Chapter 10
TEN
SCOTT
I’m sitting in my car outside the post office for the fourth time today, which is either dedication to my correspondence or a cry for help.
Probably both.
The postal worker—a woman named Deb who’s worked here for thirty years and has definitely noticed my obsessive checking schedule—gives me a look through the window that clearly says: Get a life, sad businessman.
Fair.
I check my watch. 4:47 PM. Letters get sorted by five. If Between the Lines responded to my terrified confession about being a coward, it should be here by now.
Unless she didn’t respond because my admission that I’m falling for someone I can’t have scared her away.
What if she realized I’m a disaster masquerading as a functional adult and decided our correspondence has run its course?
Grayson would tell me I’m spiraling.
Jessica would probably tell me the same while simultaneously giving me a reading list about emotional regulation.
The thought of Jessica makes my chest do something painful and wonderful at the same time.
This morning on the beach—watching her have therapy with a judgmental seagull, seeing her in the sunrise with coffee stains on her shirt, that moment when we were standing too close and she looked at me like maybe I wasn’t completely terrible—that was real.
That was the most real I’ve been with anyone in years.
And then the entire book club showed up, and I panicked and ran away like a coward.
Which is exactly what I confessed to Between the Lines last night.
So. Full circle of cowardice.
I force myself out of the car and into the post office before I can talk myself into leaving.
Deb looks up from her sorting. “Mr. Avery. Back again.”
“I’m expecting an important letter.”
“You’re expecting an important letter four times a day, five days a week.”
I pull out an envelope from my box. “This what you’re looking for?”
Between the Lines’s handwriting.
Jessica’s handwriting.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“You know,” Deb says conversationally, “in my thirty years here, I’ve seen a lot of people check their mail obsessively. Usually means they’re either waiting for money or love. You don’t strike me as someone worried about money.”
I stare at her. “I—”
“Just saying. Whatever’s in those letters, it’s making you check your PO box like a teenager waiting for prom invitations. Might want to just talk to the person directly.”
“It’s complicated.”
“It always is.” She goes back to her sorting. “But life’s short, Mr. Avery. Don’t spend it sitting in your car in parking lots.”
I take the letter and retreat to said car, where I immediately prove her point by sitting in the parking lot.
But I can’t open it here. Can’t risk reading something devastating in public.
I drive to the beach—the far end, away from where Jessica and I had our seagull-therapy encounter this morning—and finally, finally tear open the envelope.
I stop breathing. She thinks I’m brave. Jessica—who I’ve been lying to about everything, who doesn’t know I’m three different people in her life—thinks I’m brave.
I spent eight years choosing safe. Choosing walls over windows. Choosing protection over connection. And you know what I got? A life that looked fine from the outside but felt empty on the inside.
She’s talking about her ex-husband. About the eight years since her divorce. About how she’s been protecting herself the same way I have.
So yes. Tell her. Show her. Be brave.
And if she’s the right person—if she’s worthy of the truth you’re offering—she’ll see you. Really see you. And she’ll love you more for it, not less.
I read that line three times.
She’ll love you more for it, not less.
The risk is worth it. You’re worth it.
Trust me on this. Or trust yourself. Either way—jump.
Yours in solidarity and hope,
Between the Lines
I sit in my car on the beach and press the letter against my chest like it might absorb into my skin.
She’s telling me I’m worth it.
And she has no idea she’s talking about herself. That she’s the “her” I’m trying to be brave enough to tell. That every word of encouragement she’s giving me is permission to love her the way I already do.
My phone buzzes.
Grayson: Where are you? Board meeting in 20 minutes. Harold is already here looking murderous.
Oh no.
I completely forgot about the quarterly board meeting.
On my way, I text back. Traffic.
You’re sitting in a beach parking lot. I can see your car from the office window.
Shoot.
Me: Deep thoughts. Very important. CEO stuff.
Grayson: Get your rear up here. Wear your armor. This is going to be ugly.
Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting in our conference room with Grayson, Harold, Patricia, and three other board members.
Harold gets right to it.
"The boardwalk property," he says, pulling up a spreadsheet that makes my chest tight. "We've received an offer from Coastal Commercial Group. They want to convert it into a mixed-use space—retail on the bottom, vacation rentals on top. It's a strong offer."
"The building has a tenant," I say carefully. "With a signed lease."
"Leases can be bought out,” Patricia says. "We're not in the business of running a charity for struggling bookstores. This offer represents a twenty percent premium over market value."
"There are other considerations—"
"What considerations?" Harold interrupts. "Community impact? That's not how real estate investment works. We're not a charity."
Grayson shifts beside me. I can feel him wanting to intervene, but he doesn't know the full story. Doesn't know that the "community impact" is Jessica. That saving her bookstore means protecting the woman I love.
"The Fiction Nook is a community anchor," I try. "It drives foot traffic. Creates value for surrounding properties. Selling to a developer who'll gut it for vacation rentals hurts the whole boardwalk."
"That's sentimental thinking," Patricia says. "Not business strategy."
"What if we took the property off the table?" Grayson suggests. "Kept it as a long-term hold."
Harold shakes his head. "Unacceptable. We're consolidating our retail portfolio. Coastal Commercial's offer is on the table. Her lease expires in eighteen months. After that, she's out regardless. You have until the next quarterly meeting to give us a reason not to sell."
The meeting continues for another brutal thirty minutes before ending.
Grayson waits until we’re alone before turning to me.
“Okay. What’s really going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“Scott. I’ve known you for fifteen years. I’ve seen you negotiate billion-dollar deals without breaking a sweat. But mention The Fiction Nook, and you look like you’re being asked to choose between your first-born and your retirement fund.”
I don’t answer.
“This is about Jessica Wells, isn’t it?”
My silence is answer enough.
“You’ve got to be kidding.” Grayson runs a hand through his hair. “How long?”
“How long what?”
"How long have you been in love with her?"
I don't answer.
"That long, huh?"
"I didn't say—"
"You didn't have to." Grayson shakes his head. "Your face just did. Does she know?”
“No.”
“Are you going to tell her?”
"I'm trying to figure out how to tell her without also revealing that I'm—" I catch myself.
Can't tell him about V. Langley. Can't reveal that secret, even now.
"That I've been blocking the board from selling her building out from under her.
That I've been protecting her business while she thinks I'm the enemy. "
“That’s actually kind of romantic,” Grayson says. “In a deeply twisted way.”
“It’s not romantic. It’s a disaster.”
“Most romances are.” He grins. “Look at Michelle and me. We almost destroyed each other before we figured it out.”
“You’re not helping.”
“I absolutely am. I’m telling you what you already know: you have to tell her. All of it. Before the board forces your hand and she finds out the worst possible way.”
“What if she hates me?”
“What if she doesn’t?”
Before I can answer, my phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number.
Mr. Avery, this is Caroline Sanders. Jessica asked me to give you a message. Can you stop by the shop after 6? She says it’s important. Also, Austen knocked over an entire display of romance novels this morning and is being very dramatic about his innocence. Thought you should know.
My heart is racing. Jessica wants to see me. After this morning’s beach encounter. After everything.
“I have to go,” I tell Grayson.
“To Jessica’s?”
“She wants to talk.”
“Good. Tell her. Be honest. Channel whoever you are when you write those letters you won’t tell me about.”
I freeze. “What letters?”
“Scott. You disappear every day to check your PO box. You get mail from someone and immediately hide in your car to read it. You’re either corresponding with a secret lover or you’re involved in espionage.” He pauses. “Given your complete emotional disaster over Jessica, I’m guessing secret lover.”
“It’s not—she doesn’t—it’s complicated.”
“Everything with you is complicated.” He claps me on the shoulder. “Go talk to her. Be the person you are in those letters instead of the person you pretend to be in board meetings. Trust me—it works.”
I arrive at The Fiction Nook at 6:15 PM with my heart in my throat and no plan whatsoever.
The shop is closed, but the lights are on. Through the window, I can see Jessica moving around inside, and just the sight of her makes something in my chest unlock.
I knock.
She looks up, sees me, and something complicated crosses her face.
Then she comes to the door and lets me in.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi.”
“Thanks for coming.”
“Caroline said it was important.”
“It is. Or—I think it is. I’m not sure.” She’s nervous, I realize. Jessica is never nervous. “Do you want coffee? I made a pot. I needed something to do with my hands.”
“Coffee would be great.”
I follow her to the back room, where there’s a small kitchen area I’ve never seen before. Austen is sprawled on the counter, and when he sees me, he gives a welcoming chirp.
Traitor.
“Your cat likes me now,” I observe.