13. Tessa
TESSA
Idon’t wait for him to come to me. I go straight to the garage. The second I step inside, I spot him—under the hood of a truck, grease on his hands, tension radiating off him like heat.
“Are you going to explain what’s going on,” I demand, “or keep pretending everything’s normal?”
He doesn’t look up. “Everything is normal.”
I laugh, sharp and humorless. “Right. Because you lurking around my bookstore like a bodyguard is totally normal.”
He’s actively clenching everything.
“Sell the bookstore,” he says abruptly.
I blink. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“No,” I snap, stepping closer. “You don’t get to just drop that and not explain—”
“It’s not safe,” he cuts in.
My stomach drops. “What does that mean?”
“It means you should leave town.”
The words hit like a slap.
“Excuse me?”
He finally looks at me—and there’s something in his eyes I’ve never seen before. Fear.
“Pack up. Go somewhere else. Start over.”
I stare at him. “You don’t get to make that decision for me.”
“I’m trying to protect you.”
“From what?” I demand.
He hesitates.
And that hesitation? That’s it.
That’s the thing that pushes me over the edge.
“You don’t trust me,” I say quietly.
“It’s not about trust.”
“It’s exactly about trust,” I fire back. “You show up, you watch everything I do, you act like I’m in danger—but you won’t tell me why?”
His silence is answer enough. Anger flares hot in my chest.
“You don’t get to control my life because you’ve decided I need protecting.”
“I’m not controlling you—”
“Yes, you are!” I step closer, voice rising. “You’re trying to scare me into leaving!”
“Because it’s the smart move!”
“Or because it’s easier for you?” I shoot back. “Easier than actually letting someone in?”
That hits. I see it land. His expression hardens instantly.
“Believe whatever you want,” he says coldly.
Then he turns and walks away. Just like that. I stand there, stunned, anger and hurt twisting together until I can’t tell them apart.
“Fine,” I mutter. “Walk away.”
That night, I triple-check every lock in the bookstore. Not because of Archer. Because of the feeling I can’t shake. The one that started when I saw that man across the street. I’m halfway through shelving returns when I hear it.
A soft metallic scrape. From the back door. My blood turns to ice. I freeze, listening. There it is again. Someone is trying to open it. Very slowly. Very carefully. My heart pounds so hard it feels like it might give me away. I back toward the counter, grab my phone with shaking hands—
And call Archer. He answers on the first ring.
“Tessa?”
“There’s someone here,” I whisper.
Silence. Then—
“Lock yourself in. Now.”
“I already—”
“I’m coming.”
The line goes dead. And the handle on the back door jerks violently. I sit on the couch in the back office, staring at the door, replaying every word Archer said—and every word he didn’t.
Sell the bookstore. Leave town.
Like it’s that simple. Like I didn’t pour everything I had—emotionally, financially, mentally—into this place. Like I didn’t choose this. My jaw tightens. No. He doesn’t get to undo that with a few cryptic warnings and a brooding stare.
The handle rattles again, and my entire body turns to ice. I’m on my feet instantly, moving silently back into the bookstore, moving between the shelves so that I can peer through at the door and still remain hidden.
Then… a growl. It’s not a stray dog. It’s not a feral cat. It’s… wild.
Just when I think the door is about to come off the hinges, I hear Archer’s voice at the back door.
“Tessa? Open up.”
I open to his stony face looking at me as if I’m somehow the whole problem.
“All clear back here. I don’t know what you think you heard, but you should get some sleep,” he says before turning without another word and slipping into the darkness.
—
By morning, I’ve convinced myself I’m overreacting. Mostly.
The sun spills through the front windows in soft gold ribbons, chasing away the shadows that felt so oppressive last night. Everything looks normal again. Shelves. Books. The little seating area by the window. My space. Safe.
I unlock the front door and flip the sign to OPEN, forcing myself into routine.
Routine helps. Routine makes things make sense.
The first hour passes quietly. A couple of customers drift in and out.
I ring up purchases, make small talk, recommend a mystery novel to someone who insists they’ve “read everything good already.”
It almost feels like yesterday didn’t happen. Almost. Until the bell above the door rings again—
And I look up, expecting another customer. It’s not. Archer stands there. And immediately, I know something’s wrong. Not just because he’s here. Because of the way he holds himself. Rigid. Controlled. Like he’s bracing for impact.
“Well,” I say, crossing my arms. “That didn’t take long.”
His gaze flicks around the shop automatically before settling on me.
“We need to talk.”
“Yeah,” I reply sharply. “We do.”
I gesture toward the back. “Office.”
He follows without argument. That, more than anything, tells me this isn’t going to go the way I want. The second the door closes behind us, I turn on him.
“Okay,” I snap. “Start explaining.”
His expression doesn’t change.
“You should leave town,” he says.
I blink.
“Are you serious right now? Are you just going to repeat the same song over and over, or are you ever going to play something new?”
“Yes. I’m very serious.”
“No,” I shake my head, pacing once across the small room. “No, you don’t get to do that. Not again. Not without giving me an actual reason.”
“I gave you one.”
“No, you didn’t,” I fire back. “You gave me vague, ominous nonsense and expected me to just… what? Pack up my life and disappear?”
“It’s not safe for you here.”
“Why?”
Silence.
“Why, Archer?” I press.
He looks at me like he wants to say something. Like he’s on the edge of it. And then—
He pulls back.
“It doesn’t matter why,” he says.
Something inside me snaps.
“It does matter,” I say, my voice dropping into something sharper, more dangerous. “Because this is my life you’re talking about.”
“I know.”
“Then act like it!” I step closer, closing the distance between us. “Stop talking to me like I’m some problem you need to solve.”
“I’m trying to protect you.”
“From what?” I demand again.
His silence is louder this time. More deliberate. And I realize—
He’s choosing not to tell me. Not because he can’t. Because he won’t. The betrayal stings more than I expect.
“You don’t trust me,” I say quietly.
He flinches. Just barely.
“It’s not about trust,” he repeats.
“Stop saying that,” I snap. “Because it’s exactly what it’s about.”
I shake my head, frustration boiling over. “You show up out of nowhere, act like you’re responsible for my safety, and then refuse to tell me what’s going on. That’s not protection, Archer. That’s control.”
His eyes flash. “I’m not controlling you.”
“You’re trying to,” I shoot back. “You’re trying to scare me into doing what you think is best.”
“Because it is what’s best,” he says, his voice rising slightly for the first time.
“For who?” I challenge. “For me? Or for you?”
That lands. I see it. He goes still, something dark and conflicted flickering behind his eyes. I press forward, sensing the crack. “Is this about you not wanting me here? Because if it is, just say that.”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
Silence. Again. God, I hate that silence.
“You know what?” I step back, throwing my hands up. “Fine. If you’re not going to be honest with me, then we’re done having this conversation.”
“Tessa—”
“No,” I cut him off. “You don’t get to pull me into whatever this is and then shut me out when it matters.”
His expression hardens.
“Believe whatever you want,” he says.
And just like that—
He shuts down. The wall slams back into place, higher than before.
“Wow,” I say, disbelief cutting through my anger. “That’s really your move? Walk away?”
“If it keeps you safe,” he replies coldly, “yes.”
Something twists painfully in my chest.
“Then go,” I say, my voice quieter now, but no less sharp. “If that’s all you’re going to do.”
For a moment, I think he might stay. Might fight. Might finally tell me the truth. But he doesn’t. He turns—
And leaves. The door clicks shut behind him. And just like that, he’s gone.
I stand there for a long moment, staring at the empty space he left behind. Then I laugh.
A short, bitter sound.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter.
I pace the small office once, twice, trying to burn off the restless energy coiling inside me. Who does he think he is? Showing up, making demands, acting like he gets to dictate what I do with my life—
No. Absolutely not. I won’t let him. I won’t let anyone take this away from me. Not after everything it took to get here. Not after everything I’ve already lost. My hands curl into fists.
“I’m not leaving,” I say out loud.
The words feel like a promise. A line drawn in the sand.
The rest of the day passes in a blur. I go through the motions—helping customers, organizing shelves, answering questions—but my mind keeps drifting back to the argument.
To Archer.
To the look on his face when I pushed him. There was something there. Something real.
And it didn’t look like control. It looked like—
Fear. I push the thought away. Doesn’t matter. He chose not to trust me. He chose to shut me out. That’s on him.
By the time evening rolls around, I’m exhausted.
Emotionally, more than anything. I lock up earlier than usual, flipping the sign to CLOSED with a quiet finality.
The street outside is calm. Too calm. The memory of last night flickers at the edge of my mind—the man across the street, the way he watched the bookstore.
I glance out the window automatically. Nothing.
Just empty sidewalk and soft pools of lamplight.
“See?” I murmur to myself. “You’re fine.”
Still…
I double-check the lock. Then check it again. Just to be sure.
I’m halfway through restocking a shelf near the back when I hear it. A faint sound. So quiet I almost miss it. I freeze. Listen. Nothing.
I exhale slowly, shaking my head. “You’re imagining things.”
And then I hear it again. Another one of those soft metallic scrapes. My stomach drops.
Back door. Every muscle in my body goes rigid. I don’t move. Don’t breathe. Just listen. There.
Again. Someone is trying to open it. Very slowly. Very carefully. My heart starts pounding, loud enough I’m convinced they’ll hear it through the walls.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay, okay—”
Think. What do you do? Call the police? Hide?
Run? My gaze darts around the store, suddenly hyper-aware of how exposed everything feels.
Glass windows. Thin walls. Too many ways in.
The handle on the back door shifts. Just slightly.
But enough. Enough to confirm it’s real.
That someone is out there. Trying to get in.
Cold fear slides down my spine. I back away slowly, keeping my eyes locked on the hallway leading to the back. My hands shake as I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone.
There’s only one person I think to call. I hit his name before I can second-guess it. He answers immediately.
“Tessa?”
His voice is sharp. Alert. Relief floods through me so fast it almost makes my knees buckle.
“There’s someone here,” I whisper. “Those same sounds at the back door again. I’m not making this up, Archer. I’m not crazy. Someone is out there, and they’re trying to get in!”
Silence. Then—
“Lock everything,” he says. “Now.”
“I already did—”
“Check again.”
I move automatically, my body responding before my brain catches up. I hurry to the nearest door, twisting the lock, then the next.
“I’m coming,” he adds.
The line goes dead. I stare at the phone for half a second—
Then shove it back into my pocket. The sound at the back door grows louder. More insistent. The handle jerks. Once. Twice. Harder now. My breath comes faster.
“Go away,” I whisper, even though I know they can’t hear me.
Or maybe they can. Because the noise stops. Just—
Stops. Silence crashes down around me. Worse than the sound. So much worse. Because now I don’t know what they’re doing. Or where they are. I take a shaky step back. Another. Every instinct screaming at me to run, to hide, to—
A shadow moves past the narrow window in the back hallway. My heart slams against my ribs. They’re still there. Still trying. Still—
Waiting. For a split second, I consider making a run for the front door. But what if they circle around? What if they’re faster? What if—
No. Stay inside. Stay locked in. Wait for Archer. The thought comes unbidden. Automatic. And that terrifies me almost as much as the person outside. Because it means, despite everything—
Despite the argument—
Despite the anger—
I trust him. The handle jerks again. Harder this time. More aggressive. The door rattles in its frame.
“They’re not getting in,” I whisper, gripping the edge of a shelf. “They’re not getting in.”
But the confidence feels thin. Fragile. Like it could shatter at any second. And then—
The sound stops again. Silence. Total and absolute.
I hold my breath, straining to hear anything.
Footsteps. Movement. Anything. Nothing. My pulse pounds in my ears.
Seconds stretch. Then minutes. Or maybe it just feels like minutes.
I don’t know. All I know is that I’m standing in the middle of my bookstore—
My safe place—
And it suddenly doesn’t feel safe at all. And I have no idea if the person outside is gone—
Or just waiting for the right moment to try again.