Chapter 19
NINETEEN
JESSICA
Sleep refuses to come.
Every time I close my eyes, I’m back at Vera’s cottage—rose petals scattered across heart pine floors, Scott’s voice cracking when he talked about being called “your mother’s son” like it was a curse.
His grandmother’s handwriting filling the margins of his books: My boy’s getting better. Still needs more grovel.
And then the condo. That hollow penthouse that looked like a showroom because it was never meant to be a home. The locked door. The chaos behind it—manuscripts and romance novels stacked to the ceiling. My two-star review framed on his wall like a prayer he’d been answering for months.
You broke me open.
I reach for my phone in the darkness, put it down, reach again. Type I can’t stop thinking about tonight and delete it. Type Thank you for trusting me and delete that too. At this rate, I’ll have carpal tunnel from all the emotional typing and deleting.
What would I even say? That I’m terrified? That I believe him now—all of it—and that’s exactly what makes this so hard?
I believed David too. For ten years I believed him when he said my dreams were impractical, my feelings too much, my hopes unrealistic. I shrank myself into the shape he wanted until, when he finally left, I didn’t even know what size I was supposed to be anymore.
Scott isn’t David. I know that in my bones. But knowing something and trusting it are two very different things, and my track record with men isn’t exactly inspiring confidence.
By the time the sun comes up, I’ve made a decision. I’m going to work, run my bookstore, and figure out my feelings like a rational adult.
Then I check my email over breakfast, and all my rational plans go straight out the window.
From: Scott Avery
Subject: For you
No text in the body. Just an attachment.
My thumb hovers over the file. One tap and I’ll see it.
I put the phone down.
It’s not that I don’t want to read it. I want to so badly my fingers ache. But reading it means deciding something. Moving forward or stepping back. And right now I’m frozen in the space between, where it’s safe to pretend this isn’t happening.
Avoidance is easier because it’s what I’m good at.
The heat hits me like a wall when I step outside.
It’s not even nine o’clock and the boardwalk is already crawling with tourists—sunburned dads consulting maps like they’re navigating uncharted territory, moms slathering sunscreen on squirming toddlers, teenagers dripping ice cream onto the wooden planks.
The air smells like coconut oil and salt and the funnel cakes from the stand near the pier.
Peak season. The lifeblood of Twin Waves and the bane of my existence.
Within fifteen minutes of opening, I’ve helped two families find “beach reads that aren’t too long,” recommended three romance novels to a bachelorette party looking for “something spicy” (I resisted the urge to recommend a cookbook), and talked a harried grandmother out of buying her twelve-year-old grandson anything with a shirtless man on the cover.
“Summer reading list?” I ask the next woman, who’s clutching a crumpled paper and looking desperate.
“My daughter needs three books by August fifteenth, and she’s read nothing. Nothing! We leave tomorrow, and I need to solve this today.”
I solve it in under five minutes. She looks at me like I’ve performed a miracle, which is essentially what retail bookselling feels like in August—endless chaos, sunscreen fingerprints on my counter, and the constant refrain of “Do you have that book everyone’s reading?
I don’t remember the title but the cover is blue. ”
If I had a dollar for every blue cover in existence, I could retire to a private island.
Caroline arrives mid-morning with iced coffees, her hair already frizzing in the humidity like it’s trying to escape her head entirely. She hands me my drink with an expectant expression that means an interrogation is coming.
“It’s a zoo out there,” she announces. “Mads looked like she was going to cry. Some woman was demanding a refund on a cover-up because it ‘didn’t look as good on the beach as it did in the store.’”
“Shocking that fluorescent lighting and high noon produce different results.”
She studies me with far too much perception for someone her age. “So? How was the forced date? Michelle’s being annoyingly mature about not sharing details, which means it was either really good or really bad.”
I could tell her the truth—that it was the most intimate, terrifying evening of my life, that I saw parts of Scott I didn’t know existed, that I’m falling for him and it scares me half to death. Instead I say, “It was illuminating.”
“That’s a word people use when they don’t want to say ‘life-changing.’ Or when they’ve been kidnapped by aliens. Either way, I’m concerned.”
“It was a lot.”
“Did you kiss?”
“Caroline.”
“That’s not a no. That’s actually a very loud not-no.”
I hide behind my coffee cup. “We didn’t kiss.”
“But you wanted to.”
I don’t respond, which is an answer.
“For what it’s worth,” she says, “the way he looked at you during that committee meeting was like you’d invented books personally and he wanted to thank you. Just don’t overthink it, okay? Sometimes the scared feeling and the right feeling are the same thing.”
Before I can respond, the bell chimes and a family tumbles in, all pink-shouldered and looking for “something to read at the beach house.” The youngest is maybe four, fingers sticky probably with popsicle residue.
I escape into helping customers. Easier than admitting Caroline might be right.
The morning blurs into a parade of increasingly creative requests—a man who wants “that thriller with the girl” which narrows it down to approximately ten thousand books, a teenager looking for “sad books that will make me cry” which I can actually help with because I have a whole section, and a couple arguing about whether romance novels “count as real reading” while I resist the urge to ban them from the store and possibly from the state of North Carolina.
The Hensley House walkthrough is at two.
I’m hoping for a moment alone before facing Scott, but the driveway is already full of cars. Half the event committee showed up, Grandma Hensley leaning on a cane she doesn’t need but enjoys using to poke things.
The heat shimmers off the oyster-shell driveway. Cicadas scream from the live oaks like they’re being paid by the decibel.
Scott is standing near the fireplace when I walk in, and my traitorous heart does a little tap dance the moment our eyes meet.
He’s wearing a linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, looking unfairly composed for a man who also didn’t sleep last night.
There’s a sheen of sweat at his temples that I find inexplicably attractive, which is concerning because I’m not usually the type to find perspiration romantic.
I could cross the room to him, let the town see that something has shifted between us. Instead, I drift toward Hazel. Safer to hide behind the chaos.
“Peak season,” she mutters when I ask about her week. “Jack’s running double shifts at Buccaneer Bay, and I’m trying to plan an event that’s six days away while keeping the boutique from burning down.”
“Six days.” My stomach flips. “That’s soon.”
“Very soon.” She gives me a knowing look. “You ready?”
I’m not sure if she means the event or Scott or everything that’s about to change.
“The registration table should face the window,” Mrs. Sanders announces, fanning herself with her clipboard. “Natural light photographs better. And the flower arrangements need more height—short arrangements say ‘budget wedding.’”
“This isn’t a wedding,” Hazel points out with admirable patience.
“Everything is a wedding if you have the right attitude,” Mrs. Sanders replies, which is either profound or deeply confusing.
We move through the house in a slow procession, Mrs. Sanders offering commentary on everything from napkin colors (“Cream says ‘afraid of commitment’”) to hand towels (“Paper says ‘gas station’”). When we reach the library, Scott falls into step beside me.
“Quite the committee,” he murmurs. “My agent reached out to Hazel today to let her know V. Langley will be revealing his identity at the event. Ever since then, it’s been chaos.”
“Mrs. Sanders alone could run a small country, I’m sure she can handle it.”
His mouth twitches. “She suggested backup entertainment in case V. Langley faints during the reveal.”
“Will he?”
“I have a strong feeling he won’t.”
Then his hand brushes mine as we examine the stage setup, and the distance between us collapses entirely. I pull back too fast, and he notices.
“Sorry,” he says quietly. “I didn’t mean to—”
“You didn’t. I’m just...still processing. Last night was a lot.”
“Take whatever time you need.”
I want to tell him time isn’t the problem. The problem is I’m terrified of what happens when I run out of reasons to hold back.
After everyone leaves, I follow Scott into the kitchen instead of going back to the shop like a sensible person would.
“Cold drink?” he offers. “Hazel keeps lemonade. The good kind, with mint.”
“Please. If I drink anything hot I might actually melt.”
He moves through the space like he belongs here, pouring two glasses over ice. “Hazel bribes me with pie. I know where everything is.”
“Pie is a valid form of payment.”
“It’s the highest.”
I lean against the counter, watching him work, my phone heavy in my pocket. The manuscript is still unopened. Probably judging me.
“Can I ask you something?” The words come out before I can stop them. “The manuscript. Why send it now?”