Chapter 1 #2
Hunter filled the doorway, tall and broad, with sandy blond hair catching the light from the street outside.
Handsome in a rugged way, his blue eyes flashed as they landed on me, piercing through the fog of my tiredness.
He wore jeans that fit perfectly and a plain white T-shirt—of course, it was plain, with no logos or silly joke slogans.
Clean lines, simple, effortless. And as always, the sight of him made my stomach swoop as if I were tumbling off a cliff, ridiculous and undeniable.
God, he was gorgeous.
And pissed, apparently.
“For the love of god, update the address with whoever the hell is sending you whatever this is!” Hunter snapped as he strode in with a box of books, hefting it like it weighed nothing.
I would’ve been straining muscles and gasping for breath with that load, but he carried it as if it were empty.
He was already scowling, and when his foot caught on the dangling arm of a plastic skeleton propped by the door, the whole thing toppled into him.
Box still in hand, he wrestled with fake bones and nylon string as though it was a real monster, his expression sliding to the peak of the Hunter Index of Grumpy.
I pegged him at a solid eight out of ten.
“Seriously?” he muttered, entangled, dropping the box with a thud to the floor.
I hurried over to help, which meant I was far too close to Hunter—broad, scowling, smelling of soap and fresh coffee—and even closer to the accidental brush of his rough hand across mine.
Heat curled low in my stomach, my chest tightening with a ridiculous twist that made me want something I could never hope to have.
Hunter’s growl of exasperation deepened as I tried to help, which of course made things worse.
One wrong tug and we were chest-to-chest, his arm against mine as the skeleton dangled awkwardly between us.
My mouth worked faster than my brain. “Wait—don’t move.
The femur’s twisted in with your sweater. ”
He looked down with a sigh, then gave me a flat, unimpressed stare. “That’s a tibia.”
I smirked. “Tibia, femur, whatever. Same thing.”
His eyebrow twitched, the closest Hunter ever came to rolling his eyes. “Tibias are… never mind.”
He unpicked the tangle, and with one final tug, he stepped back. The skeleton slid apart in clattering pieces to the floor.
“You broke Cyril,” was all I could say.
“Cyril?” He didn’t sound impressed.
“Cyril the Cursed. He was a train robber, died in mysterious circumstances way back, and now his skeleton hangs in the bookstore as a warning.”
Hunter shook his head. “It’s plastic.”
“That’s what you’re meant to think,” I shot back, grinning.
He sighed—same as he always did when we talked, and I’d have been disappointed if he hadn’t—then jabbed a finger toward the box on the floor. “Fix the address.”
I didn’t want him to leave, not yet. “Do you, uh, want a coffee? To say sorry? I’ve got cookies.” The words spilled out before I could stop them, and inside my head I was already groaning—what the hell had I said?
The implied ‘you’re an idiot’ was in his raised brow. “I own a coffee shop, right?”
“Okay, so I can’t make coffee as good as you, I’ll give you that.”
“Yep.”
“Buuuuut your cookies are normal ones, and mine are Halloween cookies,” I explained, as if that made a difference.
It didn’t.
“I have to get back, we’re busy,” he said, then left in a swirl of cold air as the door swung shut behind him.
For a moment, I stared at the space he’d left, wishing I had half the steady foot traffic his café pulled in every morning.
People lined up for his coffee before the sun was up, and although he scowled through their orders, they came back for more.
Meanwhile, my register sat quiet more often than not, and I was left relying on the occasional story night or holiday event to keep the lights on.
It was hard not to compare—Hunter’s grumpy charm seemed to sell lattes by the dozen, while my best efforts at magic and cookies barely paid the heating bill.
I replayed the disaster in my head—me blurting about Halloween cookies and offering him coffee, him looking at me as if I was the most idiotic person he’d ever met.
With a sigh, I nudged the delivery box with my knee.
No way was I going to heft that thing, but it didn’t budge; instead, my knee nearly gave out, and pain shot up my leg.
Swearing under my breath, I fetched the box cutter and sliced it open—it looked like I was transporting the books inside a few at a time.
Yay for my on-the-slim-side, un-muscled, but kinda cute self.
“Yes!” Inside was the final book in my favorite paranormal YA series by an author I adored, and on top of it was an envelope.
My heart stuttered as I tore it open—Adrian freaking Trevelyan had written me a note.
Maybe it was his PA, maybe it was form-letter fluff, but it was addressed to me, Wesley Darkwood, care of The Story Lantern Bookstore.
Adrian’s note was short and scrawled in dark ink, but my eyes caught every word: he was thrilled to agree to come to Wishing Tree for a suggested book signing on December 21st, asked if I knew of any local inns or B&Bs where he could stay, and wondered if it would be all right to mention the event on his social media.
He also said that I could message him directly if I needed to.
My heart thudded as I read it twice, then a third time, the paper trembling in my hands. There was a messaging address at the bottom, a direct email, and…
“He agreed. He’s coming. Oh my god, oh my god.” My very first book signing—and it featured my all-time favorite author? At Christmas? In Wishing Tree. Home of the Parade of Lights, the Christmas market, and the wishing tree itself.
I picked up a copy of the book, a sticky note on the front: ARC Copy for Wesley Darkwood and Brooke Haynes only.
“Oh my god! Brooke is gonna lose her shit!” I yelled.
When I’d written to Adrian, I’d talked at length about how Brooke and I had read the series a hundred times, and he mentioned her!
The book wouldn’t be released for another week, and the thrill of being among the first to hold it sent a fizz of excitement through me.
There was nothing better—well, nothing except the moment when others would finally get to read it too, and I could gush and argue and revel in it with them.
Brooke was seriously going to die when she realized what we had, but I was definitely going to read it first. I sent her a message to say I had news, and by ten she was outside the door, Willow bundled on her hip, their cheeks pink from the cold.
“What news?” she said immediately. “Is everything okay? Is it the bank?”
I blinked at her. “Why would it be the bank?”
“I…” she shook her head. “Never mind.”
“This is something so good! I’m still in shock. That letter we sent to Adrian Trevelyan’s agent. Oh my god! Adrian himself… he wrote to me… he said yes!”
Her eyes widened, and then she whooped and danced over to me. Willow laughed as her mom placed her on the corner reading rug, her hands already reaching for the nearest picture book.
She put her hands on her hips. “Right, let’s start organizing this.”
“Brooke, you don’t have to—”
“I’m here, deal with it,” she cut me off with the voice of a woman who managed three kids and a lawyer husband. I’d sent my half-hopeful, half-desperate plea six months ago. And he’d said yes. Hell. What now?
“We need a venue,” I said, panic rising. I hadn’t thought this through at all. “We can’t have it here in my store, it’s too small.”
Brooke leaned across the counter, eyes gleaming, and plucked a new notebook from the display, then grabbed a pen from behind the cash register. “Lucky for you, I already provisionally booked the town hall for the twenty-first.”
“What?” I stared at her. “You did?”
“As soon as you sent the letter to his agent,” she said, smug as anything.
I couldn’t help the grin. “Of course you did.”
She opened the notebook and clicked her pen as if she was about to dictate my entire future. “Okay then—tickets, promo, social media. Let’s go.”
And just like that, we were off—Brooke scribbling lists at lightning speed while I tried not to panic that Adrian Trevelyan, of all people, was actually coming to Wishing Tree for a signing.
Brooke tapped her pen against the notepad, already halfway through her list. “I’ll handle ticket sales—we’ll need to cap them, the hall only seats what, three hundred and fifty if you count the folding chairs in the back.”
I said faintly, my mind spinning. “That’s…a lot of people.”
“Which means a lot of books,” she said crisply, jotting down another line. “You’ll need to order at least four hundred copies to even start to cover preorders and on-the-day sales.”
My pulse jumped. My credit card was still reeling from last month’s supplier order, practically maxed, and the thought of piling four hundred more books on top of that made my stomach knot. If the pre-orders came through fast enough, maybe I could juggle it. Maybe. “Four hundred—Brooke, that’s—”
“Doable,” she cut in.
“My account—”
“I’ll talk to the publisher about sale or return, and invoicing after sales. And I’ll coordinate with the town hall for extra parking, signage, that sort of thing. Social media blitz starts Monday. Easy.”
I blinked at her, panic and gratitude colliding in my chest. “I can’t—Brooke, I can’t pay you for all your work on this.”
Hell, I could barely keep up with stock—so much for investing every cent I had in something I loved when it wasn’t a huge money maker.
She tilted her head, calm but firm, and then her voice softened. “Wesley. You let me sit in your store with a coffee and say I can read anything I want from your shelves. You never mind if Willow naps in the corner or if Alice raids your personal coloring books. You give me space when I need it.”
As if to prove her point, Willow padded back over, her small hands reaching up to me, as she demanded to be lifted. “Carry two!” she said—none of us knew what it meant. I scooped her into my arms, and she wrapped herself around me, face burrowing into my shoulder.
“I don’t need paying,” Brooke added gently. “You’re a friend, and I get more from this place than you realize.”
The weight of Willow’s head on my shoulder, the steady hum of Brooke’s certainty—it undid me a little. I’d never had a real friend before—at least not one who was pretending to be my friend while secretly wanting an in with my family. “Still…thank you,” I murmured.
Brooke smiled, sliding the notepad across to me. “Save it for Adrian Trevelyan. He’ll bring the crowd. You just make sure the shelves are stocked and the cocoa’s hot.”
I tightened my hold on Willow, who gave a sleepy sigh and whispered, “Deal.”
Brooke tapped her pen on the page, then glanced up at me, eyes sharp. “You know…if this goes well, Wes, it won’t just be about Adrian. Authors talk. Publicists notice. The Story Lantern could get on the map as the small-town stop for tours.”
My stomach flipped. “That sounds…terrifying.”
“It sounds like survival,” she countered, though her smile was kind. “And maybe growth, too. More signings. More readers. A future.”
I didn’t answer right away. Willow’s breathing against my shoulder made me ache with how much I wanted what her mother was suggesting—a future here, with books and light and laughter filling this little shop. A place people came back to, again and again.
“Let’s just get through Adrian first,” I muttered, my voice rough.
Brooke chuckled. “Fine. But don’t be surprised when this is just the beginning.”