Chapter 8
Ryan
Ryan woke before dawn, staring at the ceiling of his rental apartment, listening to the old radiator clank and hiss like it was arguing with itself. He had hoped exhaustion would finally catch up with him, but instead his mind wouldn’t let him rest. It kept circling back to yesterday.
Not the hike. Not the view, though the sweep of mountains and the pale winter sky had been something out of a postcard. No, what kept him awake was Taylor.
Her hair loose in the wind, cheeks flushed from the climb, eyes bright as she turned that small stone over in her palm like it was treasure.
She’d clutched it as though someone had given her a crown, not a simple polished rock. And the look on her face…it had hit him low in the chest, left him unsettled.
He dragged a hand down his face, groaning softly.
This was exactly why he’d stayed away so long.
She had always been too much—too stubborn, too smart, too sure of what she wanted, even as a kid.
And now? Now she wasn’t a kid. Now she was a woman with a laugh that still knocked him sideways and a smile she tried to hide when she thought no one was looking.
That laugh. He’d replayed it a dozen times in the dark. It had lodged under his skin, familiar but changed, like hearing a favorite song in a new key.
And then there was the notebook.
When he’d asked what she’d been writing all those years ago, she’d dodged him with a story about unicorns. He hadn’t bought it for a second. Taylor never lied well. She got shifty-eyed and clipped her words, the way she had on the bench yesterday.
Which meant whatever she had written mattered. Which meant it was something she still didn’t want him to know.
Ryan turned over, punching the pillow, but it didn’t help. The questions just crowded closer. Why was she hiding? What was she afraid he’d see? And why the hell did it matter so much to him now?
Because you can’t seem to stay away, a traitorous voice supplied.
He sat up abruptly, scrubbing his hands through his hair. Fine. He couldn’t stay away. He didn’t want to. The scavenger hunt was still going, and if she thought he was going to let her wander into another secluded spot alone, she was out of her mind.
Ryan swung his legs over the edge of the bed and reached for his jeans, pulling them on without bothering about the cold floor. He told himself it was about safety, about caution, about common sense. But even as he jammed his arms through his jacket, he knew better.
It wasn’t just about the notes.
It was about Taylor.
And the fact that every time he closed his eyes, he saw her on that mountain, hair wild, cheeks flushed, fingers wrapped tight around something that had been left just for her.
Ryan grabbed his keys and headed for the door. He needed coffee, sure. But mostly, he needed to see her.
The bell over the café door jingled as Ryan stepped inside, shaking the cold from his shoulders. The place smelled like coffee beans, sugar, and something faintly citrusy from the soaps Taylor sold at the counter. Today, though, there was something different.
Taylor was behind the register, handing a cup to a regular, and she was smiling. Not the polite little curve she usually gave customers, not the dry smirk she saved for him, but a wide, unguarded grin that lit her whole face.
Ryan stopped mid-step. He hadn’t seen her smile like that in years.
Something was definitely up.
When she spotted him, her grin faltered into something smaller, but it didn’t disappear. She waved him over with a flick of her wrist.
“You’re here early,” she said once the last customer moved off with their latte.
“You’re in a good mood,” Ryan countered, narrowing his eyes.
She bit her lip like she was trying not to laugh, then reached under the counter and pulled out a folded slip of paper. She smoothed it flat on the wood and slid it toward him like it was contraband.
Another note.
Ryan leaned in to read.
“Some stories never make it to the shelves, but they still matter. Look where forgotten words are kept, and you’ll find the next chapter waiting.”
Then she pointed to an image of the local library on the note. Taylor’s eyes sparkled as she looked up at him. “It’s the library basement. The archives.”
Ryan groaned. “The archives? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
She laughed, low and bright. “Why do you sound like I just got drafted for jury duty? I worked a part-time job down there in high school. Don’t you remember?”
“Basements are where horror movies begin, Taylor.” He tapped the note with one blunt finger. “You’re not going down there alone. I’m going with you.”
Her shoulders shook with laughter. “You really think my secret admirer is hiding out in the library basement with a chainsaw?”
Ryan gave her a flat look. “Don’t joke. You don’t know who this guy is. All you know is he keeps leading you into isolated places and leaving gifts.”
She leaned her elbows on the counter, smiling like she knew exactly how to push his buttons. “And all I know is you keep showing up to play bodyguard. Again.”
Ryan didn’t blink. “That’s right. Again.”
Taylor shook her head, still smiling. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Prepared,” he shot back automatically.
Her laugh broke free, soft and infectious. “Fine. If it’ll help you sleep at night, you can come, but you’re ruining any chance I might have of getting swept off my feet and thoroughly kissed by my secret admirer.”
“I’m willing to risk it.”
Ryan didn’t say it, but the truth was, he didn’t intend for anyone to sweep Taylor off her feet but him.
Yeah. He wasn’t about to let her go to the library archives without him.
“Fine. Meet me this evening at the library entrance at seven. Don’t be late or I’m going in without you.”
* * *
By the time the sun dipped behind the rooftops, Ryan was already restless again. He met Taylor outside the library, bundled in her jacket, cheeks pink from the cold. She jingled a small key in her gloved hand, eyes glinting with mischief.
“You still have a key?” Ryan asked, incredulous.
Taylor grinned. “Perks of working here during college. Technically, I was supposed to return it when I quit, but they forgot, and I… didn’t remind them.”
Ryan shook his head. “So we’re breaking and entering now.”
“We’re not breaking. We’re entering.” She fit the key into the lock with a satisfying click. “And it’s not a crime if it’s for love.”
Ryan muttered something under his breath but followed her in, his flashlight already in hand. The library was dark, hushed in a way that felt heavier than daytime silence. Their footsteps echoed too loud against the tile as the door clicked shut behind them.
Taylor looked back, her smile still teasing. “You okay? You’re gripping that flashlight like it’s a weapon.”
“It is a weapon,” Ryan said. “If anything jumps out, I’m taking it down.”
Taylor snorted. “Like who? The ghost of Dewey Decimal?”
They made their way down the main aisle, the shelves looming like shadowy guardians. Dust motes drifted in the thin stripes of moonlight cutting through the high windows. Ryan kept scanning the corners, half-expecting to see someone lurking.
When they reached the narrow door to the basement, Taylor pulled the key again and pushed it open. The scent of old paper and damp stone rushed up at them. The staircase creaked beneath their boots as they descended.
Ryan swung the flashlight beam across rows of metal shelving, boxes stacked high, a few old tables with broken legs shoved against the wall. “This is it? This is where forgotten stories go to die?”
Taylor grinned. “Romantic, isn’t it?”
“Creepy,” Ryan corrected. He moved ahead of her automatically, the beam cutting a path. “Stay behind me.”
“Bossy,” she murmured, but she stayed close.
They moved slowly down the rows, Taylor’s fingers trailing the edges of dusty boxes. Ryan tried to keep his breathing even, but the air was heavy with mildew and age. The silence pressed in, broken only by the squeak of a distant pipe.
Then came the noise.
A sharp rustle from the far corner. Ryan froze, flashlight jerking toward the sound. “Did you hear that?”
Taylor stiffened. “Maybe just—”
Another rustle, louder this time. Something clattered to the floor.
Ryan shoved Taylor gently behind him, every muscle taut. “Stay here.”
“Ryan—”
He ignored her and edged forward, flashlight slicing through the shadows. The beam landed on a pair of glowing eyes.
Ryan swore.
A raccoon blinked at him from atop a stack of newspapers, one paw buried in an open box. It hissed, unimpressed, before scurrying into the dark.
Taylor burst out laughing. She doubled over, hand braced on her knee, her laughter echoing wildly through the basement. “You—you were ready to fight a raccoon!”
Ryan turned, scowling, but his ears burned. “That thing could’ve been dangerous.”
“It was looking for snacks.” She wiped at her eyes, still grinning. “Big bad Marine, defeated by a raccoon.”
Ryan tried to hold his glare, but the sound of her laughter softened him against his will. He shook his head and muttered, “One day, you’re going to thank me for being paranoid.”
She straightened, still smiling, and pointed. “Look.”
Tucked onto one of the shelves, resting on a pile of forgotten ledgers, was a small leather journal. The cover was supple and worn, the kind of thing someone would pick out carefully. A thin ribbon tied it closed.
Taylor reached for it reverently, brushing away dust. Her breath caught as she opened the cover.
Inside, in the same neat handwriting, was the message:
Fill this with the stories you’re too afraid to tell.
Her lips parted. She ran her hand over the page, eyes shining in the dim light. For a moment, she looked utterly undone, as if someone had reached into her chest and pulled out a secret she hadn’t shared with anyone.
Ryan watched her, a strange ache settling in his chest.
He swallowed. “What kind of stories?”
Taylor blinked, tucking the journal against her chest. “Nothing important.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
Ryan stepped closer, flashlight beam lowering. “You’ve been writing since you were a kid. You think I didn’t notice the way you hoarded notebooks like gold? You used to bite my head off if I even tried to look.”
She gave him a small, defiant smile. “I was writing about unicorns. Remember?”
He snorted. “Right.”
Her smile widened, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She wasn’t going to tell him, not tonight. Ryan let it go, but her unwillingness to open up gnawed at him. He knew her better than she thought, but getting her to trust him with things she kept close to the vest was becoming his favorite challenge.
Taylor broke the silence with a laugh, lighter now. “Well, good news. No stalker. Just one raccoon with a taste for vintage newspapers.”
Ryan shook his head, fighting a smile. “I still say it had murder in its eyes.”
She tucked the journal into her bag, looking lighter than she had when they walked in. “Thank you for coming, Ryan.”
He glanced at her, surprised. “You thought I wouldn’t?”
“I thought you’d tease me the whole time.”
“I did,” he pointed out.
She laughed again, and the sound filled the basement, chasing away the last of the shadows.
Ryan adjusted the flashlight, leading her back toward the stairs, but his thoughts stayed tangled. Because the real danger wasn’t the raccoon, or even a mystery admirer.
The real danger was that every time Taylor smiled, every time she clutched one of those gifts like it mattered more than anything, Ryan wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her like he’d wanted to when she was just a teenager.
And he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep pretending otherwise.