lines
I seal the letter and set it aside for tomorrow’s mail.
A month of planning meetings with Scott, of letters with Coastal Quill, and trying to figure out why both of them make my heart do complicated things.
The book club would say I’m living in a romance novel and refusing to recognize my own tropes. Michelle would say the universe is trying to tell me something. Caroline would say I need to watch more Hallmark movies because apparently my pattern recognition is broken.
But right now, in this moment, I’m just Jessica Wells—bookstore owner, reader, woman with a judgmental cat and two men who confuse her in completely different ways.
One of them writes letters that feel like coming home.
The other argues with me about event logistics like it’s the most fun he’s had all week.
And somehow, impossibly, both of them make me want to be brave enough to find out what happens next.