Tiger Me Timbers

1. Tessa

TESSA

The moving truck rattles like it’s about to come apart as I ease it down Main Street, my hands tight on the wheel, my shoulders already aching from the drive. Redwood Crossing is smaller than I expected—quieter, too. The kind of place where everything feels like it’s holding its breath.

Or maybe that’s just me.

I slow to a stop in front of the bookstore. My bookstore.

The sign above the windows reads Holloway Books, the gold lettering faded and flaking. The windows are dusty enough that I can barely see inside, and the door looks like it hasn’t been opened in years. For a long second, I just sit there, engine idling, staring at it.

This was a good idea. It had to be. I force myself to move.

The engine cuts, the sudden silence pressing in around me. I grab the keys from the passenger seat—the keys—and step out of the truck. The air is all pine and sun-warmed asphalt, clean in a way that feels almost foreign.

The key sticks in the lock. Of course it does. I jiggle it, twist harder, mutter under my breath, and then finally—click. The door creaks open like it’s protesting the disturbance.

“Great,” I murmur. “Already judging me.”

Inside, the air is stale and thick with dust. Sunlight filters through the grimy windows in long, hazy beams, illuminating rows of empty shelves and warped floorboards. It smells faintly of mildew and old paper—like forgotten stories.

I step fully inside, letting the door swing shut behind me. This is mine now.

I walk slowly through the space, my boots echoing softly. The shelves lean at odd angles, some bowed in the middle, others barely standing upright. There’s a dark stain spreading along one section of the ceiling, the plaster sagging ominously.

Water damage.

“Okay,” I say, hands on my hips. “Okay, we can fix this.”

But even as I say it, I know. This is worse than the listing photos showed. Way worse.

I crouch near the counter, running my fingers along the wood. It’s soft in places, the finish peeling. The floor dips slightly beneath my weight. Structural issues. Plumbing. Shelving. Probably electrical too, because why not.

A short laugh escapes me, sharp and humorless.

“Well, Tessa,” I mutter, “you wanted a fresh start.”

I head back outside before the weight of it all can settle too deeply.

The sunlight feels brighter now, almost harsh. I take a deep breath and move to the truck, pulling open the back. Boxes stare back at me. My life, neatly packed and labeled.

“Let’s do this,” I say, grabbing the first one.

I carry it toward the door, adjusting my grip as I step up onto the sidewalk—and that’s when I notice it. The mechanic shop next door.

I hadn’t really registered it when I pulled in, too focused on not crashing the truck and my own nerves. But now it’s impossible to miss. The garage door is open, shadows stretching deep inside, the scent of oil and metal drifting faintly on the air.

And someone is watching me.

I pause, the box heavy in my arms.

He stands just inside the garage, half in shadow. Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark hair. I can’t make out all the details from here, but I feel the weight of his gaze like a physical thing.

Not curious. Assessing.

I shift, suddenly aware of the dust on my jeans, the sweat sticking my shirt to my back.

“Can I help you?” I call, trying for casual and landing somewhere closer to defensive.

He doesn’t answer. For a second, I think he might step forward—but instead, he turns and disappears deeper into the garage.

“Okay then,” I mutter.

Weird. I shake it off and carry the box inside.

The quiet hits me again the moment I step through the door. I set the box down near the counter and glance around, trying to decide where to start. Shelving, probably.

If I can at least get a few stable units set up, I can start organizing inventory. Make the place feel like something other than a disaster zone.

I move toward one of the taller shelves, testing it with a cautious push. It wobbles.

“Yeah, that’s not great.”

I reach for a second shelf, intending to reposition it—and that’s when I hear it. A sharp crack. I freeze.

The shelf in front of me tilts, the top edge shifting forward. My stomach drops as the entire unit starts to go.

“Oh—no, no, no—”

I lunge backward as it tips, the weight pulling it down faster than I can react. The wood groans, the joints giving way—

—and then something slams into it from the side.

The shelf jerks, stops mid-fall. For a split second, I just stare. Then I realize there’s a hand braced against the frame. Strong. Steady. Holding it up. I look up.

The man from the garage is suddenly right there, his body angled into the shelf as he forces it back upright with a controlled, almost effortless motion.

“Move,” he says.

The word snaps me out of it. I scramble back, heart hammering, as he shifts his grip and straightens the unit fully. It wobbles once more before settling, still unstable but no longer about to crush me.

Silence falls again, heavy and sharp.

“Thanks,” I manage, my voice a little breathless. “That could’ve been—bad.”

He doesn’t respond right away. He steps back from the shelf, his eyes scanning it, then the floor, then the ceiling. Assessing.

Up close, he’s even more intimidating. Taller than I thought. Solid. There’s something in the way he holds himself—coiled, almost—that makes me instinctively take another half-step back.

“This place isn’t safe,” he says finally.

No greeting. No introduction. Just that.

I blink. “I mean… yeah, I’m starting to get that impression.”

His gaze flicks to me, sharp and unreadable. “You shouldn’t be in here alone.”

“I’m not exactly spoiled for options,” I shoot back before I can stop myself. “I just bought it.”

His jaw tightens slightly, like that information annoys him for some reason.

“You need structural repairs,” he says. “Shelving’s shot. Floors are weak. That ceiling—” He nods toward the stain. “—could come down.”

“Okay, I get it,” I say, crossing my arms. “It’s a mess.”

He studies me for a second longer, like he’s deciding something. Then he steps away.

“I’ll get someone to look at it,” he says.

“Wait—what?” I frown. “You don’t even know me.”

He doesn’t answer that. Instead, he heads for the door.

“Hey,” I call after him. “You could at least tell me your name.”

He pauses, just for a second, his back to me.

“…Archer.”

Then he’s gone.

I stand there in the dusty, half-collapsing bookstore, staring at the doorway where he disappeared. Archer. Weird guy. But…

My gaze drifts back to the shelf he stopped from crushing me.

…fast. Really fast.

I don’t move for a long moment after he leaves.

The silence in the bookstore feels heavier now, like it’s settled into something aware. I can still see the place where he stood, still feel the sudden shift in the air when he’d been here—like a storm that rolled in and out without warning.

Archer.

The name fits him in a way I can’t quite explain. Sharp. Direct. Dangerous around the edges. I shake my head, forcing myself to focus.

“You’re not here for mysterious mechanics,” I mutter. “You’re here to fix a bookstore.”

Right.

I eye the shelf cautiously. It’s upright now, but it still leans slightly, like it could decide to betray me again at any moment. I give it a wide berth as I move toward the counter.

The box I brought in earlier sits where I left it. I crouch beside it, peeling back the tape and opening the flaps. Books stare back at me—my books. Some old favorites, some inventory I managed to acquire at a decent price.

Something about seeing them steadies me. This is real. This is happening.

I pick one up, running my thumb along the spine. The familiar weight grounds me in a way the rest of this building hasn’t yet. Whatever else is wrong with this place, I can fix it. I have to.

I stand and carry a small stack toward the least unstable-looking shelf. Each step feels deliberate, careful. I place the books down one by one, testing the shelf’s response with every addition. It creaks, but holds.

“Progress,” I say softly.

Even if it’s the tiniest kind.

I spend the next hour moving slowly, bringing in more boxes, opening them, stacking books in cautious, uneven rows. Dust clings to everything, coating my hands, settling into my hair. The air grows warmer as the afternoon stretches on, the sunlight shifting through the dirty windows.

Every now and then, I glance at the door. Not because I expect him to come back. Just… because. It’s ridiculous. I don’t know anything about him beyond his name and his apparently impressive reflexes. And his tendency to issue warnings like he’s delivering a verdict.

Still. There was something about the way he moved. Efficient. Controlled. Like he was always aware of everything around him. Like he’d known that shelf was going to fall before it actually did. I shake that thought off, annoyed with myself.

“You’re tired,” I mutter. “That’s all.”

By the time I step outside again, the sun has dipped lower in the sky, the light turning warmer, softer. My arms ache from carrying boxes, and there’s a thin layer of sweat clinging to the back of my neck.

I lean against the side of the truck for a second, catching my breath. The street is still quiet. A couple of cars pass in the distance, slow and unhurried. Somewhere down the block, a door closes. The whole town feels like it’s moving at a different pace than I’m used to—slower, steadier.

Watching.

That thought creeps in uninvited.

I straighten, scanning the nearby buildings. Everything looks normal enough. Closed storefronts. A few parked cars. Nothing out of place. And yet…

I push the feeling aside and grab another box. As I turn back toward the bookstore, my foot catches slightly on the uneven pavement. The box tilts in my arms, and I tighten my grip to keep from dropping it.

“Careful,” I mutter to myself.

The last thing I need is to destroy my inventory before I even get started. I carry the box inside and set it down near the others, wiping my hands on my jeans. My gaze drifts to the shelf Archer steadied earlier.

It’s still standing. Barely.

I step closer, studying it more carefully this time. The joints are loose, the wood warped. One of the back panels is cracked clean through. There’s no salvaging it.

“Okay,” I say, more firmly now. “That one goes.”

I grip the side of the shelf and start easing it away from the wall, moving slowly to keep it from collapsing again. It wobbles immediately, protesting the movement.

“Don’t you dare,” I warn it under my breath.

It creaks ominously but doesn’t give. I manage to drag it a few feet before setting it down again, stepping back to reassess. My heart is beating faster than it should be for something this simple.

This place is going to fight me every step of the way. Fine. I’ve handled worse.

I glance around, taking stock again—really taking stock this time. The ceiling stain is larger than I initially thought. The floor dips more noticeably near the back. There’s a faint draft coming from somewhere, cool air brushing against my skin.

Windows? Foundation?

Both?

I let out a slow breath.

“Okay. Step one: don’t get crushed. Step two: don’t go bankrupt fixing this place.”

Simple. Totally manageable. A laugh slips out, softer this time, less sharp. I move back toward the counter and lean against it, pulling out my phone. No signal. Of course.

I walk closer to the front windows, holding it up like that might somehow help. A single bar flickers, then disappears.

“Great,” I mutter.

So much for looking up contractors or calling anyone for help. I look toward the mechanic shop next door. The garage door is still open. But it looks empty now.

I hesitate for a second, considering. Then I shake my head.

No. I am not going to go knocking on his door after that… whatever that was. He already made it clear this place is a disaster. I don’t need him reminding me again.

I tuck my phone back into my pocket and push away from the counter. There’s still work to do. Even if it’s slow. Even if it’s frustrating. Even if the building feels like it’s one bad moment away from falling apart around me. I pick up another book, setting it carefully on the shelf.

“One step at a time,” I say quietly.

And this time, I believe it.