Chapter 12 #3
The Book Nook was open late on Fridays. The exterior, painted in a regal shade of purple, stood out, further accentuated by a vibrant hanging sign just above the entrance.
Colorful bunting adorned the doorframe and fairy lights had been strung in the window frames.
The moment we walked inside, there was the unmistakable scent of freshly baked cookies and pastries.
Positioned on the front counter, in between a vase of flowers and some business cards, was a tray with a tempting stack of oatmeal cookies.
I wasn’t going to deny myself a sweet treat, so I plucked one without hesitation and extended another one to Wren.
The Book Nook unfolded with rows upon rows of books, and generous leather armchairs had been placed in various corners with coffee tables.
The store assistant was sitting at the front desk, playing solitaire.
She glanced momentarily toward us before returning to the game.
Wren’s demeanour shifted subtly as she scanned the rows of books, a sense of unease creeping into the corners of the bookstore.
I had hoped that by asking her about the accident, I hadn’t crossed a delicate line.
Her hand reached out toward a row of B.W.
Paisley books, but she pulled away almost instantly, as though they’d burned her.
“What are we looking for?” she asked, her voice carrying tension.
“It’s my aunt’s birthday soon,” I said, wanting to lighten the mood. “She loves plants, and wants a Venus flytrap, so I thought why not get her a book all about them.”
Wren’s eyes brightened. “Interesting choice.”
“Do you like Venus flytraps?”
“Oh, they’re fascinating,” Wren said, and suddenly the tension evaporated, and she’d returned. “They can count, you know.”
I laughed, her unexpected trivia catching me off guard. “You sure seem to know a lot of things, Wren.”
She turned from me, her fingers delicately trailing along the rows of books.
It was a movement that looked like it had been done a thousand times.
I found myself wondering about her past—perhaps she had been a botanist, a scientist, a bookstore owner, even a florist. There was an intrigue about her that was magnetic, a pull that I couldn’t seem to turn away from.
And yet some people’s histories are closed books that they prefer to leave undisturbed.
Distracting myself, I focused on the search for plant books, only realizing Wren had disappeared when I found a title I wanted to share with her.
“Wren?” I called, but there was only silence.
“Wren?” I tried again.
Suddenly, she popped her head around the aisle with a mischievous “boo” and I involuntarily jumped.
“Biscuits!” I yelped.
Wren laughed. “Biscuits,” she repeated, a playful note in her voice. “I’ll need to remember that one.”
I thrust the Venus flytrap book into her hands, and she inspected it, a thoughtful expression on her face.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Donna Plumberry is a wonderful botanist.”
Curiosity welled up inside me as I was once again impressed by how much she knew about authors and books, but before I could ask, our phones chimed, disrupting the moment.
It was a text from Henry saying that he had received permission from the library board to host the poetry evening at the library.
I cleared my throat, reading out the text dramatically, mimicking the way we recited breaking news.
Wren smiled. “You don’t need to follow in your mother’s footsteps, Olivia. You’re already good enough.”
There was something in the way she said my name, as though her lips held it there—safe, warm, secure. Wren leaned on the aisle shelves, and the overhead light washed over her, in a way that made it difficult for me to look away.
She smiled lightly. “What are you staring at?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I replied. You.
She paused, opened her mouth, closed it again. I looked at her quizzically.
“I have to tell you something,” Wren said quietly, leaning toward me.
There are certain people whose stories you could read for a lifetime. You open your eyes one day, and you’re changed because their story has intertwined with yours, like two chapters that fold together to create a novel you can’t seem to put down.
Wren was shorter than I was, so I had to lean down toward her.
My heart thudded in my chest, loud enough that it felt like the books around us were reverberating.
I leaned in, slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wanted to.
But she didn’t. Instead, her thumb brushed against my skin, like a promise, until our lips met and everything else fell away.
I had kissed people before, but this—this was different.
It was full, deliberate, and electrifying, like a current moving through me, grounding me and making me soar at the same time.
Her hand found its way to the back of my neck, her fingers gentle but firm, anchoring me in the moment.
My hand slid around her waist, pulling her closer, and suddenly nothing else existed—the room, the world, even time itself seemed to dissolve.
Her lips moved with mine in a rhythm that felt effortless, as though we’d done this a hundred times before.
It was tender and intimate, but there was something hungry in it, too, like we were trying to pour everything we couldn’t say into that one perfect moment.
It might have been hours before we pulled apart, or minutes or seconds. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was whether I could kiss her again, ideally every minute of every hour of every day.
“What were you going to tell me?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Wren’s lips curled into a faint, almost dazed smile as she pulled me closer.
“I forgot. It can’t be that important.”