Cara
Icame down the narrow staircase from my apartment just after eight, the familiar creak of the steps sounding beneath my feet. The shop waited at the bottom, lights still off, windows catching the early morning sun.
I still had a little time before opening—that soft pocket of morning I guarded carefully. Enough for a cup of tea, a walk—usually with my grandma—and one last pass through my list.
I paused at the front window. Honeybrook Hollow was already moving.
A couple walked by with coffee cups in hand, the bakery lights flicked on across the street, and through the wide front window, I spotted Piper behind the counter, already in motion.
She glanced up, caught sight of me, and lifted a hand in a cheerful wave.
I smiled and waved back, warmth settling in my chest as she disappeared into the back.
Mystery Night hovered at the edge of everything.
I scanned the shop, mentally ticking off my list. Tables would need to be moved.
Chairs pulled from the back. Clue envelopes restocked and labeled—again, since I’d already redone them twice.
The sign in the window caught the light as I turned back toward the counter, and my stomach flipped, equal parts excitement and dread.
This was my idea. That fact alone made it heavier.
I moved toward the mystery section and straightened a stack that didn’t need it, aligning spines that were already neat. I liked order. It made things feel manageable—if I could make everything look right, then it would be right. That was how it worked. Usually.
I reached for the kettle and set it on to boil, the quiet click grounding me as I went back to the counter and opened my planner.
Notes crowded the margins—times, reminders, little stars next to things I was pretending weren’t making me nervous.
It was going to be fine, I told myself. It was just a Mystery Night.
Cozy and small, exactly the kind of thing Pine & Pages was meant for, exactly how my great-grandmother had intended this place to be.
Mystery Night wasn’t really about mysteries, not at its core.
It was about books—and the special, hopeful way they brought people together when you gave them the chance.
I wanted people to feel welcome enough to wander the shelves, to talk about what they loved, to stay longer than they planned.
I wanted Pine & Pages to feel the way it had when my great-grandmother ran it, then after her, my grandfather—not just a bookstore, but a place where something small and good always seemed to be happening.
A place to escape into when life got hard.
I’d grown up watching my grandpa recommend books as if he were sharing secrets.
Never flashy, never loud. He remembered what people liked.
He asked questions. He made reading feel social without making anyone feel put on the spot.
I’d inherited the love of books easily enough.
The ease, the confidence—that part didn’t come as naturally, but I was determined to try harder.
Mystery Night felt like a way to be like him.
A way to invite people in without having to stand in front of them and talk about myself.
Books could do the heavy lifting. I could set the scene, guide the experience, and let the stories give people something to hold on to while I worked up the courage to take up a little more space of my own.
I spread the materials out in front of me—clue envelopes stacked neatly, bookmarks fanned beside them, a handwritten outline I’d revised so many times the paper was starting to soften at the edges.
I reread the opening paragraph, tweaking a word here and there, even though I knew it worked. It had to work.
I moved through the shop, testing the flow the way I would on the night itself. If people gathered near the front first, then split into groups—if the clues led them toward the back shelves—if the final reveal happened near the counter, where everyone could hear—
The kettle clicked off. I welcomed the interruption.
I poured the water and watched the tea darken as it steeped, relaxing into the familiar routine. Steam curled toward the ceiling, warm and steady. I was just lining up the clue envelopes for the third time when a sharp tap sounded against the front window.
My Grandma Mabel stood outside, waving enthusiastically. I smiled before I even reached the door.
“Cara,” she announced as I unlocked it, like she was stepping onto a stage. “I’ve come to rescue you.”
She grinned at me, neon purple tracksuit glowing in the morning light, gold jewelry catching the sun with every movement.
At her feet were her three pugs—leashes tangled together like they’d been plotting something.
We walked them together most mornings. Mildred, Harold, and Dot never failed to behave exactly as their names suggested.
Mildred sniffed the threshold suspiciously.
Harold sat down immediately, refusing to move on principle.
Dot blinked up at me, hopeful as always.
“Rescue me from what?” I asked.
“From yourself,” Grandma said cheerfully. “I know that look. You’re stressing. That’s never good. We’re going for our walk, and you’re going to chill out.”
The pugs chose that moment to begin arguing—snorting, huffing, attempting to head in three different directions at once. I laughed despite myself and grabbed my jacket from the hook by the counter.
“Okay. But only if I get to walk Dot.”
“Of course you can,” Grandma said, handing me the leash. “She’s the emotional support pug. You need her more than me today.”
Outside, the late morning sun had warmed the sidewalk, and we set off at a pace dictated entirely by how often the pugs wanted to stop and investigate absolutely nothing. Grandma narrated their progress without being asked.
“Mildred believes in lingering,” she said as one pug planted herself firmly in place. “Harold is dramatic. Dot is just here for vibes.”
“It’s good some things never change,” I said.
We made it half a block before she glanced sideways at me. “So. Are you dating anyone new? A little birdy told me about where you were last weekend.”
I groaned softly. “Can we not?”
“Oh, we can,” she said brightly. “We simply haven’t yet today.”
I sighed. “So yeah, I had a date. For the record, was the bird named Eliza?”
“Yes. But don’t get mad at her. I had to drag it out of her. Was he tall? Handsome? Emotionally available? She wouldn’t give me any details.”
“He was fine,” I said. “Nice. We didn’t click.”
“I see.” She nodded sagely. “Did you ghost him?”
“No,” I said quickly. “I didn’t ghost him. That’s rude.”
“Did you soft-ghost him?” she asked. “Or is it called haunt? The children are always haunting each other nowadays.”
I laughed. “No haunting. No ghosting. I let him down nicely. We went to school together, Grandma. I’ve known him forever.”
She hummed thoughtfully as the pugs paused again, all three noses down. “Some people don’t hear ‘no’ the way you say it.”
“He seemed fine with it,” I said.
Grandma studied me for a moment, then smiled. “You’ve always been kind. Sometimes a little too kind. That’s not a flaw—it just means I have to keep an eye on you and be ready to kick some ass.”
We walked in comfortable silence for half a block while Dot investigated a crack in the sidewalk with scientific dedication.
“Can I say something else?” Grandma asked in the tone that meant she was going to, regardless.
“You always do.”
“You spend all day making sure everyone finds what they need.” She glanced sideways at me, eyes shining in the morning light.
“Books, recommendations, that little tea corner, the book club. You take care of this whole town in your own sweet way, baby girl. When’s the last time you let someone do that for you? How are you, really?”
I opened my mouth.
“And ‘I’m fine’ doesn’t count,” she added. “You need more out of life. Not just saying yes to a date with someone who’s been pestering you for years.”
“What? Eliza doesn’t know Eric.” I closed my mouth. I should have known. She rarely asked questions unless she already knew everything.
“No.” She grinned. “But Lucy does.” Grandma nodded, satisfied, and let Harold drag her toward a lamppost. She didn’t push after that. She never had to. She just planted things and let them grow. “You should know I know everything and I’m here when you need me.”
“Okay…”
By the time we looped back toward Pine & Pages, the walk had turned into a slow-moving procession.
People stopped to chat, laugh at the pugs, and comment on the tracksuit.
Grandma moved through it all like she was born for it—waving, calling out greetings, asking after grandkids, reminding someone about lunch.
“Mabel!” “Looking fabulous!” “Tell that husband of yours I said hi!”
She waved back at everyone like a queen on parade. Grandma Mabel knew everyone in Honeybrook Hollow—and if they were new to town, she would know them by the end of the week.
When we finally reached the shop, she squeezed my arm gently. “Your grandpa is going to love Mystery Night,” she said, softer now. “He’ll pretend he’s calm about it, but he’s already bragging to anyone who’ll listen.”
That thought settled somewhere deep in my chest and stayed there.
Grandma Mabel finally headed off down the sidewalk, pugs in tow and still waving at passersby. I watched until she disappeared around the corner, then turned back to Pine & Pages, feeling lighter than I had all morning.
Inside, I hung my jacket on the hook and went behind the counter. It was nearly time to open. There were things to do. I walked the floor once more, gave the clue envelopes one final check, and let myself feel something closer to ready.
I got down to business as the first customer of the day stepped inside. I straightened, smiled, and went to meet them.
By late morning, the shop had gone quiet. The early crowd had drifted elsewhere, off to cafés and errands and conversations that didn’t involve books. Pine & Pages settled into the soft lull I knew well, the one where time stretched, and the space settled into the quiet magic I loved.
I restocked a display, wiped down the counter, and paused at the front window.
That was when I saw him.
Jasper jogged past the shop, headphones in, dark hair damp with sweat.
His t-shirt clung to him in a way that made my breath catch before I could stop it, outlining broad shoulders and arms built in a way that felt earned.
A slim brace wrapped his knee, visible where his shorts rode up as he moved—a detail that complicated the moment even as it registered in my brain.
Heat moved through me, quick and unwelcome, settling low in my stomach before I could talk myself out of it.
He glanced up—just a flick of attention—and our eyes met through the glass. He lifted a hand. I smiled back before I could think better of it, my pulse kicking up hard and fast.
He kept running, disappearing down the block as if the moment had been nothing at all.
For me, it hadn’t been nothing.
I stayed by the window a little too long, my reflection faint in the glass.
Jasper Dean was history. The complicated kind, the kind I had once convinced myself meant more than it actually did, only to slowly talk myself out of that version of events over the years.
What I’d thought I saw between us in high school had probably never been real.
Back then, I’d been sure of it. The way he lingered after tutoring sessions, the way conversations sometimes stretched past the hour, the way he looked at me like he was actually listening.
I had filled in the gaps with meaning that wasn’t really there, the way you do when you’re fifteen and don’t yet know the difference between someone being present and someone actually feeling something.
When he left for the Marines, there hadn’t been anything that followed to prove me right. Just distance, and eventually a letter I kept longer than I should have, not because it confirmed anything romantic, but because I needed closure.
Eventually, I told myself the simplest version of it. I had misread him. It had been one-sided, just like a lot of teenage things are.
That was the version I lived with now. The one that made it possible to see him around Honeybrook Hollow without feeling like everything in me had toppled off balance.
I offered polite nods, brief smiles, and distance that matched the story I told myself, that it had only ever been me who felt anything at all.
Until he smiled at me like that again, and my body reacted before I could remind myself there had never actually been anything there to begin with.
I had a shop to run and a Mystery Night to pull off and a life that didn’t need an old crush stirred back to life just because someone looked good jogging past my window.
But the warmth followed me back to the counter anyway, quiet and persistent, like a question I didn’t have an answer for yet—and I wasn’t sure I was ready to find one.