Chapter 3
Three
Delaney
My phone buzzes for the fourth time in ten minutes, and I swipe to ignore it again.
I'm too busy calming my nerves, arranging the holiday displays, to stress over whatever Maya's freaking out about now.
The red and gold covers catch the morning light streaming through the front windows, and I step back to admire my handiwork.
My stomach remains in knots about tomorrow, but at least the books are expertly displayed. We always have that.
The bell above the door chimes, and Maya bursts in like a woman on fire. Her usually perfect bob is disheveled as she clutches her phone like a weapon.
"Delaney. We have a problem."
I don't look up from straightening a copy of A Christmas to Remember. "If this is about the catering order, I already confirmed the petit fours."
"Forget the petit fours. Have you checked social media this morning?"
"You know I don't do social media before noon. It's bad for my mental health and my productivity." I finally turn around and see her face. She looks like she's witnessed a car accident. "What's wrong?"
Her phone appears in my face. "Mac Sullivan apparently did a podcast interview yesterday. Some huge BookTok account shared sound bites of it. It's everywhere."
My stomach drops. "Please tell me he didn't cancel."
"Worse." She presses play on what looks like a TikTok video. Mac's voice fills my bookshop, rough with emotion but unmistakably cold.
"Love is just a chemical reaction that tricks people into making stupid decisions. Romance novels, fairy tales, all of it—it's dangerous bullshit that sets people up for disappointment or worse."
The blood drains from my face. "He said that? About romance?"
The day before signing in Romance Capital?
"It gets worse. There's more." Maya scrolls down. "He talks about his sister living in a 'fantasy world' and how believing in love got her killed. The whole thing's gone viral. BookTok is losing its mind, taking it as an attack on the entire romance genre by testosterone-driven men."
“It’s certainly not the best take…”
My phone chooses that moment to ring. Ethel Henderson from the book club.
"Delaney, dear, my granddaughter just showed me the most awful video. Is that really the young man coming to our bookshop tomorrow? Because if so, I'm afraid the girls and I simply cannot support such negativity."
I close my eyes. "Mrs. Henderson, let me call you back."
The phone rings again immediately. Then again. Maya watches with sympathy as I realize my worst nightmare is unfolding in real time.
"How bad is it?" I ask, though I'm afraid to know.
"Bad. Really bad. Half your advance ticket sales have just cancelled while we've been talking. All their comments in the cancellation reference Mac. The romance reading community is spiraling on Threads, calling for boycotts of the Howlers. Someone started a hashtag: NotMyHockeyHero."
I sink onto the stool behind the counter, surrounded by the romantic Christmas display that suddenly feels like a mockery. This is spiraling faster than I can keep up.
"Half our sales? That’s going to break us. This was supposed to save us, Maya. The bookshop, the town, everything. We need the tourism revenue from this event. I’m not even sure where I’ll get the money for refunds."
Her brows turn downward into a deep frown. "I know, Del."
"Millbrook Falls was the Romance Capital of New England. My grandmother built this reputation over forty years, and one stupid hockey player is going to destroy it in a day?" I'm getting angry now, which is better than despair. Anger, I can work with.
Maya's phone buzzes. She glances at it and winces. "His agent. She's asking to cancel. And the Providence Journal wants a comment about hosting an author who thinks the fastest-growing reader base is delusional."
That does it. I stand up so fast the stool nearly tips over.
"Where is he staying?"
Maya looks up from her screen, terrified. "What are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking Mac Sullivan is going to honor his commitment to this bookshop and this town and apologize, even if I have to drag him here myself." I grab my coat from the hook by the door. "Which B&B?"
"The Millbrook Inn, but—"
"Text me if anyone else cancels. I'll be back."
The walk to the inn takes less than five minutes, but I spend every second of that time getting angrier. How dare he trash romance and then show his face in a town built on love stories? How dare he call his sister's beliefs a fantasy?
By the time I push through the inn's front door, I'm practically vibrating with fury.
"Is Mac Sullivan here?" I ask Mrs. Chen at the front desk.
Her eyes widen. "Oh, Delaney. Yes, he's in the sunroom having coffee. But perhaps you should know that he's asked not to be disturbed..."
My palms slam against the wooden door leading to the sunroom. "Too bad."
I find him hunched over a corner table, wearing a baseball cap pulled low and scrolling through his phone with a grim expression.
He's bigger than I remembered from childhood summers, broader through the shoulders, but there's something defeated in the way he sits.
For a split second, I almost feel sorry for him.
Then I remember what he said about Lily and romance being bullshit, and the sympathy evaporates.
"Mac Sullivan." My voice comes out more confident than I feel.
He looks up, and I'm struck by how tired he appears. His blue eyes are bloodshot, like he hasn't slept, and there's a pink scar through his left eyebrow that wasn't there when we were kids. But mostly, he just looks hollow.
"Delaney Caldwell." His voice carries a hint of surprise, then it falls into something more natural for him—something more cruel. "Lily's little shadow."
"I'm not anyone’s shadow anymore,” I spit, surprised he even draws the connection.
"No." His gaze travels over me quickly, professional but appreciative. "You're not."
I pull out the chair across from him and plop down uninvited. "We need to talk."
"If this is about tomorrow's signing, don't worry. I'll pay whatever cancellation fees–"
"You're not canceling."
He blinks. "Excuse me?"
I ignore the voice in my head that wants to stop me from continuing and accept his offer. This is his mess, after all. Let him pay the damages and move on.
Unfortunately, my anger wins out.
"You heard me. You're going to show up tomorrow at two o'clock, sign books for whoever wants them, and smile while you do it."
A laugh escapes him, but there's no humor in it.
"Did you miss the part where I just told the entire internet that romance is a lie? I don't think your customers want me anywhere near them. Although I’m not sure what difference my opinion should make when my book isn’t even in the genre.
" The last part is added in a lower voice, like he’s speaking to himself more than me.
"I don't care what my customers want right now.
I care about what this town needs." I lean forward, matching his intensity.
"Millbrook Falls used to be the most romantic place in New England. Couples came here to get engaged, to honeymoon, to renew their vows. My grandmother spent forty years building that reputation.” I repeat the same spiel I always say to Maya, though this time it feels more urgent.
He blinks at me. "‘Used to be?’ And what is it now?"
"Now, we're lucky if we get weekend tourists. The businesses are struggling, people are moving away, and this book signing was supposed to change that. National attention, social media coverage, putting us back on the map."
Mac's jaw tightens. "And this is not the kind of attention you wanted, I'm guessing."
"No, but it's attention nonetheless." An idea starts forming, wild and probably stupid, but better than giving up. "Actually, this could work in our favor."
"How do you figure?"
I take a deep breath, knowing I'm about to say something that will either save everything or make it infinitely worse. "You think romance is fake, that love is just chemical reactions and fantasy? I think you're wrong."
He shakes his head, rolling his eyes like he's already going to reject my proposal. "Okay…"
"So let's test it. Scientifically.” I tilt my head condescendingly. “You're a smart guy, right? You understand experimental methodology?"
His eyes narrow with interest despite himself. "What are you proposing?"
What am I proposing? I'm making it all up on the fly.
"Ten dates. Each one is based on a classic romance trope.
If I can prove to you that love—real, honest, imperfect love—actually exists, then you tuck your tail between your legs and publicly apologize for your comments to the romance community.
Admit that maybe your sister wasn't living in a fantasy. "
He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "And if you can't convince me?"
"Then I'll…” I think for a moment. What do I have to offer someone like him? “Display your autobiography in the front window of my bookshop for a full year, and I'll personally post on social media that Mac Sullivan was right about romance being bullshit."
He's quiet for a long moment, studying me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve. "You're serious."
"Dead serious."
Puffing out his cheeks, he leans forward again. "This is insane."
"Is that a no?"
For a second, I see something flicker across his face. Curiosity, maybe. Or longing. "What's the catch?"
"No catch. Just the dates and honest participation."
"Ten dates with you." His brows furrow, and I ignore the self-conscious lead ball settling in my stomach. I'm dreading the panic attack that's going to take hold over me once all my adrenaline disappears and I realize what I've just done.
Challenged a famous NHL player to date me.
And he's… accepting?
"Ten dates testing romance tropes,” I correct in a deceptively even tone, holding my finger up matter-of-factly. “There's a difference."
"Is there?" The way he asks makes my cheeks heat.
"Do we have a deal?"
Mac's phone buzzes on the table between us. He glances at it, and his expression darkens. "My agent. Probably more bad news about public reactions."
He doesn't sound surprised. In fact, I'd think he was feeling more indifferent than anything else, as if his career being on the line doesn't bother him at all.
"So what's it going to be? Hide out here feeling sorry for yourself, or help me prove that love stories matter?"
Something shifts in his expression. "Why do you care so much? About proving romance is real?"
The honest answer catches in my throat. Because I'm twenty-five and single in a town where everyone knows my business.
Because I inherited a failing bookshop and the weight of my grandmother's legacy.
Because I've spent my whole life believing in love stories, and if they're not real, then what's the point of any of it?
But I can't say any of that. So I give him the other truth instead.
"Because your sister believed in love stories and there's a million other versions of her out there that still do. Lily was the kindest person I knew. She deserves better than having her brother trash everything she held dear."
Mac's face goes very still. "Don't."
"Don't what? Don't mention that she loved romance novels? Don't remind you that she died believing in happily ever after? Don't suggest that maybe honoring her memory means–"
"I said don't." His voice is low and dangerous, but I can see the pain underneath the warning.
I gentlе my tone but don't back down. "She'd hate knowing you gave up on love because of what happened to her."
For a moment, Mac looks like I've slapped him. I can tell he wants to say something, but his phone buzzes again, and he glances at it with a grimace.
"Fine."
"Fine, what?"
"Fine, I'll take your bet. Ten dates, ten tropes." He meets my eyes, and there's something there I can't quite read. "But when I win, when I prove that romance is just pretty lies people tell themselves, you're going to admit it publicly."
"When I win," I counter, "you're going to tell the world that love stories matter because they give people hope. And you're going to mean it."
We stare at each other across the small table, the air between us crackling with challenge and something that feels dangerously close to attraction. Mac extends his hand.
"Deal, Delaney Caldwell." His tone is more formal than before.
I shake his hand, ignoring how warm and calloused his palm feels against mine. "Deal, Marcus Sullivan."
As I walk back to the bookshop, I can't decide if I just saved my town's reputation or completely destroyed my own sanity. But watching Mac's eyes light up with genuine interest for the first time since he'd arrived in Millbrook Falls, I think maybe it doesn't matter.
My phone buzzes with another cancellation, but I delete it without reading. Ten dates to prove love is real to a man who's forgotten how to believe in anything good.
How hard could it be?