Chapter 9
NINE
JESSICA
I’m walking on the beach at dawn because I’m a rational, well-adjusted adult who definitely doesn’t make poor life choices.
That’s a lie.
I had a dream about Scott Avery reading poetry to me while we were both trapped in a library made entirely of his early V. Langley books, and I woke up disoriented and slightly breathless, which is completely unacceptable.
So. Beach walk. Where normal people process their feelings about their emotionally complicated landlord while the sun rises and the seagulls judge them.
One particularly large gull has been following me for the past ten minutes, making a sound that’s somewhere between a shriek and disappointed laughter. I’ve named him Sigmund because he’s clearly trying to psychoanalyze my life choices.
“I don’t want to talk about it, Sigmund,” I tell him.
He shrieks louder.
“Fine. Yes, I had a swoony dream about my landlord. Happy?”
More shrieking. Sigmund has opinions.
“It wasn’t even a good dream,” I continue, because apparently I’m the kind of person who has therapy sessions with seagulls now. “We were just reading poetry. That’s it. Just him reading Walt Whitman and looking at me like I was—”
I stop walking because there’s a person sitting on my favorite driftwood log.
A person who looks suspiciously like Scott Avery.
It’s definitely him, and he just heard me confess to having dreams about him to a judgmental seagull.
Our gazes meet.
He’s holding a coffee cup with messy hair, wearing joggers and a t-shirt instead of his usual suit, and he looks exhausted and vulnerable and completely unlike Corporate Shark Scott.
This is Poetry-Reading-At-The-Library Scott.
This is potentially even more dangerous.
“Jessica,” he says.
“Scott.” I manage. “I was just...talking to a bird.”
“I heard.”
Oh goodness. “How much did you hear?”
“Something about Walt Whitman.”
I'm going to die. I'm going to spontaneously combust right here on this beach and become a cautionary tale about the dangers of public seagull therapy.
“I read a lot of poetry,” I say, which is true but also completely beside the point. “For the bookstore. Professional development.”
“Before sunrise?”
“The early bird gets the...poetry recommendations.”
Sigmund lands on the sand between us and squawks.
“Your friend doesn't seem convinced,” Scott observes.
“Sigmund is a harsh critic.”
“You named the seagull?”
“He started it by following me. Now we're in a therapeutic relationship.”
A smile tugs at Scott's mouth—an actual smile, not his usual corporate smirk—and something in my chest does a gymnastics routine.
“May I join you?” he asks, gesturing to the log. “Or is this a private session?”
“Sigmund doesn't mind an audience.”
I sit on the far end of the driftwood log, which in retrospect is a tactical error because now I'm acutely aware of the three feet of space between us and how easy it would be to close that distance and also how absolutely I should not be thinking about closing that distance.
We sit in silence. The waves roll in. Sigmund waddles between us like a feathered chaperone.
“So,” I say brightly, “lovely morning for existential crisis beach walks.”
“Is that what this is?”
“Isn't it always?” I wrap my arms around my knees. “What brings you to my therapy log at ungodly o'clock?”
“Couldn't sleep.”
“Join the club. We meet every morning at dawn. Membership requirements include questionable life choices and the inability to process feelings like a normal person.”
“I think I qualify.”
“Your application is under review.”
Another almost-smile. We're racking them up today.
Sigmund waddles closer, clearly invested in this interaction. A few of his seagull friends have joined us too. We're collecting an audience.
The silence stretches. Which is ridiculous. We've been in three planning meetings together this week. I should be able to make small talk with the man.
But planning meetings have agendas. Structure. Other people in the room.
This is just us. And seagulls.
“You're up early,” I finally say. “No spreadsheets to update? Revenue projections to obsess over?”
“I could ask you the same thing. No books to alphabetize? Cat to argue with?”
“Austen and I had a disagreement about breakfast. I needed space.”
“You argued with your cat.”
“He started it.”
Something flickers across his face—amusement, maybe—before he tucks it away.
More silence. The waves fill it.
“How are ticket sales?” he asks.
“Fine. Good, actually. Caroline's been promoting on social media.”
“Good.” He nods, but there's tension in his shoulders. “And the... the bookstore finances. Overall. Are they—”
“Are you asking as my landlord or as someone on the planning committee?”
“I'm asking as—” He stops. Tries again. “I've been reviewing the lease terms.”
My stomach drops. “If you're about to tell me there's another increase—”
“No. The opposite.” He's gripping his coffee cup like it personally offended him. “I'm looking for... flexibility. In the agreement.”
“Flexibility.”
“Options.”
“You already gave me options. I picked one. I signed my name on a piece of paper that will probably bankrupt me.” I can hear the bitterness creeping into my voice. “The ink is barely dry. Why are you bringing this up now?”
“Because it's not—” He exhales sharply, frustrated. “The board made that decision. I just delivered it. And I've been trying to find a way to—”
“To what?”
He looks at me, and there's something almost pained in his expression.
“To fix it,” he says quietly. “If you'll let me.”
I don't know what to do with that. With him, sitting here at dawn, looking like the rent situation has been keeping him up at night too.
“Why do you care?” The question comes out softer than I intended.
His jaw tightens. “Maybe some answers are complicated.”
“So uncomplicate them.”
“I can't.” His hands tighten around his coffee cup. “Not yet.”
“Not yet,” I repeat. “That implies eventually.”
“It implies I'm working on something.”
“Something you can't tell me about.”
“Something I'm not ready to tell anyone about.”
I should let it go. I should accept the mystery and move on.
“You're very frustrating,” I tell him instead.
“So I've been told.”
“By who?”
“Mostly Grayson. Sometimes my reflection.”
I almost laugh. Almost.
“Jessica—”
One of Sigmund's friends decides to make a dramatic landing right next to Scott.
Except it's not a landing so much as a collision.
The seagull hits Scott's shoulder, squawks indignantly, and in the chaos, Scott's coffee cup goes flying.
Right into my lap.
I yelp and jump up, which startles approximately seven more seagulls who have apparently been waiting for their moment to join this circus.
They all take flight at once.
It’s like a scene from The Birds except more embarrassing and less murderous.
Scott leaps up to help me, steps on Sigmund’s tail (Sigmund is very vocal about this betrayal), stumbles into me, and we both nearly go down.
His hands catch my arms to steady us both.
We’re standing very close, both covered in coffee, surrounded by shrieking seagulls who are judging our life choices, and Scott Avery is looking at me like I’m a poem he’s trying to memorize.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “About the coffee. And the seagulls. And...everything.”
“It’s fine. I like my morning walks with a side of chaos.”
“This seems like a lot even for you.”
“Excuse me, I’m very normal.”
“You were having therapy with a seagull named Sigmund.”
“Everyone needs a confidant.”
His mouth twitches. His hands are still on my arms. We’re still standing too close.
“Jessica—”
“There you are!”
We spring apart like teenagers caught by parents.
Michelle is jogging toward us down the beach, ponytail bouncing, looking far too energetic for this early hour.
Behind her is Grayson and—oh no—the entire book club.
Hazel, Amber, Jo, and Grandma Hensley bringing up the rear.
It’s a rom-com intervention parade, and we’re the main attraction.
“We saw you from the boardwalk,” Michelle announces, slightly breathless. “Thought we’d join your morning walk.”
“All of you?” I ask weakly. “At sunrise?”
“It’s a romantic time of day,” Grandma Hensley says, gesturing widely at the sun just beginning to peek over the horizon. “Also, I have twenty dollars on you two getting together before Labor Day, and I need to assess the situation.”
I’m going to die. Again. This is now the second death-by-embarrassment I’ve scheduled for today.
“We’re not—” Scott starts.
“Together,” I finish. “We’re just...walking. Separately. On the same beach. With seagulls.”
“Uh-huh,” Michelle says, eyeing my coffee-stained outfit and Scott’s defensive posture. “Very separate.”
“Why are you all awake?” I demand.
“Morning power walk,” Hazel explains. “We had concerns.”
“About my cardiovascular health?”
“About you avoiding the book club group chat for three days,” Jo says gently. “We worry.”
Scott is looking at this crowd of women like they’re a puzzle he can’t solve. Which is fair. They are a force of nature.
“I should go,” he says, backing away slowly like one might retreat from a bear. “I have...work. Things. Property assessments.”
“Already? The day has barely started,” Grayson says, far too innocently.
“Early bird. Gets the...property values.”
He’s still backing away and nearly trips over Sigmund, who has apparently forgiven the tail incident and is back for more drama.
“Jessica, I—” Scott stops. The entire book club is watching us like we’re a particularly engaging reality show. “We’ll talk later. About the property situation.”
“The property situation,” I echo.
“Yes. The building. The lease.”
“Business only,” I quip.
“Nothing personal.”
“Okay.”
He finally turns and walks away, and the moment he’s out of earshot, the Bookaholics descend.
“What was that?” Michelle demands.
“Property negotiations.”
“Yeah right. That was flirting.”
“That was not—we were just talking!”
“You were doing that thing where you both pretend you’re not melting for each other,” Amber says. “It’s obvious.”
“Whatever.”