Chapter 11 #2
It’s his job to learn orders. My head said.
Yeah, but he remembered mine. My heart countered.
Then he smiled, and god, it was the kind of life-altering thing that stole my breath, followed by a need so strong it shook me, followed by embarrassment—because this wasn’t going anywhere, and I didn’t do one-night stands.
“Are you okay?” he asked me.
I nodded, smiled, and made my excuses as a group of teenagers walked in chattering loudly. He smiled again—stop doing that—and then he left.
“Oh my god, the heat!” Brooke gave a theatrical gasp and waved a hand in front of her face.
“You’re fired,” I murmured.
She grinned. “You’d have to hire me first.”
I rolled my eyes at her as if it was nothing, but inside, I was a mess.
What was happening here? He was planning to leave, chasing tenure in a college that would respect him.
I was working every hour I could to make sure I could afford to keep The Story Lantern open, because I loved Wishing Tree, and I loved this life I’d made.
He wanted permanence somewhere else; I wanted it here—and that difference left me torn wide open.
The store was quiet, Brooke had left, and I’d just made a cup of tea and was halfway through counting the day’s receipts when I took a few minutes to check my email. The newest one caught my eye, and had a subject line plain and polite:
“Re: Delivery confirmed—also, a question?”
I saw the sender’s name. Adrian Evans. My reader-heart did a stupid little skip again; the same one it had done when he’d called the store. I opened the email before I could stop myself.
Hi Wes,
Thanks again for helping take on the books. I really appreciate it. I’m wrestling with a scene in the new book and can’t quite make it work.
You mentioned once you loved the prince sequence in Winter Lines—would you mind if I ran something past you?
Best,
Adrian
I stared at the screen for way too long. Me. He wanted to ask me about his book.
I typed and deleted my reply three times before settling on something that didn’t sound like a total fanboy meltdown.
Of course! Always happy to talk books—especially yours. I’m here now if you want to talk.
I added my number, just in case he didn’t have it to hand, only I didn’t expect him to call straight away.
But he did.
“Adrian, hi.”
“Hi Wes, thank you. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
His voice was softer than before, as if he’d retreated somewhere quiet to think. “No, go ahead,” I urged. “I’m honored you want to talk to me.”
“No…I’m nothing… jeez… let me start again.” I heard him inhale and exhale. “It’s just… this scene, it’s supposed to be tender, but I can’t tell if it’s too sentimental.”
“Tell me about the scene,” I said, sitting on the stool at the counter with my tea, pretending this was normal—talking plot arcs with a writer whose paperbacks I’d dog-eared to death.
He described a moment between two characters caught between duty and longing, and the way his voice slowed when he talked about them—it wasn’t just a story to him.
“It’s not too sentimental,” I told him when he finished. “It’s honest. That’s the good kind.”
He let out a quiet laugh. “You make that sound so simple.”
“It’s not,” I said. “That’s why we read authors like you.”
There was a pause, a shared silence full of warmth and static, before he said, “Thanks, Wes. You’ve no idea how much that helps.”
When the call ended, I sat there staring at my empty mug, the shop dark around me, smiling like an idiot, my thoughts all over the place.
After a cursory tidy up—I promised myself I’d get up early to straighten shelves—I made a plate of snacks.
Not the healthiest option, but carbs and chocolate felt necessary.
Then I turned off all the store lights, lit the story lantern, and curled up on the sofa with a re-read of the entire Adrian Trevelyan young adult paranormal series, trying to lose myself in someone else’s worlds instead of my own.
A knock came at the back door, sharp in the quiet, and I just knew it was Hunter. For a moment, I stayed frozen where I was, staring at the glow of the lantern, heart. Another knock, gentler this time, and I forced myself to move.
I opened the door, and there he was—a drink in each hand, a bag under his arm, snow clinging to his dark coat, and that smile.
“Hey,” he said easily, holding out one of the cups.
I took it, lifted the lid, and the rich scent of cocoa hit me. “Thank you,” I muttered, already flustered.
We stared at each other a beat too long.
“Can I come in?” he asked.
“Is that a good idea?” My voice cracked on the last word.
“I have chocolate croissants,” he countered with a smile—that rare, deadly smile that unraveled me every time.
“I’m reading,” I said and gestured toward the sofa.
“I like reading,” he said without missing a beat. “And I know you’ve got a whole shelf of history books.”
“You want to buy a book?” I asked, sarcasm shaky at best.
“I’d buy all of them if you’d just let me in out of the snow.” I blinked, glancing past his face to where flakes had gathered on his shoulders. His confidence wavered, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features. “Wesley?” he asked.
I swallowed hard. He was teasing, steady one moment, unsure the next, and my fragile heart was already on the verge of giving itself wholly to him.
After all, I’d been falling for Hunter for nearly two years.
And standing here, with cocoa warming my hand and his smile undoing me, I wasn’t sure how much longer I could pretend otherwise.
“What are we doing?” I asked.
His shoulders sagged for a second before he pulled himself upright again, forcing a crooked smile. “Having fun? Connecting? I don’t know what the cool kids call it.”
I laughed nervously, clutching the cocoa tighter. “The cool kids probably aren’t standing at back doors having existential breakdowns.”
“Maybe not,” he said, stepping just inside the door, “but I’d rather be here.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” I whispered, heat creeping up my neck.
He tilted his head. “Then tell me. Because from where I’m standing, this feels…important.”
My breath caught. “Hunter—”
“Wesley,” he interrupted, eyes serious now. “I’m not playing at anything.”
“You’re leaving,” I said.
He exhaled, the sound heavy, and for once, he didn’t try to hide behind a grin.
“Yeah. I’ve got interviews lined up, and I need tenure if I want any kind of future in academia.
Seattle, maybe LA. I don’t even know yet, but I know it means leaving here.
” He hesitated, then added more quietly, “Leaving you.” His voice was rough, almost regretful, and his hand twitched like he wanted to reach for me but didn’t quite dare.
Guilt flickered in his eyes, as if he hated saying the words even as he had to.
My chest ached. “What’s the point, Hunter? Why start something when you’re already packing your bags?”
“Because I couldn’t not,” he admitted. “You’re in my head, and I want to let you into my heart, and I don’t know what to do with that.
Can you give me time? I want to be with you, Wes.
I still do. I don’t have answers yet, just…
maybe we can figure it out together? Visiting, calling, me finding excuses to come back.
I don’t want this to end before it even begins. ”
I stared at him, torn in two. He was offering hope and heartache in the same breath, and all I knew for certain was that I wanted him too badly to slam the door in his face.
“I deserve someone who’s here for me.”
“I know.”
“But I won’t ask you to stay.”
“I know. That’s the best part of you.”
I glanced back into my store room, shivering as the outside cold came in. If I let him in, if I gave him this, how much of myself was I giving up?
“It’s okay,” he said, with a soft smile that wavered at the edges, his confidence slipping for a heartbeat as if he hated walking away. He held out the bag of croissants. “Maybe we can talk tomorrow. Night, Wes.”
He was only three steps from his back door when it hit me. What the fuck was I doing?
“Hunter?”
He stopped and turned to face me. “It’s okay, Wes, I understand—”
“I ordered a new book, and it arrived yesterday,” I blurted, the words tumbling out before I could stop myself. “Logistical Failures and Command Disputes: A Reconsideration of Union Army Supply Lines in 1863 by, uh, Professor something-or-other.”
“That’s Ben… Benedict Carrow, I mean. Good guy. Loves beer.”
“Okay then,” I said, as if I recalled the name, but I’d barely learned the complicated title, which I thought might impress Hunter. “It’s got this teeny tiny typeface and no pictures and is probably dense as hell, but I’m sure it’s brilliant.”
Hunter’s lips twitched. “Is there really a big call for that kind of in-depth essay in Wishing Tree?”
“You’d be surprised,” I shot back, hugging the cooling cocoa to my chest. I hesitated, then gestured inside. “Come in.”