Chapter 30
THIRTY
TYLER
Later that day, Tyler was back at the bookstore doing his usual routine of hunting down inventory they could move outside, stacking “last chance” tables, and trying to make a clearance sale look charming.
He’d done his best arranging white ceramic pumpkins with gold leaves between the book stacks and scattering faux maple leaves across the tables.
Was it as good as what Robyn would do? No. But it was something.
It would’ve been easier to focus if his brain could stop replaying the way Robyn had looked that morning—sleep-warm and soft in his bed, then pressed close to him in the shower.
He kept telling himself to concentrate on the work, but his mind kept circling the same truth: Robyn wasn’t just a woman he wanted for now. She was a woman he wanted forever.
Wanting her wasn’t complicated. Wanting her long-term was.
Robyn had a life in Connecticut. A job at Yale.
So long as the university didn’t do something stupid—and they’d be fools to let her go—her sabbatical had an end date, and that date was coming fast. Tyler could feel it hovering there, a calendar page fluttering in the background of every good moment.
He was a go-with-the-flow kind of guy. He liked letting life unfold, trusting that things worked out if you showed up and did your best.
Robyn… did not operate that way.
Which was how Tyler ended up rounding the counter and finding her exactly as expected: pen tapping, brow furrowed, an actual list on the notepad in front of her. There were little doodles in the margins—tiny leaves, a pumpkin, a star—like her brain couldn’t help itself.
Tyler set a small stack of fantasy novels on the counter, two special editions he’d been eyeing, and nodded toward the list. “What’ve you got there?”
Robyn didn’t look up at first. “I’m trying to think of every place in Maple Falls that could have a wood-fired stove,” she said.
“Kit confirmed the inn kitchen doesn’t have one, which was a bummer.
We know The Kettle didn’t install theirs until the 1980s.
Mayor Bloomfield is trying to remember any older farmhouses that might still have one.
Mrs. C. and Mrs. Bishop are researching the original book club members and their houses.
” She finally looked up at him, frustration flashing.
“And other than that, I’m drawing a blank. Do you have any ideas?”
Tyler wished he did. He wished he could be the guy with the brilliant answer that made her shoulders relax.
“I think you’re covering the right angles,” he said. “Which is… not the helpful answer you want, I know.”
Robyn’s face fell anyway. “I was afraid you were going to say that.” She exhaled hard and stared down at the paper.
“When we found out Isabel won the pie contest, I thought—” She cut herself off, then tried again, voice tighter.
“We were so close. I thought for one glorious moment the rest would be easy.”
Tyler leaned his hip against the counter, watching her.
She looked composed at first glance. She was always composed at first glance.
But he’d learned to read the small tells: the way her shoulders pulled up toward her ears, the way she kept pressing her pen down too hard as if the paper had personally offended her.
“Halloween’s a week away,” she said quietly, as if the words tasted awful. “We still don’t have the final installment. And I still have writer’s block.” Her gaze snapped to his, panicked now. “I’m freaking out, Tyler.”
His chest tightened. “You still haven’t written anything?” he asked before he could stop himself.
Robyn stared at him like he’d asked if the sky was blue. “You know I haven’t.”
“I thought…” He faltered, then admitted the truth. “I thought maybe you’d written and just hadn’t posted.”
“I wish.” Robyn’s laugh came out humorless. “I’ve opened the document a dozen times. I’ve stared at it until my eyes crossed. I’ve tried all the tricks.” She lifted her hands a few inches, then let them drop. “Nothing. Like my brain just… shut the door.”
Mr. Darcy, who’d been napping beside the register, stood up on the counter, stretched elaborately, and head-butted Robyn’s elbow.
She let out a shaky breath and ran her fingers along his spine.
Tyler watched the way Mr. Darcy comforted her.
Robyn’s shoulders dropped half an inch as she exhaled deeply.
Tyler wanted to take that a step further. His first instinct was to fix it, to offer a plan, to say something wise and practical. But he knew Robyn didn’t need another person handing her a checklist of solutions.
She needed to breathe.
So he offered her a small nudge away from the ledge.
“I can always help you make another list,” Tyler said, pitching his voice lighter.
Robyn’s eyes narrowed, but her mouth twitched. “A list about what?”
“Ways to get out of your writing block.” He nodded solemnly at the notepad. “You seem to love lists. I’ve found them all over the store for two months. Inventory lists. Shopping lists. To-do lists. I’m pretty sure you’ve got a list for your lists.”
“Are you mocking me?” she asked, and it was mostly teasing—mostly—but there was a tiny edge there too.
Tyler sobered immediately. “No,” he said, holding her gaze. “Not at all. I’m—” He was about to say sorry, but the bell over the door chimed and stopped him.
Three twenty-something women walked in, bundled in fall coats and colorful wool scarves.
They stopped just inside like they weren’t sure whether to turn around and run or sprint forward.
They looked at one another. Whispered. Then the bravest one, a brunette with a determined expression, stepped up to the counter.
“Hi,” she said, breathless. “Are you Robyn Valente?”
Robyn’s posture shifted instantly into bookstore-professional mode. “Yes,” she said carefully. “How can I help you?”
The women squealed—actually squealed—then surged forward as if restraint was no longer possible. Mr. Darcy, startled by the noise, leapt off the counter and stalked toward the back of the store with his tail high and offended, as though fame was beneath him.
“Oh my God,” one blurted. “I’m your biggest fan.”
“No,” another cut in immediately, “I’m her biggest fan.”
The third shoved her way forward with a Sharpie and a thick stack of printed pages, eyes shining like she might cry.
“Don’t listen to them,” she said, then held the Sharpie out with both hands like an offering.
“I’ve been following your stories for three years.
I love them. They’re so swoony and cozy and…
and they got me through a really bad break-up.
” Her voice wobbled, then steadied. “Could you please sign this for me?”
“And me!” one of the others said, thrusting forward her own printed manuscript, already dog-eared and highlighted like it had been studied.
“And me,” the first added, holding out a marker as if Robyn might vanish if she didn’t hurry.
Tyler stood a step back and watched Robyn’s face.
She smiled. She took the Sharpie. She said the right things—warm, polite. She signed names and posed for selfies while the women babbled about favorite scenes and lines that made them laugh and moments that made them cry.
But Tyler could see the tightness around her eyes, the way her smile didn’t quite reach all the way, and the way her fingers trembled slightly when she handed a signed stack back.
Her private Maple Falls world had just been punctured by reality in a way you couldn’t undo.
It was one thing to know the internet had found her.
It was another thing to watch it walk through the front door with Sharpies and fandom joy and proof that there really was no going back to being anonymous.
Tyler stayed where he was, letting her handle it, but he couldn’t stop wondering: Would the attention scare her away from Maple Falls, or pull her closer to it?