Jasper #2
It wasn’t a complicated building. Two stories of old brick on the corner of Sycamore and Mill, the painted sign above the door, the autumnal window display a careful arrangement of books, handwritten cards and a small ceramic lamp that was on, which meant she was in there.
I knew her car. I’d clocked it in the alley without deciding to as I drove past.
I ran a hand through my hair and looked at the door.
The thing was, I’d walked into situations considerably more requiring of composure than a bookstore in a small town.
I was aware of the irony. I was also aware that none of those situations had involved Cara Darlington on the other side of the door, which my body apparently considered relevant information regardless of what my brain thought about it.
I’d been shot at. I’d held a fireteam together in conditions that didn’t bear describing over dinner.
I had, by any reasonable metric, nerves that functioned under pressure.
I almost turned back to the truck.
I didn’t, because that was ridiculous, and because I’d been almost turning back for the better part of a year every time I drove past this corner, and at some point, a man had to just open the damn door.
I pushed it open.
The bell chimed. Warmth wrapped around me first. The place felt peaceful, as if the noise outside had been turned down before it crossed the threshold.
Books lined every wall, shelves packed tight, spines brushing close like they’d been there long enough to settle into each other.
Tables broke up the space, with stacks arranged without symmetry yet somehow balanced.
Little handwritten cards sat tucked beneath rows, ink looping across them in careful script.
I took a few steps in, slower than I needed to, boots creaking faintly against the floorboards.
Cara stood behind the counter. She didn’t look up right away.
Glasses on. Same thick frames. Hair pulled back, but not tight—strands already slipping loose near her temples.
She leaned over a clipboard, pen moving in short, precise strokes, like she was trying to pin something down before it got away.
My breath caught. A warmth moved through my chest, low and certain, the kind that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room and everything to do with her.
I’d seen her around town plenty since I’d been back.
Enough that I’d thought I had a handle on it—on her, on whatever it was that happened in my peripheral vision every time she walked into a room I was already in.
I’d managed it fine at the bar. Polite distance, neutral expression, the careful architecture of two people pretending the past was just the past. I’d been good at it.
Standing still in a quiet bookstore while she existed twelve feet away from me, apparently, was a different problem entirely.
There was a crease between her brows I didn’t remember being there before, when I used to know her. I made myself look away and then looked back, because my self-discipline had apparently been left outside the door.
A customer stepped in front of her, talking. Cara nodded, raised her head to carefully listen—eyes steady, attention fixed in a way that made the guy straighten a little, like being heard mattered more than he expected. She smiled at something he said, and it changed her whole face for a second.
I looked away before she could catch me watching and took a breath that was steadier than I felt and reminded myself I’d come in here for books.
The mystery section was easy to find. The edges of the spines lined up just a little too perfectly. I ran a hand along them as I passed.
Classic whodunits.
Small-town secrets.
Cozy, but make it stabby.
That last one almost got a laugh out of me.
I pulled a book free, flipped it open, and pretended to read.
The floor creaked again somewhere behind me.
The soft thud of a book being set down. The faint clink of a ceramic mug against the counter.
I could still picture her without looking.
The way she held herself, as if she belonged here now, surrounded by books.
She’d always belonged in a place like this, I realized.
I just hadn’t seen it then. Back in the Sweetbriar High library, she’d sat across from me with a notebook open, tapping her pen lightly against the page while she explained things I should’ve already understood.
She never rushed me. Never made it obvious I was behind.
Sometimes she’d read passages out loud, then look up at me—not waiting for the right answer.
Just waiting to see what my answer would be.
As if I couldn’t be wrong, just different.
I ended up staying longer and longer for our sessions.
The chime of the bell brought me back to the present. I turned a page I didn’t absorb, and finally glanced up.
The customer was gone. Cara was still behind the counter, but now she was alone, head bent again over the clipboard. She exhaled slowly, shoulders rising, then dropping as if she’d just reset something in herself.
I stepped up before I could overthink it. The creaky floor gave me away.
Her head lifted. For a second—just a second—something unguarded crossed her face. A surprised smile lit up her face, there and gone in a second. “Hey,” she said.
“Hey.” My voice came out lower than I intended. I set the book on the counter. It landed with a soft thump between us.
She glanced down at it, buying herself a second. Her fingers curled around the edge, turning it just enough to read the title. “Mystery?” she asked.
“Seemed like a place to start.”
“Yeah.” She nodded once. “That one’s good. It—” She stopped, shook her head lightly. “It keeps you guessing.”
“Sounds intriguing.”
Her mouth tipped at that. Not quite a smile, but close—and I felt it move through me before I’d decided to let it. I’d forgotten how she did that. How something that small from her could land somewhere disproportionate. I kept my expression where it was and said nothing.