Chapter Twenty-Six
Hilary
So it’s been a couple of days.
And I’m trying really hard not to lose my mind.
David is in L.A. He’s busy doing whatever it is international, stupidly talented, ridiculously attractive rockstars do when they’re launching a new single tied to a national sporting event.
Interviews.
Meetings.
Photoshoots.
Probably standing on rooftops looking broody while someone films it in slow motion.
Meanwhile, I’m back at The Book Shop.
Back behind the counter.
Back to ringing up paperbacks and recommending morally gray book boyfriends to my regulars like my life didn’t completely derail in a marble bathroom in Manhattan.
Bella’s back home too.
With Adrianna and Nathan.
Back in school.
Back to being a normal teenager—except now she’s also the girl who casually drops “oh yeah, I recorded in NYC with DJ Mars this weekend” into conversation like it’s no big deal.
Which—good for her.
She was going to pop over to L.A., but everyone thought she’d be more comfortable being interviewed closer to home, so they’ve arranged for that to happen here.
Which honestly, I’m glad.
She deserves that.
As for me?
I’m not normal. Not even a little.
Because things with David?
They’re weird.
Not bad weird.
Not ghosting, vanishing, you-were-just-a-moment weird.
No. He’s present.
Constantly.
Texts throughout the day.
Things like:
Did you eat?
How’s the shop?
You wearing that pink dress again?
Send me a pic of your panties.
He even calls every night.
And not short ones either.
Long calls. With real conversations.
About music.
About my store.
About nothing.
About everything.
And right before he hangs up?
Every single time—he pauses like he wants to say something.
He usually ends with, “I miss you, linda.”
Like it’s nothing.
Like it’s normal.
Like he didn’t just drop a verbal grenade into my chest and expect me to just go to sleep after that.
It’s surreal.
Completely, utterly surreal.
Because this?
This is not how this was supposed to go.
This was supposed to be—one night.
A blip in my life.
A story I tell myself later when I need a reminder that I once did something reckless and lived to tell the tale.
Not this.
Whatever this is.
I rest my chin on my hand behind the counter, staring out the front window at Main Street like it’s going to give me answers. It doesn’t.
Mrs. Delaney walks by with her poodle.
A couple of teens linger outside the ice cream shop.
Normal. Everything is normal.
Except me.
Because I feel like I’m waiting.
Waiting for something to break.
For the other shoe to drop.
For the moment he stops calling.
Stops texting.
Stops saying he misses me like I actually matter in his world.
Because that’s the part I don’t trust.
Not him.
Not exactly.
Just this feeling.
This ugly feeling like maybe my ex, Eric, was right about me.
Like maybe David’s going to realize it, too.
That he’s bored with me. That I’m too small town for him.
And when he does—God, that’s going to suck because the thing is, it’s already too late.
I’m in love with him.
Seriously. Like head over heels in love.
And the way it’s building? Expanding?
Like a bubble getting bigger and bigger and bigger.
And I’m just standing here inside it, knowing eventually—inevitably—it’s going to pop.
And I’m going to be the one left picking up the pieces.
“Earth to Larry.”
I blink.
Maribel is standing in front of me, arms crossed, one brow raised.
“You rang up that same book three times,” she says dryly.
I glance down.
Sure enough.
Same romance novel.
Same barcode.
Three receipts.
“Right. Shit,” I mutter, canceling them. “Sorry.”
She studies me for a second.
“You look distracted.”
“That’s one word for it.”
“Man trouble?”
I snort.
“More like man confusion.”
“Mmm.” She nods like that explains everything. “This about that sexy, dangerous DJ Mars who was in here the other day?”
“You recognized him?”
“I’m old, not dead,” Maribel retorts.
I snort a laugh.
Because I’m just that classy.
“So, things get confusing between you two?”
“You have no idea.”
But that’s the thing.
I don’t either.
Not really.
All I know is—a few days ago, my biggest problem was whether to reorder a shipment of cowboy romances.
Now?
Now I’ve got a man in my phone, in my head, and in my life.
A man who makes me feel like I’m standing on the edge of something huge. Something real. Something that could either be everything I’ve ever wanted.
Or maybe it’s the exact kind of heartbreak I’ve spent my whole life avoiding.
And I don’t know which one it’s going to be.
Not yet.
I’m dragged from my thoughts when the tiny bell above the door sounds as Bella bursts into the shop like a glitter bomb detonated in sneakers.
A gaggle of teenagers trails behind her, all wide eyes and phones already out.
“Larry! Put on the news! Put on the news!”
I barely have time to process what’s happening before she’s reaching over the counter, grabbing the remote, and flipping on the TV mounted in the corner of my shop.
The screen flashes—and there he is.
David.
Standing in bright L.A. sunshine with palm trees swaying behind him, the sky painfully blue.
He’s in a fitted black tee and sunglasses, hair pushed back by the breeze like some kind of cinematic fantasy.
God. He looks good.
And—gulp—he looks like he belongs there.
Next to him is a stunning reporter—sleek, glossy hair, perfect white smile, hand resting just a little too comfortably on his forearm.
Something sharp twists in my stomach.
Insecurity. Jealousy.
Hot and immediate.
Because she fits that world.
She fits him.
And I’m just—a bookish Jersey girl in a cardigan with a coffee stain on the sleeve.
But the second I think it, he’s already moving his arm, making her hand drop as if he doesn’t like her hand on him either.
“And there you have it,” the reporter is saying, beaming into the camera. “DJ Mars is dropping the new Rugby Championship Cup single, Try For Me, this weekend at kickoff—featuring brand new recording sensation Bella Bosco.”
Bella squeals behind me. One of her friends gasps. The shop suddenly feels very small.
“And tell me, DJ Mars,” the reporter continues, turning to him with that coy tilt of her head. “What are your plans for the future? Still haunting L.A. nightclubs? And—” she pauses, smiling wider, “are you still single?”
The world slows.
Everything in the shop goes quiet.
Even Bella.
Even the kids.
I feel it before I hear it—the thud of my own heartbeat in my ears.
He leans toward the mic.
Slow.
Unbothered.
Confident.
That familiar smirk curves his mouth, but there’s something different in his eyes.
Something steadier.
“Actually,” he says, voice smooth but firm, “that is a hard no to both those questions.”
The words land like a dropped glass.
No.
No?
The reporter blinks.
“Oh?” she laughs lightly. “And do we know this lucky lady?”
And I swear to God I stop breathing.
David pushes his sunglasses up into his hair.
Looks straight at the camera.
And something in his expression shifts.
It’s not performative.
It’s not flirtatious.
It’s serious.
“I doubt it. And I’m not naming her because I don’t put my private life on display,” he says evenly. “But yeah, I’m not single. Hear that, linda? I’ll see you soon.”
The shop explodes.
Bella screams.
Her friends start filming the TV.
Someone yells, “Oh my God!”
But I can’t hear any of it.
Because I’m frozen.
Stunned.
My fingers gripping the edge of the counter so tight my knuckles ache.
Not single.
He didn’t dodge it.
Didn’t laugh it off.
Didn’t say it’s complicated.
He said no. And he said it matter-of-factly.
Like it was carved in stone.
Like it wasn’t up for debate.
The reporter recovers quickly. “Lucky lady,” she says again.
David’s mouth twitches.
“Nah. I’m the lucky one,” he says quietly.
And there’s no smirk now.
No performance.
Just certainty.
“There you have it, folks. Stay tuned for Try for Me by DJ Mars and guest vocals Bella Bosco!”
The screen cuts back to the anchor desk.
The shop is chaos.
Bella is jumping up and down.
“HE SAID MY NAME! ON TV!” she shrieks. “LARRY!”
“And more importantly,” Maribel adds, “He said he’s not single, Hilary.”
I don’t move.
I can’t.
Because that bubble I’ve been waiting to burst?
It didn’t pop.
It expanded.
Bigger.
Brighter.
Twice as dangerous.
And I don’t know whether to laugh or cry or run.
Because whether I’m ready to admit it or not—David’s not just in my phone.
He’s not just in my life.
He’s in my heart.
For better or worse.