Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
ROBYN
The bookstore was unusually slammed for a weekday, and Robyn hadn’t sat down since she’d unlocked the doors at nine.
The bookstore’s collaboration with Emily’s bakery had turned into its own little tourist attraction with people cradling takeaway cups of coffee and thick wedges of pumpkin pie as they browsed, the nook so packed that some people had actually formed a line waiting for a place to sit.
Emily had been kind enough to bring down an extra couple of pies, because they were going to sell out before noon at this rate. Robyn wished she’d had more time to chat with her friend, but they’d barely managed a quick hug before Emily had to dash back to the bakery.
She should’ve felt like she was winning.
The bookstore was buzzing, the till ringing, people buying loads of books instead of simply browsing.
But Robyn’s neck ached, she’d skipped breakfast, and the to-do list she’d scrawled on a napkin at 6 a.m. was already laughably behind schedule.
She still needed to call back Meg with the latest figures, restock the front display, and update the book club WhatsApp.
She’d crossed out write and added a question mark, then crossed that out too.
Mr. Darcy, apparently sensing her fraying nerves, had abandoned his usual sunny spot on top of the history bookshelf and was currently weaving around her ankles behind the counter.
Every time Robyn paused long enough to exhale, he head-butted her shin and gazed up at her with wide green eyes, as if to say, You’re doing fine. Also, I would like a treat.
She bent down and scratched his ears. “Hi, buddy, thank you for the love.” She fished a little heart-shaped treat out of the bag she kept behind the counter, and he eagerly crunched it up.
Her phone buzzed on the counter. It was Meg.
“Hey, sorry, I saw you called. Meant to call you back.” Robyn wedged the phone between her shoulder and ear while she slid a stack of bookmarks into their display. Cinnamon and coffee hung in the air, warm and sweet.
“That’s alright,” Meg said, a little too bright, which usually meant she was trying not to sound stressed. “Remember that buyer I told you was going to do a walk-through?”
Robyn’s stomach tightened. “Yeah. Do we have a date set up?” She moved behind the counter to fetch her planner and write the date down.
“Uh.” Meg exhaled. “They’re on their way now.”
Robyn froze mid-reach. “What?”
“I know, I know—sorry.” Meg’s voice came faster.
“With the time difference, I missed a call, and then it turned into phone tag with the realtor. She apologized, and I told her it should be fine because the buyer is really interested, and I don’t want to risk losing them.
There’s no reason they can’t walk through today, right? ”
Robyn turned slowly, taking in the crowd—tourists, locals, a couple of regulars clustered around the new release table. On paper, it was the perfect moment for a buyer to see the place thriving.
In reality, it felt like inviting someone to a party where they planned to shut the music off.
“No,” Robyn said carefully. “It’s fine. I’m just… I’m the only one here right now, so I don’t know how helpful I can be.”
As if the universe couldn’t resist impeccable comedic timing, the front bell chimed.
Tyler stepped inside, seemingly relaxed in a cable-knit sweater that looked like it belonged in an ad for “cozy man who will ruin your life in the best way.” His sandy hair was still a little mussed from the morning air, glasses catching the light when he glanced around, and the faintest trace of cedar and coffee clung to him.
He met Robyn’s eyes and smiled. Robyn felt her return smile light up her entire body.
Meg was still talking. “Okay, good. If you’re sure…”
Robyn kept her voice steady. “I’m sure. Call you after they leave?”
“Absolutely.” Meg hesitated, and for a second, the Paris dream threaded through the line: new city, new start, the thing Meg wanted badly enough to trade Maple Falls for it. “Thank you,” she said softly. “Really.”
Robyn swallowed. “You got it.”
She hung up and immediately felt Tyler beside the counter, close enough that she could feel his presence without him touching her.
“What’s up?” he asked, voice low.
“Meg’s buyer is doing a walk-through. Like… right now.”
Tyler’s expression shifted. He was still calm, but his eyes sharpened. “Today?”
“Apparently, Meg got caught in realtor phone tag.” Robyn lowered her voice.
“I know she needs the sale to fund her new start in Paris. I know she does. I just…” She glanced toward the book nook, where someone was laughing quietly over a book, cheeks flushed from pie and coffee and the simple happiness of being here. “I just wish it wasn’t happening.”
“I know.” Tyler’s tone gentled. “I feel the same way.”
Robyn’s throat tightened with a familiar frustration—this tug-of-war between the kind of world she wrote, where everything had a happy ending, and the kind of world she lived in.
In her books, the beloved bookstore would always be saved.
In real life, beloved bookstores got sold because rent was real and dreams came with price tags.
It didn’t take long for the buyer to appear.
He walked in like he already owned the place.
Dark hair slicked back, sharp black suit with a crisp white shirt open at the collar.
His realtor followed half a step behind.
She was tall with polished heels that clicked on the floorboards in a way that made Mr. Darcy flatten his ears.
The man’s gaze swept the store without stopping on anything long enough to actually see it.
The customers, the shelves, the book nook, the window display Robyn had spent an hour on that morning—all of it assessed and dismissed in a single slow pan.
Robyn stepped forward, plastering on her best welcome-to-our-cozy-haven smile.
“Hi,” she said, offering her hand. “Welcome to our bookstore. I’m Robyn—the manager. And this is Tyler, one of our associates.”
The buyer shook their hands with a firm grip. “Estevez Rodriguez,” he said, his voice smooth, practiced.
Robyn swore she heard Mr. Darcy hiss from somewhere nearby.
Estevez glanced toward the front windows and the town square beyond them. “Charming town you have here.”
“It really is,” Tyler said easily.
“Yeah, Maple Falls is… special,” Robyn added, and she meant it. “Is there anything specific you’d like to see? The storage area, the back office, inventory…”
Robyn let the question trail because she wasn’t entirely sure what her role was supposed to be in the slow dismantling of her favorite place.
The out-of-town realtor, with her sleek blonde bob and tailored pantsuit stepped in with an overconfident smile. “I’ll take it from here,” she said smoothly. “We’ll let you know if we have any questions.”
Robyn and Tyler stepped back behind the counter, pretending to reorganize a stack of paperbacks while they listened.
Estevez moved through the aisles, gaze pausing briefly on the crowded book nook—and then sliding right past it.
“I noticed there isn’t an organic grocery option in town,” he said, voice carrying in the quiet gaps between customers. “Maple Falls would be ripe for it.”
The realtor let out a light laugh. “I hear you. Bookstores are… a thing of the past now, aren’t they?”
Robyn’s fingers tightened around a notepad so hard the paper bent. Behind her, Mr. Darcy hissed as though he’d understood every word.
Estevez continued, already building his vision out loud. “Local farmers could supply produce. Seasonal rotation. Fresh goods. I could keep the small coffee bar in the back—keep the foot traffic.”
The realtor nodded eagerly. “There’s a farm shop just a couple of shops down. But he mostly focuses on honey and products like candles and jams. Not quite what you’re thinking.”
“But this location,” Estevez said, glancing up at the front windows again, “is perfect. And the square footage is adequate. You couldn’t ask for better visibility.”
Robyn’s stomach dropped.
She looked at Tyler, and Tyler looked back at her, the same horrified realization mirrored in his face.
Robyn kept her smile on for the customers in front of her.
But inside, the cold feeling of dread settled in her chest. Her great-grandmother had written between these walls.
Had dreamed up characters, entire worlds, and built something that lasted generations.
And now a man in a black suit was standing in the same room, measuring it for shelving units and refrigeration.
Isabel would have had something to say about that.
Something fierce and cutting. But Robyn wasn’t Isabel.
She didn’t have the money to buy the store, or the courage to walk away from Yale, or any kind of plan that didn’t end with her handing over the keys and driving back to a life that felt less like hers with every passing day.
The bookstore was thriving. Tourists were literally eating pumpkin pie while they shopped. If that still wasn’t enough to save it…
What was?