Cara
The kettle clicked off behind the counter as I checked the same line in my planner for the third time.
The week had moved slowly, and then, all at once, the way time does when something is coming.
Monday had been inventory. Tuesday, a supply run.
Wednesday, a long evening at the kitchen table with the clue packets spread out in front of me, second-guessing the order of the reveals for the last time before I finally sealed the envelopes and told myself that was that.
Thursday had disappeared entirely into logistics I couldn’t account for.
And now it was Friday; the shop was closed to regular hours while I stood checking the same line in my planner for the third time.
Everything on the list was already done. I turned the page, then flipped it back.
The shop was ready. I knew it was ready.
The tables were set with dark linen runners and low arrangements of white anemones and eucalyptus, the stems cut short so guests could see each other across the candlelight.
Each place had a tray—mismatched China I’d spent two weeks collecting from thrift shops—with a small pot of tea, and a plate of shortbread wrapped in wax paper and tied with twine.
Beside the tray, a sealed envelope in black wax.
My handwriting on the front. A leather-bound notebook and a fountain pen tucked underneath, along with a small card explaining the rules.
I had gone back and forth on the fountain pens.
They were impractical. They were also exactly right.
The flameless candles along the shelves cast everything in warm amber, soft enough to make the book spines glow, and the shadows between them settled into something mysterious.
I’d woven dried lavender and small white flowers through the shelves, and tucked in between them, small ceramic skulls and tiny brass magnifying glasses I’d found at the antique market in Sweetbriar, and the occasional dried oak leaf pressed flat and tucked between the spines like a bookmark someone had left behind.
The whole room smelled faintly of lavender and old paper and the shortbread cooling on the trays, undercut by the faint sweetness of the cinnamon candle I’d lit by the door.
Outside, the last of the daylight was slipping out of the front windows, the ceramic pumpkins on the ledge glowing copper and cream in the dusk.
Inside, Pine his smile was easy, assured, as though he’d already decided how the evening would go. He was dressed well. He knew it. I kept my expression pleasant and tried to remain neutral.
“Hey,” he said, resting a hand on the counter. “Wow.” He looked around with an expression that suggested he was generously impressed, the look of someone grading something they hadn’t made. “You really went all out.”
“Hi, Eric.”
“This is great.” His gaze came back to me and settled there, moving over the dress in a way that was just slow enough to register, and I felt the same thing I always felt when Eric looked at me like that—not flattered, just tired, and faintly annoyed at myself for wearing the dress at all, as though that were somehow my fault. “You look great.”
“Thank you. Any open table,” I said, keeping my voice even. “You’ll get grouped in.”
He didn’t move. “I’ll stay close. In case you need anything.”
I wanted to be at the other end of the room from him.
I wanted to be hosting my event, talking to the people who were here because they loved books, standing near the back table where Jasper was probably already being interrogated by his Aunt Nancy.
I wanted Eric Michaelson’s hand off my counter.
“I won’t be at the counter much,” I said. “I’m hosting. I’ll be moving around.”
“That’s fine,” he said, his smile unwavering. “I’ll find you.”
Lucy materialized from nowhere, appearing at his elbow with the serene expression of someone who had been waiting for exactly this moment and had enjoyed every second of the wait.
“Perfect timing,” she said, taking him lightly by the arm.
“We’ve got a great table for you right over here.
” She was already steering him toward the far corner, toward the table of senior book club members who would, I knew, talk at him without stopping for the rest of the evening.
“You’ll love this group. They have very strong opinions about Katy Brent novels. You’ll have a blast.”
I pressed my lips together hard and focused on the counter. Then I turned toward the room—the warm light, the full tables, the people I actually wanted to spend the evening with—and let it settle back around me. I straightened my script and took a breath.
More guests arrived. I shoved thoughts of Eric out of my mind, and Pine & Pages hummed with something that felt, for the first time all day, exactly like what I’d imagined.