Chapter 1
CLAIRE
Four Months Later
The table they’ve set up for me in the bookstore has a small vase of flowers, a stack of my books arranged in a tasteful pyramid, and a pen that doesn’t work.
“Katie.”
“Mm?”
“The pen’s dead.”
Katie snatches it from my hand, scribbles on the corner of a napkin, frowns, shakes it, scribbles again, and tosses it into her bag. She produces a replacement from behind her ear.
“Backup pen. I brought four. And a Sharpie, in case you feel dramatic, seeing as you texted me at two a.m. saying, and I quote, ‘What if nobody comes and I’m just sitting there alone with a stack of my own books and the bookstore owner feels sorry for me and buys one out of pity?’ ”
“I couldn’t sleep last night,” I say truthfully, as this is the first book signing since the whole live TV incident, and I’m praying most people have forgotten about it.
She straightens the book pyramid, nudges the flower vase half an inch to the left, and turns to me with her hands on her hips.
“People are going to show up. Your book’s been out for months.
It sold well before the whole”—she waves her hand vaguely—“situation. And this is Mistberry Cove. People here support local authors. Especially ones who write recipes that make grown adults cry over a chowder.”
I laugh, and the knot in my stomach loosens.
Katie has this effect on me. She’s five foot three, dark-haired, perpetually overdressed for every occasion, and the single most aggressively optimistic person I’ve ever met.
She became my agent because she read my manuscript, called me, and said, “I’m representing this book, and also, you and I think we should be best friends,” and I said, “Okay,” because she was right about all three. We’ve been inseparable since.
She pulls a chair up beside me and sits, crossing her legs, scanning the bookstore with satisfaction.
It’s a nice space. Winslow’s Books, the only independent bookshop in Mistberry Cove, is crammed into a converted fisherman’s cottage on the high street with low ceilings and crooked shelves.
The place has that particular smell of old paper and new coffee that makes me want to curl up in a corner and never leave.
“Okay.” Katie checks her watch. “Doors open in two minutes. Deep breaths. Happy thoughts. You are a published author with a gorgeous book and incredible recipes and the personality of a woman who deserves to be adored. Understood?”
“You sound like a motivational poster.” I nudge her gently with my shoulder.
She leans in closer. “You’ve got this, Claire.”
Then the front door opens. A woman from the shop gives us a thumbs-up and mouths, Ready?
Katie grins. I grip the pen and remind myself to breathe.
They come in faster than I expected. A steady, enthusiastic stream, mostly women, a few men, some carrying copies of Salt and Comfort, others picking one up from the display by the door. The first woman in line is in her fifties, clutching the book to her chest with both hands.
“Oh, I have been waiting for this,” she says, setting it on the table in front of me. “Your honey cake recipe. I’ve made it six times. My husband thinks I’ve lost my mind, but I told him, ‘Mack, this cake is the reason I married you, because I need someone to eat all this with me.’ ”
I sign her book, laughing, my hand already steadier than I thought it would be. “Did the story about my grandparents get you?”
“I sobbed into the batter. The tears are probably what made it so good. Extra salt.”
Behind her, a younger woman with a baby on her hip leans forward. “Is it true your grandmother delivered your mom while baking cookies?”
“Brown butter cookies. One-handed. My grandpa was driving ninety miles an hour to reach her and didn’t make it in time.”
“Legend,” she says, and I sign her book with a warmth spreading through my chest that I haven’t felt in months.
These people read my words, made my recipes.
They’re standing in line on a Saturday morning because my grandmother’s stories mattered to them, and right now, at this moment, the horrible interview doesn’t exist. I’m just a woman who wrote a book that made people feel fed.
The line keeps moving. A teenager asks me to sign her copy for her mom.
A man in a fishing jacket tells me the clam chowder is the best he’s ever had, and he’s lived on this coast for forty years, so that means war.
A woman says the book got her through her divorce because cooking every recipe gave her a reason to get out of bed.
I have to blink very fast and grip the pen very tight because I won’t cry at my own book signing.
Fifteen minutes in, Katie’s hovering behind me, snapping photos on her phone, practically vibrating with satisfaction. “See?” she whispers between signings. “Told you.”
“Okay. Fine. You were right.”
“I’m sorry, can you say that louder? I want to record it.”
I end up laughing and it feels incredible.
The line stretches back toward the fiction section, with at least twenty people waiting. My cheeks ache from smiling, because for the first time in four months, I feel almost normal.
Then the line evaporates.
Not gradually but instantly. One moment, there were people waiting in front of my table. The next, heads are turning, bodies are shifting, and every single person in line is migrating toward the other end of the bookstore with the synchronized urgency of a school of fish that’s just spotted food.
I blink. My pen hovers over a half-signed book that no longer has an owner standing behind it.
“What just…” I turn to Katie, who is craning her neck toward the commotion. “Did I do something? Did I say something weird? I said something weird, didn’t I?”
“Hold on.” Katie takes three steps toward the crowd, then stops. “Oh.”
“Katie. Oh what?”
“There’s a… someone just walked in. A man. They’re all crowding around him.” She squints. “He’s wearing a cap. Can’t really see his face. But he’s tall. And the energy over there is…” She pauses, searching for the word. “Hormonal.”
I stand up from my chair, which is a mistake because I’m short and standing doesn’t meaningfully improve my line of sight.
I watch the back of the crowd. Phones are out.
Someone is giggling at a pitch only dogs should be able to hear.
There’s a white-toothed grin visible above the sea of heads, a baseball cap, broad shoulders in a fitted Henley, and the distinct impression of a man who is used to being looked at and finds the whole thing privately amusing.
My stomach clenches. Every single person who was waiting for me has crossed the shop to orbit a stranger, and the rejection is swift, a door swinging shut in my face.
I should be used to it by now. The internet taught me what it feels like to be discarded mid-sentence.
But this is in person, in real time, and I’m sitting behind a table with a small flower vase and a pyramid of books that suddenly nobody wants.
“Well,” I say to no one. “That’s fine.”
My eyes sting. I sit back down and pretend to organize the stack, aligning corners that don’t need aligning, and I’m contemplating whether it’s possible to leave my own book signing without anyone noticing when the crowd shifts and someone separates from it, suddenly strolling toward me. Moving with an easy, unhurried stride.
He’s carrying my book too.
Dark hair is visible under the cap, some of it falling across his forehead.
His jaw is sharp, eyes reminiscent of a tropical sea blue, and a smile lights up his whole face with warmth.
His mouth is softer than the rest of him, full enough to have me staring too long, while his shoulders strain the seams of his shirt. The guy is buff and crazy handsome.
He sets the book on my table. “I think I owe you an apology,” he says, and his voice is low and husky, my stomach suddenly filled with butterflies beating their wings too quickly. Who in the world is this handsome man? “I seem to have accidentally kidnapped your entire queue.”
“Accidentally?” My voice comes out steadier than I feel, which is a miracle.
“Completely.” He grins sinfully, dimples appearing on his cheeks.
“I didn’t even know there was an event happening until everyone suddenly wanted to talk to me, and then I looked over and saw you sitting here alone and felt terrible about it.
” He taps the cover of my book with one finger.
“So I bought this. Least I can do for disrupting your afternoon.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know. But I wanted to.” He pushes the book toward me. “Would you sign it?”
“Of course.” I pick up the pen. My heart is thundering to a rhythm that no cardiologist would approve of.
Behind him, the crowd has followed and is forming a new line, some of them holding my book, others clearly just here because he is, and every single one of them is watching this interaction with intensity.
“What’s your favorite recipe from the book?” he asks, leaning one hip against the edge of the table, arms folded, head tilted. Is he tensing his biceps on purpose? Damn, they are huge, though. His full attention is on me, and it’s overwhelming, my body burning up suddenly.
“The sweet buns,” I say, because it’s true. It’s the recipe I’ve made most in my life, the one I can do blindfolded, as it smells exactly the way Saturday mornings are supposed to.
A woman three people back in line lets out a half laugh. “Oh, I can see some sweet buns,” she says, and her friend claps a hand over her mouth. Several people burst out laughing.