She laughs, already heading back toward the mess.
“Never mind.”
Note to self: look up whoever Grandma Gatewood is.
32
Stormy
Pressing the pen tip to my lips, I pace slowly around the outdoor area of the bookshop.
It’s quiet except for the low hum of tools and the occasional breeze tugging at the blueprints on the table. So far, the only people I’ve managed to find to help are from out of town. No one local volunteered, not yet anyway. Well, except for Missy, Harper, and Will. They’ve all been absolute godsends. The kind of friend that shows up when it counts. I don’t know what I’d have done without them. Even Jensen popped by a few times to lend a hand. That man has arms like carved stone, strong enough to shift a whole stack of wood like it’s nothing. He wears masculinity like a second skin. No wonder James at the bar can’t stop staring. It’s painfully obvious, even to me, and I’ve only been there a handful of times.
Through the open side doors, I watch one of the workmen, kind-eyed and quietly focused, sanding down the wood for the snug area we’re building off the side of the shop. It’s taking shape. I scribble some notes on the notebook in my hands: a pergola with deep benches and sturdy tablestucked beneath it, fairy lights draped through the beams, trailing foliage overhead, thick cushions, throws, soft table runners. A space to breathe. A place to read.
I don’t want this to be just a bookshop. I want it to have a pulse. Somewhere people come to gather, not just to browse, but to connect and to talk about stories that moved them, characters they fell in love with, endings that left them speechless, aching, or whole. Conversation over cups of something warm—or cold—and pages turned with love and curiosity.
Inside is starting to look less like a project and more like a future. The roofs finally fixed. The floors are in. Counters and shelves are almost done. The weeks have been tiresome, but soon it'll be time to plaster and paint, which I’ve convinced myself I can somehow manage. And, after that, it’s mostly the finishing touches. Décor. A stock of books. A soul.
I’m so excited for this place to be finished and for the chance to finally begin my new life here, properly. To settle into a rhythm that’s mine, shaped by choice rather than control. A life where I decide what I do and when I do it. Where no one tells me to stay in when I want to step out into the world. But even as I picture that freedom, my mind drifts back to earlier today.
It was … weird. I went into town, and the moment the bell chimed over the shop doors, the staff looked at me. Not in the polite, small-town-curious kind of way. No. It was sharper than that. Like I’d done something wrong without knowing it.
In the little convenience store, the man behind the counter just stared. No smile, no greeting. I asked if they sold coconut water, because I’ve wanted it since I got here, and he didn’t even answer, just blinked and turned slightly, like I wasn’t worth the trouble. I searched the whole place on my own. They didn’t stock it, of course.
That’s one thing I miss about London. The ease of getting whatever I want without it being a production. Here, my comforts from home feel likeartefacts. Even the chocolate tastes off. One bite of the stuff and I nearly cried.
I know I’ve been here for a little while now, but I hadn’t actually needed to go into town until today. I’ve been so wrapped up in the bookshop—working through paperwork, organising where shelves will be, trying to make sense of what I am able to do. Between that, Missy’s been bringing me food, or I’ve been eating with her family, or just living off the basics I stocked the cottage with when I first arrived. But this morning I decided I couldn’t keep relying on Missy and her family or living on stale cereal and dry pasta any longer. I needed to get fresh fruit. Veg. Something nutritious.
I wonder if this is what Ford meant—that the local shopkeepers wouldn’t be thrilled about me being here. But surely not. People can’t be that petty … or that unfriendly. Can they?
Still, perhaps I need to find a way to resolve this and smooth things over. Show them I’m not here to cause trouble. I’ll need to give it some thought and see what I can do to shift the mood.
I glance down at my notepad, absently brushing my thumb over the sticky note stuck to the page. Ford came by again this morning, this time to fix the swing seat outside. It had started to creak, just slightly, but enough to break the tranquillity when I tried to read out there. I hadn’t asked him to do it. He just showed up and said he’d make it better for me.
While he worked outside, I got ready for the day and tried not to think too hard about how easy it is to let him into my space now. When I came back downstairs, he was already gone. But the book I’d left on the kitchen counter had something sticking out of it, tucked just where my bookmark was. A folded sticky note with his handwriting. Just a simple message: “Hope today’s a good one, Sunshine.”
It made my heart jump. That stupid, fluttery kind of beat that feels like it’s trying to tell me something I’m not ready to hear. Because it wasn’tjust thoughtful, it was sweet. And I don’t know what to do with sweetness when it’s coming from someone that I should be keeping at arm’s length.
It’s hard, though. Because God, he’s attractive. And the memory of that morning in the tent still runs hot through me, like I’ve been infected with Ford-infused venom, and I can feel it burning through my veins.
But we agreed it would be better for both of us to stay friends. That way, nothing gets complicated. And honestly, that’s probably wise, especially with everything I’ve got going on trying to get the bookshop up and running.
I don’t need a distraction from putting my life back on track. I don’t need anyone stepping into my world and risking everything I’ve worked so hard to escape. Not when I’m finally starting to feel like I might belong somewhere.
Still, it’s not like I’m forbidden from imagining him when I’m in bed at night with my battery-powered friend humming quietly in my hand. My mind replays the way his fingers coaxed pleasure from me like he knew exactly where and how I needed to be touched.
My skin prickles with heat, the air thick around me. The memory sears my mind, and I tug at the straps of my dress like that might cool the flush rising in my cheeks.
My body clearly doesn’t care much for logic, and my thoughts are tangled in the ache of what was … and what won’t be. I’m still deep in it, lost somewhere between longing and restraint, when a truck door slams shut, and footsteps crunch around the side of the building.
Will rounds the corner, all flushed cheeks and smiles.
“Hey,” he calls. “I’ve come to finish off the counter. Shelves are nearly done too.”
I straighten up quickly, fingers fumbling to pull the straps of my dress back onto my shoulders. But not before I catch the way Will’s eyes flick to the bare skin I’ve just exposed. There’s just a flicker ofsomething, but it’senough to unsettle me. It’s fleeting, gone almost as soon as it appears, and I shrug it off like it doesn’t matter. Like I didn’t notice.
“Hey,” I say, hoping my voice sounds casual and not like I’ve just been tangled up in memories that still make my pulse misbehave.
