Chapter 29
Lily
I pushed open the bookstore door with my hip, coffee balanced in one hand, binder tucked under my arm, already talking to myself about permits and power strips—and then froze.
There was a garment rack leaning against the front table like it had been delivered by a fairy godmother.
Two tall mirrors stood wrapped in light brown paper, “FRAGILE” written in marker across the front in block letters.
A coil of string lights peeked out of a box labeled LIGHTING—DO NOT TANGLE.
And the back third of the floor—once a jumbled landscape of postponed decisions and forgotten projects—now stood bare. A blank canvas. Ready.
A thump overhead. Footsteps. The old stairs groaned.
“Hello?” I called, already grinning, already knowing.
Ethan appeared at the bottom of the stairs with a folded canvas backdrop slung over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.
He paused when he saw me, and for a second we just looked at each other—me in the doorway with my coffee and my heart somewhere near my mouth, him with that I-did-a-thing-and-don’t-make-it-weird expression.
“I, uh.” He shifted the backdrop to the other shoulder. “Had an idea. Figured we could… make it work.”
“You—” I set my coffee on the nearest stack of paperbacks before I dropped it. “You did all this last night?”
His mouth twitched. “Some of it. Upstairs too. Nate helped. Don’t ask how many favors I owe him now.”
I crossed the floor without thinking and pressed my palm to the brown paper covering the mirror, like I could feel the future through it. String lights. Racks. An upstairs room cleared out by a man who hates clutter and change in equal measure.
For me. For this.
A rush of warmth flooded my chest, not just at the thought of transforming this space but at the realization that Ethan was here—his quiet strength behind every decision, his willingness to help me dream bigger.
I'd been a professional nomad for years, setting up shop in towns across the country, but no one had ever carved out physical space for my dreams like this. My chest tightened as I ran my fingers along the edge of the garment rack. People usually saw the glossy business card, the polished pitch, the results—not me. And that’s how I’ve always liked it, need it to be.
Yet here was Ethan, making room in his carefully ordered world.
And that terrified me more than any looming deadline, because temporary became complicated when someone noticed the person behind the plans.
“Ethan,” I said, and my voice went softer than I meant it to. “This is… perfect.”
He looked relieved and immediately tried to play it off. “It’s a start. You’ll tell me what I got wrong.”
“I will,” I said, because that was our language, then added, “but not today.”
He nodded toward my coffee. “Before you cry, drink your coffee.”
“I’m not crying.” I was absolutely blinking too fast.
I scooped up the cup, took a bracing sip, and made myself move, switching on the stereo.
Dave Matthews Band’s “Crash Into Me” filled the aisles, the lyrics hanging in the air between us.
I caught Ethan's eyes for a half-second too long before we both looked away.
I planted my binder on the back table and let the morning spool out.
“Okay,” I said, flipping to the day’s tab, “we’re juggling. Prom and Summerfest, minimal chaos.”
“Define minimal,” he said, but he was already refilling the pen cup and sliding me a stack of sticky notes without being asked.
By nine-fifteen, I had Mrs. Hayes on the line.
“Hi, Mrs. Hayes! Yes, I’m so glad you’re on board for Summerfest!
I was thinking we could set up a root beer float stand near the entrance—it’ll be a great way to draw people in.
Can you help coordinate the volunteers for that?
Perfect.” I ended the call and wrote ROOTBEER STAND—LOCKED in a fat square of pink.
Just then, the front door chimed and Daniel Chen stepped in, wiping his hands on his apron. He owned Golden Garden, the only Chinese restaurant in town and the best fried rice within fifty miles.
“Miss Lily,” he said, smiling, “I heard you’re planning the fair. Maybe this year, Golden Garden brings something different? No one wants only corn dogs. People want flavor.”
I perked up immediately. “Wait? Are you saying egg rolls and fried rice at Summerfest? Absolutely yes. I’ve been dreaming of something that doesn’t come on a stick.”
Mr. Chen chuckled. “I’ll make a special menu—small plates, easy to walk with. Sweet chili chicken, maybe dumplings.”
“Done,” I said, scribbling furiously in my planner. “Golden Garden—premium spot, right between the lemonade stand and kettle corn. We’ll call it cultural enrichment.”
He laughed. "Thank you, Miss Lily. I'll see you at the fair." He gave a small wave and headed back toward his restaurant.
“Permits,” I told myself. “Rides. Food.”
Corn dogs and funnel cakes were easy—those vendors called me.
The kettle corn guy tried to upsell me on “themed flavors,” which I shut down with a “this is not Willy Wonka, sir, but I love your ambition.” Rides were trickier, but the Ferris wheel was nonnegotiable.
The operator grumbled about delivery windows and insurance.
I grinned into the receiver and said, “I’ll feed you Joni’s breakfast for three days,” and like magic, we had a Ferris wheel.
Between calls, I kept glancing at the racks, at the box of lights, at the cleared space upstairs that felt like a possibility.
The bell jingled, and in walked Lynn, still in her work skirt and blazer, a folder tucked under her arm.
“Hey there! I’m on my lunch break and I figured I’d catch you here,” she said, glancing around at the chaos of my sticky notes, poster board, and glitter-sprinkled desk. “Kayla hasn’t stopped talking about your prom idea.”
I popped up from my chair, binder in hand. “Perfect timing. I need you. Big time.”
Her brow arched, but she pulled up a chair. “I’m listening.”
So I spilled it—how I wanted to make a boutique that didn’t feel like charity, how I wanted kids to feel like they were stepping into something magical, how it had to be fair and dignified. Lynn’s face softened as I spoke, that steady teacher look that made you feel both seen and guided.
“Keep it broad,” she said after a moment. “We’ll frame it as a community boutique—open to anyone. Some will donate, some will shop, some will just browse. No labels, no pointing fingers. I’ll handle flyers and announcements at the high school. Quiet, but clear.”
I scribbled furiously. “Yes, yes, that’s perfect. And Thursday night for fittings? Then Saturday morning, we can line up hair and makeup appointments.”
“I’ll ask the quilting ladies at church to come in,” Lynn said, already two steps ahead. “They’re wizards with a needle, and they’ll love hemming dresses, fixing zippers, even steaming a suit or two.”
“I can rope in Maggie and Sarah for hair and makeup. Oh! And I’m sure Rachel can help with flowers!
” I added, jotting their names in bold across my planner.
Then I looked up, a grin tugging at my mouth.
“Oh, and I already reached out to some contacts from a clothing line I worked with in Columbus. They’re shipping a box of sample gowns that never made it to production. Brand-new, gorgeous, and free.”
She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “The kids are going to remember it forever. You’ve got this, Lily.”
I blinked too fast, throat tight, but I managed a grin. “Only if you promise to keep me sane through it.”
“Deal.”
The rest of the afternoon blurred into a kind of organized chaos—the good kind.
My phone lived glued to my ear, my binder bled fresh sticky notes, and the label maker practically begged for mercy.
One call to a rides vendor in Dayton, another to a local guy who'd designed "Willowbrook Forever" t-shirts and promised he could have five hundred "Summerfest" tanks printed by opening day. A spreadsheet for Summerfest contracts. A separate tab for the prom boutique. Somewhere between the two, I was juggling Rachel’s yes for flowers, Maggie’s maybe for makeup, and Sarah’s “Yes, I’ll do hair but only if I can tease bangs like it’s 1987.”
Ethan worked the counter like he always did—quiet, steady, present—but this time I kept catching him watching me.
Not in a way that made me self-conscious, exactly.
Just… steady glances that hovered a little too long, a faint smile tugging at his mouth like he couldn’t help it.
Every time I looked up from my planner, there he was—hand on the register, leaning against the shelves, eyes soft in a way I hadn’t seen before.
I buried myself in work, because that’s what I do. But the truth threaded through every page I scribbled: he’d cleared space upstairs for me. He’d made the boutique real before I even had a plan. And I couldn’t shake how much that meant.
Around three, Kayla and Jason tumbled in, backpacks and chatter and energy. They beelined for me like we were running a command center.
“Poster drafts for the Prom Boutique,” Kayla announced, dropping a stack of bright, glitter-bombed options on my table. “Also, I checked with the librarian. She said we can hang flyers if we use painter’s tape.”
Jason leaned in, eyes gleaming. "Got the risers from Mr. McCullen—those black ones from band concerts. We can line them up." His finger traced through the air. "Instant runway.”
Kayla’s cheeks went pink, but she nodded fast. “And I’ve been talking it up at school. People are already asking if it’s true. My friend Marcy was practically crying and wants to come help set up.”
That landed deep, but I kept my smile bright. “That’s exactly the point. We make it easy, we make it fun, and nobody misses out.”
They spilled more of their ideas, already tumbling into plans, and for the first time that afternoon, I let myself sit back and just… breathe. My little hype team had this.
By early evening, the bell chimed one final time, and then it was just the two of us again: the music low, the light warm, the racks quietly waiting.
I slid my chair back and stood, stretching out a crick in my neck. “So,” I said, turning to where he was re-tying the LIGHTING box, “when exactly were you going to tell me you turned your apartment into Cinderella’s fitting room?”
He didn’t look up. “Um, I guess today?”
I walked over and nudged his shoulder. “I can’t believe you did this.” I waited until he had to meet my eyes. “Thank you.”
He held my gaze a beat too long, then ducked it. “You’re welcome.”
Something eased between us, warm and easy. I could’ve ruined it with a joke; I didn’t.
Instead, I flipped open my binder to a clean page and wrote in big, looping letters: PROM BOUTIQUE—WISHES MADE REAL. I underlined it twice, then drew a ribbon curling around the words the way I imagined it would around the oak’s branches.
“Tomorrow,” I told him, “I’ll start outreach for donations. Dresses, suits, shoes—the works. Lynn will coordinate pick-ups at the school. I’ll do a call-out on the local news and see if David wants a human-interest piece. We can make it feel… big. Not pity. Big.”
He nodded, thoughtful. “We’ll need a sign at the door. Something that says what it is without making anyone feel small.”
“I’ll write it,” I said, already hearing the words. Take what you need. Give what you can. “And we’ll put a mirror by the register for accessories. Scarves, jewelry. I’ll raid my closet.”
When I finally gathered my things, I couldn’t resist one more trip up the stairs.
I flicked on one of the warm lamps and stood in the middle of the cleared floor, trying to see it the way the kids would: strings of light, a line of dresses in every color we could find, laughter echoing, somebody twirling once just to test the hem.
I glanced at Ethan in the doorway, one shoulder against the frame, hands in his pockets, watching me watch the room.
“You know,” I said, “for a guy who claims he hates change, you’re weirdly good at making room for it.”
His mouth quirked. “Sometimes it’s worth it.”
As those words hung in the air between us, I felt a thrill ripple through me—an unspoken promise that echoed in that charged moment.
The warmth of his gaze lingered on me, pulling me closer, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he felt it too.
There was a spark, a flicker of something more, and I wished I could lean into that moment just a little longer.
I turned off the light and followed him down, locking the door behind us. The street was lavender with evening, the window throwing back our reflections—two people standing in a small-town bookstore that was somehow becoming more than a bookstore.
“See you in the morning, Harper,” he said.
“Bright and obnoxiously early,” I promised.
On my way to my car, I scribbled one last line on a sticky note and stuck it to my binder:
MAKE WISHES. START HERE.