Chapter 4
Four
Mac
The event is supposed to be simple, just like the others. Show up, scrawl my name in some books, smile for photos, and get the hell out of this town that smells like cinnamon and memories I can't afford to keep.
I decided halfway through my sleepless night at the inn that this can't be where I hide out.
Not with so many memories of Lily attached to it.
I also can't do this bet that Delaney proposed.
I don't know what she's on, but no one really gives a shit about love that much.
Although, judging by the tongue lashing I got last night from Rebecca, maybe I'm in the minority.
All the more reason to hide out somewhere else.
But as I stare out at Rosewood Books through the diner window across the street, my stomach ties into knots. The place is already packed, with a line snaking around the displays and out onto the sidewalk.
After yesterday's disaster, I figured maybe five people would show up to this signing. Ten, tops.
There have to be at least one hundred people out there.
"Surprised?"
I don't turn around. Delaney's voice has been stuck in my head since she left me yesterday, all fire and fury defending romance like it was her religion. Which, knowing her, it probably is.
"Yes, actually." I take another sip of coffee, buying time before I have to face whatever fresh hell awaits me across the street. "Thought you said everyone canceled after my podcast went viral."
She slides into the seat across from me without invitation, and I'm immediately hit with that vanilla and some other strange scent that seems to follow her everywhere. It's distracting as hell.
"I may have overreacted." Her green eyes sparkle with mischief. Have I been played? "The canceled tickets were picked up rather quickly after a few posts in the right spots. Sue me for wanting to see you squirm a little."
"Christ, Delaney." I scrub a hand through my hair, torn between irritation and grudging admiration. "You scared the shit out of me."
"Good. You scared the shit out of me. Maybe next time you'll think before you trash an entire genre that employs thousands of people and brings joy to millions of readers."
The cook calls out someone's order, breaking the tension between us. I study her face—the determined set of her jaw, the way she's gripping her coffee cup like it's armor. Yesterday, she was all righteous anger. Today, there's something softer underneath, like she's actually worried about me.
"Why didn't you just cancel?" I ask. "Would've saved us both the headache."
She leans back in her chair, considering. "Because, despite what you said in that interview, I remember the boy who used to build sandcastles with Lily on the beach. The one who carried her on his shoulders when she got tired during those long walks around town."
My chest tightens at the mention of my sister. "That boy doesn't exist anymore."
"Maybe. Or maybe he's just buried under a lot of pain and bad press.
" She glances toward the bookshop, where the line is getting longer.
"Either way, those people out there aren't here because they hate you, Mac.
They're here because they're curious. About what you've become since the accident, about the boisterous guy who suddenly went into hiding. "
Her gaze drops to her hands, a small smile playing on her lips. “I, for one, am excited to wipe your face on the floor with our bet. Been planning my victory speech all night.”
"The bet," I repeat, shaking my head. "Still can't believe I agreed to that insanity."
"Having second thoughts?" There's a challenge in her voice that makes my pulse quicken.
Yes. "Should I be?"
"Probably." She grins, and it transforms her whole face. "I don't lose often."
"Neither do I, freckles."
The endearment slips out before I can stop it, and her cheeks flush pink. We stare at each other for a beat too long, the air between us crackling with the same electricity from yesterday. Before either of us can address it, she's standing up, all business again.
"Come on, Sullivan. Time to face your adoring public."
The walk across Main Street feels like a death march.
Delaney chatters beside me about logistics—where I'll sit, how she's organized the line, what to expect from the local crowd—but I'm only half listening.
The rest of me is focused on the tightening knot in my stomach and the way her hand keeps brushing mine as we walk.
It's not something I'd notice with anyone else, but somehow every contact feels significant.
Inside Rosewood Books, the Christmas decorations I noticed on my way in seem even more elaborate today. Twinkling lights reflect off every surface, and the whole place smells like cinnamon and pine. It should feel cozy. Instead, it feels like a stage set for my public humiliation.
"You'll sit here." Delaney guides me to a small table near the register, complete with a stack of my books and several fancy pens. "I'll manage the line, keep things moving. Just sign, smile, and try not to insult anyone's reading preferences."
"Funny."
Her face flattens. "I wasn't joking."
Before I can respond, the first customer approaches—an elderly woman with crinkled, kind eyes and a warm smile. "Marcus, dear, I'm so sorry about your sister. She was such a lovely girl."
The air leaves my lungs in a rush. Mrs. Anders. A Millbrook Falls local. She used to run the ice cream shop when I was a kid, always gave Lily extra sprinkles because they made her smile.
"Thank you," I manage, my voice rougher than I'd like. "She... she would've loved seeing all this."
Mrs. Anders pats my hand gently before I sign her book. "She would've been proud of you, too, sweetheart. Don't let anyone tell you different."
The next person in line is a middle-aged man who launches into a story about watching me play junior hockey.
Most of the people who follow are fans of the Howlers, which makes it easy to fall into hockey talk.
There's the occasional outliers, though.
A teenage girl who's nervous and excited, clutching her phone like she wants a selfie but is too shy to ask.
A young mother who thanks me for donating to the children's hospital last month—something I'd forgotten about until she mentions it.
Each interaction chips away at the wall I've built around myself.
These people aren't here to crucify me for my accident or my comments about romance.
They're here because they remember the kid I used to be, or they admire the player I've become, or they simply want to support their local bookshop owner.
By the time we reach the end of the line, my hand is cramping and my head is spinning from all the social interaction. The last customer, a woman about my age, approaches with two books.
"One for me, and one for my sister who couldn't make it today," she explains. "She's going through a rough divorce and could use something to believe in. Says watching you come back from such devastation when it's clear that so many people are against you is an inspiration."
I stare down at the books in my hands, something tight and uncomfortable lodging in my throat. "I hope I don't let her down."
"You won't," the woman says with confidence I don't share.
After she leaves, the bookshop falls quiet except for the soft jazz playing overhead and the distant sound of Delaney reorganizing shelves. I slump back in my chair, emotionally drained.
"That was..." I trail off, searching for the right word.
"Overwhelming?" Delaney suggests, approaching with a bottle of water and a concerned expression.
"Yeah. Good overwhelming, I think. But still overwhelming."
She perches on the edge of the table, close enough that I catch that vanilla scent again. "You did great. Better than great, actually. You were patient and friendly, even when people asked difficult questions."
I don't like the implication that she thought I'd be anything else, but I shove those feelings down. "Felt like I was going to throw up the entire time."
"You hid it well. Very stoic and tough-hockey-player-ish."
I laugh despite myself. "Is that a compliment?"
"From me? Always." She hops down from the table, suddenly all business again. "So, coffee tomorrow morning? Ten o'clock? You can buy me breakfast, and we can hash out the rules."
I stand up, needing to say something before she can escape behind her cheerful efficiency. "Thank you. For today. For not canceling when you had every right to."
She studies my face for a long moment, like she's trying to solve a puzzle. "You don't have to thank me, Mac. This is as much for my town as it is for you."
I shake my head. "Still. I know this wasn't easy."
"Neither was watching you nearly have a panic attack when Mrs. Anders mentioned Lily." Her voice softens. "But you handled it. You're stronger than you think."
She sounds so much like Lily, I want to scream. Before I can respond to that—before I can figure out what the hell to do with the warmth spreading through my chest at her words—she's already moving toward the door, flipping the sign from open to closed.
"Ten o'clock tomorrow," she calls over her shoulder. "Don't make me hunt you down again, Sullivan."
I watch her lock up the shop, my reflection caught in the window glass. For the first time in months, the face staring back at me doesn't look completely broken.
Maybe that should scare me more than it does.