“You’ve been jumpy for a week,” Laura says. “You rearranged the romance section three times in two days. You’re even drinking tea instead of your usual murderously strong coffee.”
“It’s nothing,” I say, too quickly.
From her corner table, Sophia looks up. She’s mid-way through writing a note on one of her signature lavender postcards. She’s been doing it for weeks now—sliding them into her favorite mystery author’s books before her “intended” comes in to pick one up. They are so cute.
A shy, soft little secret romance playing out between the stacks.
She catches my eye, gives me a curious smile. She doesn’t ask. She watches.
And then she frowns, just slightly, and lowers her pen and makes her way to where we are.
“I thought maybe you had a secret admirer, or maybe Elijah decided to leave you love notes” Mia teases. “But the way you two reacted when that flower delivery came in last week? That wasn’t swooning, that was panic.”
I freeze.
Sophia’s eyes are still on me. She’s not smiling anymore.
I glance down at the counter. There’s another envelope there. Just my name, again, in the same looping script.
I didn’t see who left it.
But it’s there now. Between two customer receipts. Tucked like a landmine.
I grab it with shaking fingers, about to slip it into my pocket, but Sophia’s voice stops me.
“May I?”
I hesitate. Nod once.
She opens the envelope and reads silently, brow furrowing deeper with every line.
Then she looks up. Her voice is quiet, calm. But there’s a new sharpness in her eyes.
“This one’s not sweet,” she says. “It’s possessive.”
My stomach twists.
“What does it say?” Laura asks, stepping closer.
Sophia hands me the paper, and I read it aloud, because pretending won’t help anymore.
Mia’s hand goes to her mouth. Laura’s eyes flash. Even Sophia, usually soft-spoken, is rigid with tension.
“That’s not a crush,” she says. “That’s a threat.”
As Sophia lingers near the door, she turns to me.
“I’ve been watching him,” she says. “The one who reads the thrillers in the back. The one who never buys anything but always lingers around with just a cup of coffee.”
I blink. “You think it’s him?”
“I don’t know. But I think he’s watching you, Ava. Not the books.”
***
The shop is dim now, most customers gone, just the low hum of the espresso machine cleaning itself and the soft creak of pages turning from the reading nook.
I texted Elijah a few minutes ago.
