Chapter 11
ELEVEN
JESSICA
The problem with running a bookstore in a small town is that everyone knows your business.
The complicated feelings I may or may not have about my landlord. The fact that Grandma Hensley caught us having “very important coffee business” three days ago and has apparently told everyone from here to the South Carolina border.
“So,” Mrs. Sanders says, not even pretending to browse the mystery section. “You and Scott Avery.”
“There is no me and Scott Avery.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“What did you hear?”
“That you were having a romantic moment in your break room when Grandma Hensley interrupted.”
“We were drinking coffee. That’all.”
“Honey, I’ve been married forty-three years. I know the difference between drinking coffee and whatever you two were doing.”
After Mrs. Sanders checks out and leaves, I give up and go back to straightening the romance section, which has been in complete disarray since Austen’s display-destroying rampage on Tuesday. He knocked over an entire shelf of small-town romances.
He’s currently sprawled across the register, looking smug.
“You’re not helping,” I tell him.
He yawns.
My phone buzzes. A group text from the book club.
Amber: Don’t forget. Bookaholics Anonymous is tonight at 7pm at my house.
Caroline appears from the stockroom with a box of new arrivals.
“The book club is meeting tonight. You sure you don’t want to join?”
“Maybe another night. I have to study.”
“You’re always studying.”
“No, I’m not. Sometimes I’m here working for you.” She grins at me like she’s won.
“But what about taking some time to do something fun?”
“This is fun. Shelving books. Discussing your love life. I’m living the dream.” She starts unpacking another box as if to prove her point. “For what it’s worth, I think you and Mr. Avery are cute together.”
“We’re not together.”
She gives me a teasing look. “You seemed cozy enough. Very close. With coffee.”
“Why does everyone keep emphasizing the coffee?”
“Because it’s code for ‘we were about to kiss but got interrupted.’” She holds up a new romance novel. “I’ve read enough of these to know the signs. You’re in Act Two. The almost-kiss is required.”
“My life is not following a romance novel structure.”
“Isn’t it though?” She shelves the book with the others. “Let’s see: grumpy/sunshine dynamic, enemies to lovers, forced proximity due to landlord/tenant situation, mysterious letters creating emotional connection—”
“How do you know about the letters?”
“I see you checking the mailbox seventeen times a day. I see the way you smile when there’s a new one and then disappear into the office to read it.” She pauses. “Also, you accidentally left one on the counter last week, and I may have glanced at it.”
“Caroline!”
“I didn’t read the whole thing! Just enough to know that someone is writing you very sweet, vulnerable letters and you’re falling in love with them while simultaneously developing feelings for Mr. Avery.” She grins. “It’s complicated and romantic.”
“It’s stressful.”
“Same thing.”
The shop bell chimes. Michelle enters carrying two coffee cups and wearing her “we need to talk” expression.
“What’s that face all about?”
Michelle steers me toward the reading nook in the corner, away from Caroline’s gleeful eavesdropping. “Okay. Real talk. What’s going on?”
“Nothing’s going on.”
“Grandma Hensley says you and Scott were about to kiss in your kitchen.”
“We were not about to—okay, maybe we were. But that doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means you’re attracted to him.”
“I’m attracted to good coffee and cat videos. That doesn’t mean I’m in love with them.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“I’m surviving.” I take a long drink of my latte. “Michelle, I can’t do this. I can’t fall for my landlord who’s threatening my business while simultaneously falling for a stranger through letters.”
Michelle blinks. “That was a very specific spiral.”
“I’m spiraling. I’m aware.”
Michelle’s expression softens. “Oh, honey.”
“Don’t. Don’t be nice to me. I can’t handle nice right now.”
“Too bad.” She takes my hand. “You deserve to be happy. You deserve someone who sees you and loves you and makes you feel like you’re worth the risk.”
“What if I’m not though?”
“Not what?”
“Worth the risk. What if Scott—or Coastal Quill—sees the real me and decides I’m too much? Too dramatic? Too romantic? Too impractical?”
“Then he’s an idiot, and we’ll collectively destroy him.
” Michelle squeezes my hand. “But I don’t think that’s going to happen.
I think you’re terrified because for the first time in eight years, you’re actually letting yourself feel something.
And feelings are scary. But they’re also kind of the point. ”
“When did you get so wise?”
“I had my own complicated love story with a grumpy businessman, remember? I know the signs.”
“What signs?”
“The ‘I hate him but I can’t stop thinking about him’ signs. The ‘he’s infuriating but also kind of perfect’ signs.”
Before I can respond, Caroline shouts from the register: “Mr. Avery just walked past! He looked at the shop! He’s circling back!”
“He’s what?” I leap up and immediately spill my latte down my shirt. “No. No, no, no. I’m not ready. I look like a disaster.”
“You look fine.”
The bell chimes.
Scott walks in.
He looks like he hasn’t slept. His hair is messy. He’s wearing jeans and a button-down instead of his usual suit, and he looks uncertain in a way I’ve never seen before.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” I manage.
Michelle stands. “I should go. I have...coffee shop duties.”
“Coward,” I mutter.
“Good luck,” she whispers back, and abandons me.
Caroline has suddenly become very interested in straightening the graphic novel section, but she’s clearly listening to every word.
Scott and I stand there for a moment in awkward silence.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he says finally. “I was just...walking. And I saw the shop. And I thought...”
“You thought you’d come say hi to your tenant?”
“I thought I’d come see you.”
Oh.
Oh no.
My heart is doing gymnastics again.
“Would you—” He gestures vaguely. “Can we talk? Somewhere private?”
“The office?”
“Perfect.”
I lead him to my tiny office in the back, acutely aware that Caroline is definitely watching and probably texting the book club play-by-play updates.
Austen follows us and immediately claims Scott’s lap the moment he sits down.
“Traitor,” I tell my cat.
“You’re just jealous,” Scott says, scratching behind Austen’s ears. The cat purrs like a motor.
“He’s supposed to protect me from emotionally complicated landlords.”
“Is that what I am? Emotionally complicated?”
“You tell me.”
Scott is quiet for a moment, absently petting Austen. “I need to tell you something,” he says finally. “About the rent increase.”
“Okay.”
“I can reverse it.”
I blink. “What?”
“Your monthly payment. I can keep your lease at the current rate. I’ve found another solution for the board. It’s complicated and it’s going to cost me politically, but I can do it.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because—” He stops, pressing his lips together. Starts again. “Because I was wrong. About everything. About treating your bookstore like a line item on a spreadsheet. About dismissing what you do here. About pretending profit is all that matters.”
“Scott—”
“I’m not good at this,” he continues. “At admitting when I’m wrong. At showing who I actually am instead of who I think I’m supposed to be.”
“Who are you supposed to be?”
“Cold. Calculating. Someone who makes decisions based on numbers instead of—”
“Instead of what?”
“Instead of feelings I’m not supposed to have about my tenants.”
The air between us goes electric.
“What feelings?” I ask quietly.
“Complicated ones.”
We stare at each other across my ridiculous desk that’s covered in sticky notes and book recommendations and coffee rings.
Austen meows loudly, annoyed that the petting has stopped.
“Your cat is demanding,” Scott observes.
“He’s used to being the center of attention.”
“I can relate.”
“Can you?”
“I spent my whole life being the center of my own story. Being in control. Knowing exactly who I was and what I wanted.” He looks at me. “And then you showed up and completely destroyed that.”
“I destroyed your sense of self?”
“In the best possible way.”
My heart is attempting to escape my chest. “Scott—”
“You scare me,” he admits. “You see things. Really see them. You see through people’s armor to what’s underneath. And if you really saw me—”
“What would I see?”
He’s quiet for so long I think he’s not going to answer.
“Someone not good enough,” he finally says. “Who’s been pretending for so long he forgot what was real and is terrified that the truth is worse than the performance.”
“I don’t think that’s true.”
“You don’t know me.”
“Maybe not.” I lean forward. “But I see you apologizing at dawn on beaches, trying to be better, more honest. That’s not nothing, Scott. That’s everything.”
He looks at me like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve. “Jessica—”
“What else are you hiding?” I ask suddenly.
“I—” He stands abruptly, dislodging Austen, who yowls his disapproval. “Everything that matters.”
We’re both standing now, the desk between us, and the air is so charged I can barely breathe.
“Like what?”
“Like the fact that I’ve been protecting your business for years and have been trying to save you from the board while appearing to threaten you. Like the fact that I—”
He stops. Walks around the desk.
We’re standing very close now.
“Like the fact that what?” I prompt.
“That I can’t stop thinking about you,” he says quietly. “And I drive past your bookstore four times a day just to see if you’re there. I read poetry trying to find words beautiful enough to describe how you make me feel. Every decision I make, every choice, I’m thinking about you.”
I can’t breathe. “Scott—”
He reaches out, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, and the touch sends electricity through my entire body.