#RidingTheStorm #BookshopDreams #FoundFamily #HealingInPages #ChapterOneBegins
I click ‘send’ on my new post and glance around the bookshop—my bookshop. Sunlight spills across the wooden floors, catching the soft glint of the hanging lights and the mismatched chairs we rescued and repainted. It took me a while to settle on a name. Everyone tossed ideas into the metaphorical hat. Some were clever, some were chaotic. But I kept circling back to the same simple phrase: Chapter One.
It felt right. A beginning not just for the shop, but for me. It was symbolic and powerful. A fresh start, rooted in stories and stitched together by the people I’ve come to love.
Missy stands behind the counter, already charming every customer who walks through the door. She still works a few shifts at the café, apparently the pastry perks are non-negotiable, but she’s mostly here, with me, helping shape this new chapter. She’s turned the place into a whirlwind of colour and sass, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Jensen, Harper, and Kit are huddled by one of the shelves, giggling over a stack of smutty romance novels like the schoolkids they so clearly are … Jensen included. It’s good to see Harper and Kit talking again.
Andoutside, Grace sits beneath the canopy of fairy lights and climbing flowers, chatting with a few of the local ladies. The townsfolk are slowly warming to the shop. They’re curious and cautious, but they’re coming. One woman brought in lemon cakes. A kid asked if she could work here someday and someone left a note tucked between the fantasy books: “Thanks for making space for stories.”
There are still a few who disapprove. But we’re working on winning them over. We’ve got plans; the writing workshops, local produce shelves, ‘Shop & Read’ deals that reward customers for supporting nearby businesses. And we only stock indie books, so the traditional titles still have their place elsewhere. We’re not replacing anything. We’re just … adding something new.
Then the doorbell chimes.
And there he is.
The man I’m falling hopelessly for, day after day. He strides towards me in worn boots with his jeans tucked in. His flannel shirt is rolled to the elbows because he knows that makes me weak. In his hand he holds a bunch freshly picked wildflowers. And on his head … there’s a cowboy hat. A cowboy hat that he swore he’d never earn.
But I told him he had. That he’d earned it a hundred times over.
And slowly, gently, he started to believe me.
I’m proud of him.
And I’m proud of me, too.
Then the thought hits, sharp and sudden. Would Mum be proud? Would my sister?
The ache rises, familiar and fierce. But I breathe through it, let it settle. Let it soften.
I think they would be.
I think they’d see me now—soft, strong, choosing joy—and they’d be proud.
Ford
Stormy turns at the sound of the doorbell—the chime gives me away—and just like every time, I forget how to breathe.
Her ocean-blue eyes find mine. Her hair’s pulled into a messy bun, but strands have slipped free, framing her face in a way that feels almost intentional. And those freckles, God, those freckles. They’ve deepened with each sunlit day she’s been here, scattered across her nose and cheeks like constellations I never knew I’d memorise.
And, somehow, I love them even more. More than I ever thought I could.
The bookshops open now. Not just the doors, but the whole damn place. Light pours in through the windows, illuminating the shelves filled with stories in warm, golden light. It’s hers. All of it. And somehow, she let me be part of it.
I’m proud of her. So damn proud. After everything she’s been through, everything she’s done to get here.
I’m working less these days. Not because I’ve got it all figured out, but because I’m learning that rest isn’t weakness. That showing up—for her, for my family, for myself—means more than grinding myself into the ground. And I’m kinder to myself now. There’s always going to be days I feel like I’m failing, but I’m learning to meet those days with grace instead of punishment. To remind myself that strength doesn’t always look like pushing through.
Stormy taught me that. Not with lectures, not with pointed words, but with the way she moves through the world. With grace. With grit. With softness that doesn’t apologise for existing.
Her nightmares are rare now. Some nights she still reaches for me in her sleep, fingers curling into my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll vanish. I don’t. I stay.Every time. And when she wakes, she doesn’t flinch, she just breathes, settles, and pulls me closer.
I watch as she hands a book to a kid who looks like he’s never been properly listened to. She crouches down until she’s eye-level and says something quiet that makes his whole face light up. That’s Stormy. She doesn’t just make people happy, she makes them feel seen. And every day, I fall a little harder.
It’s not just a slow drift anymore. It’s a freefall. And I know she feels it too. I see it in the way she looks at me when she thinks I’m not watching. In the way her hand finds mine without hesitation. In the way she lets me in.
She caught me staring the other night, half-asleep and tangled in the sheets. Asked what I was thinking.
