Chapter 1 – Gloria
I'm not a morning person, but I'm learning to lie about it. Whitetail Falls doesn't reward night owls, just early birds who catch bookstore customers and don't yawn while ringing up their purchases, no matter how poetic it might be to stay up reading until 3 AM.
This morning feels different, though. I've been awake since six, watching the season's first snow dust the streets from my apartment window. There's something magical about it, the way it clings to golden leaves not quite ready to surrender to winter, how it softens the edges of the world.
Now in the empty bookstore, sipping coffee from my chipped blue mug as I arrange a display of children's books for the town's winter reading drive, the warm lamplight catches on the gold embossed covers, making them glow like treasures.
"Perfect," I murmur to myself, adjustingWhere the Wild Things Areso it stands at just the right angle. The store won't open for another twenty minutes, but I like this quiet time, just me and the books and the soft creaking of this century-old building.
The reading drive was my idea, my first real contribution to Whitetail Falls. A small thing, maybe, but it matters. Before moving here, I'd lived in six different cities in five years, always drifting, never belonging. But something about this place, with its lantern-lit streets and the way strangers nod hello, made me want to stay.
A gust of wind rattles the front window, drawing my attention to the street. The snow is falling faster now, dusting the cobblestones of the Heartwood District. Early risers hurry past, scarves pulled tight, heading toward their morning coffee. Thescent of fresh pastries from the bakery down the block drifts in every time the door opens.
The brass bell above the door jingles unexpectedly, startling me. I'm not open yet, but small-town shop rules are flexible, especially when someone's escaping the cold.
"Sorry, we're not quite—" The rest of my sentence evaporates when I see who's stepped inside.
He fills the doorway completely. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a navy paramedic uniform with WHITETAIL FALLS FIRE DEPARTMENT embroidered across his chest. Dark hair with threads of silver at the temples, a strong jawline shadowed with stubble, and eyes so deeply blue they remind me of storm skies. He stomps snow from his boots with precision, each movement controlled and deliberate.
I've seen him around town, but always from a distance.
"Morning," he says, his voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate through the floorboards. "Door was unlocked."
"Pre-opening preparations," I explain, suddenly aware I'm still in my fuzzy cardigan with my hair piled messily atop my head. "Can I help you with something?"
He steps further inside, and I notice the exhaustion etched around his eyes. End of shift, I assume.
"I'm here about the reading drive," he says. "Chief Hawkins mentioned your flyer at this morning's briefing."
"Oh! Right." I set my mug down and move toward the counter. "The department wants to participate?"
He nods once. "The crew's collecting books. Thought I'd check what you need and where to drop them."
Something about his presence makes the bookstore feel smaller. He stands perfectly still, but there's a coiled energy to him, like he's perpetually ready to spring into action. Save a life. Put out a fire. Rescue a cat from a tree. Whatever hero stuff these guys do.
"Any children's books in good condition," I say, gesturing to the display. "We're focusing on getting books to kids who might not have them at home. The fire station would be a perfect collection point, actually."
His gaze sweeps over the colorful book display, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. "Emma, my daughter, she'd live in a place like this if I let her."
I smile, relaxing a fraction.
"She's welcome anytime. We have a young adult section that might—"
The bell jingles again, and a whirlwind of purple coat and flying dark braids bursts through the door, cheeks flushed from cold.
"Dad! You walked too fast again!" the girl exclaims, breathless. She stops abruptly when she sees me, her eyes—the same striking blue as her father's—widening with delight. "Oh! You're open!"
This has to be Emma. She's all energy and motion where her father is stillness and control.
"Not officially," I say, "but I'll make an exception for enthusiastic readers."
Nathan places a gentle hand on his daughter's shoulder. "Emma, this is..."
"Gloria," I supply. "Gloria Sullivan."
"Ms. Sullivan manages the bookstore," Nathan explains to Emma, who's already gravitating toward the display, drawn like a moth to literary flame.
"Just Gloria is fine," I tell them both, but I'm looking at him when I say it. Our eyes lock for a beat too long, and something electric passes between us.
