Chapter 1 #2
“I’m delighted,” he says mildly, which is Vernon for ‘I prefer it hums three streets over.’ “I’d hate for your… efforts to be in vain if the council moves forward with my revitalization project.”
Mr. Darcy lifts his head like a judge about to deliver a verdict of death by cat scratches.
“This isn’t a charity bake sale, Vernon,” I say, smile sugar -sweet. “It’s a fundraiser, a community showcase, and a public demonstration that these businesses are valuable and viable. Not to mention vital to the community.”
“Ah,” he says, like he’s discovered a hair in his soup. “Well. Let me know if you want to talk about a buyout. I have a very fair offer on the table, but it won't be there for long.”
“My answer is still no,” I say. “But if the offer comes with a time machine to 1904, when this building was erected, we can discuss preserving the tin ceiling.”
Vernon’s eyes tick upward, as if the ceiling is taunting him. “Think about it,” he says smoothly. “It would be a shame for sentiment to stand in the way of progress.”
“Sometimes progress is remembering what’s worth keeping,” Dex says, voice even but edged.
Vernon nods as if Dex has said something adorable, like a child announcing a lemonade stand. “Have a lovely day.” He touches two fingers to his temple, a salute born in a boardroom, and glides out.
The door chimes, and the room exhales. Mr. Darcy jumps down, lands with a thump, and stalks to the window to watch Vernon walk away. His tail flicks like a metronome set to simmering disdain .
“I hate that man,” I say softly.
“I know,” Dex says. “I’ve never wanted to trip someone more in my life.”
“Don’t,” I say. “We need him walking upright when the newspapers photograph him losing his bid to destroy our town.”
Dex’s mouth twitches. “You’re terrifying.”
“I’m five--two,” I say. “I had to develop other skills in life.”
The morning rush comes and goes. The book club ladies try to pay for their paperbacks with homemade pickles again.
I decline politely and put the jar under the counter for lunch.
Dex fixes the squeak in the front door with a screwdriver he evidently carries for such occasions.
Mr. Darcy plants himself on the map like a furry boulder and swats our pens when we plan something he doesn’t approve.
Around noon, Dex glances at the clock. “I’m headed to Town Hall for the permit sign--off. Want anything from Mel’s on my way back?”
“Coffee,” I say immediately. “And a tuna melt I can pretend is healthy because there’s celery in it.”
He nods once, classic Dex. He will walk into a hurricane to get you a sandwich if you ask.
“Dex?” I say as he reaches the door. He looks back, hand on the frame, like a romance novel cover that accidentally got feelings. “Thanks… for this. For all of it.”
Something warm and startled moves across his face. “We’re going to win, Harper.”
I swallow. “You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do,” he says, simply and certain. “Because you’ll make it happen.”
He leaves before my heart can do something embarrassing like compose a sonnet in his honor.
The afternoon drifts by in a flurry of receipts and tiny victories.
A tourist buys a stack of Vermont authors' books, a teenager shyly asks for recommendations on graphic novels and leaves with three books and the light of literacy in his eyes, and Mrs. Henderson returns to whisper that she saw Vernon frown at a pothole, which she took as a sign from God.
At three, the school day releases a stream of kids onto Main Street like a flock of geese in hoodies. Two of them beeline for the manga. One tells me he wrote a horror story set in a maple sugarhouse and would I read it? I promised I will, and I mean it.
By four--thirty, I am deep in the back stacks hunting for a mis--shelved copy of The Haunted History of Vermont when the ladder I'm standing on does a tiny, traitorous shimmy.
“Don’t you dare,” I whisper, white -knuckling the rung with one hand and reaching for the book with the other. “We talked about this. We are stable. We are?—”
The ladder slides an inch. My stomach becomes a haunted elevator.
“Hey,” Dex’s voice comes from below, steady as bedrock. “Don’t move.”
“I’m not,” I say brightly, which is a lie. I move my mouth a lot when I panic.
His hands clamp the ladder, and the world rights itself. I can breathe again.
“Why is it always you and ladders?” he mutters.
“Because I have life goals,” I say, carefully stepping down into his breath and the cedar smell and the warmth of being very much alive. “Also because I refuse to accept that the top shelf is mocking me.”
He steadies me with one big hand at my elbow, then doesn’t let go right away, like he’s checking for tremors.
His thumb brushes once over my knuckles, a quiet check-in.
“Breathe with me?” he says, barely above the hush of the stacks.
We take one slow inhale, one slower exhale, and my pulse climbs down out of the chandelier. “Did you get your book?” he asks.
I hold it up, hands steadier now. “History waits for no woman.”
He huffs a laugh, then looks at me, really looks, and for a second there’s something unguarded in his eyes that makes my stomach perform a small circus.
He lets go. The air cools between us. “Permits are signed. We’re official.” He changes the subject quickly.
“Of course we are,” I say, bright as tinsel, because if I don’t buffer myself with words, I might melt into a puddle of goo and ruin the maple--scented display.
We lock up at six. The sky is a watercolor smear of pink and gold over the hills, and the air tastes like wood-smoke and possibilities. Dex carries the cash bag while I wrangle Mr. Darcy into his carrier. Mr. Darcy makes his displeasure known with a sound like a tiny accordion dying.
“Be nice,” I tell the carrier. “We do not hiss at people who help us.”
He hisses again.
“Fine,” I say. “But tomorrow you’re being sweet to Dex for at least one minute as a personal growth exercise.”
Dex walks me to my car like he always does, because he’s either old--fashioned or he knows Main Street is haunted by bears after dark. I prefer the old-fashioned to the bears.
“Tomorrow,” he says, handing me the cash bag. Our fingers brush. Electricity flows up my arm. Ugh, biology is so dramatic.
“Tomorrow,” I echo. “Vendor calls, layout finalization, pumpkin pickup confirmed, signage, and?—”
“And you eat lunch,” he interrupts me.
“I had celery,” I defend myself. “Inside a tuna melt.”
He shakes his head, amused. “Text me when you’re home?”
“I will,” I say, because we’ve accidentally fallen into this habit where he makes sure I’m safe and fed and I pretend it’s purely logistical and not at all a problem for my circulatory system.
He heads for his truck as I buckle Mr. Darcy in and start my car. My phone buzzes with a new email.
Vernon Blackstone, Blackstone Development: Re: Time- - Sensitive Offer .
I don't open it and instead I drive home with my jaw set and my playlist on Witches’ Night Out , and I promise the dusky trees and my cranky cat and my stubborn heart that I am going to save this bookstore and this town if it kills me.
At a red light, Mr. Darcy meets my gaze through the carrier grate. He blinks once, slowly, like a blessing. Or like he’s picturing Dex tripping into a pumpkin display. It really could go either way.
“Don’t worry,” I tell him. “I have a plan.”
He yawns, enormous and scornful. Apparently, he's calling me out on my shit.
“Okay,” I amend. “I have twelve color--coded spreadsheets and a strong dislike of men named Vernon. Happy now?”
The light turns green. Hollow Creek glows behind me—porch lights winking on, chimneys curling smoke into the lavender sky, the town square already half -dressed in orange and black garlands and grinning jack--o'--lanterns.
I grip the steering wheel, shoulders squaring, heartbeat evening out. "First, we plan. Then, we charm. Then, we win." It's my new motto.
Mr. Darcy meows dryly, which I choose to interpret as approval. I take it.
Tomorrow, the real work begins. Tonight, I’m going to feed the tyrant, answer emails with ruthless optimism, and practice lifting my left eyebrow just in case I need to release the kraken.
.