“Okay, so I can’t make coffee as good as you, I’ll give you that.”
“Yep.”
“Buuuuut your cookies are normal ones, and mine areHalloweencookies,” I explained, as if that made a difference.
It didn’t.
“I have to get back, we’re busy,” he said, then left in a swirl of cold air as the door swung shut behind him.
For a moment, I stared at the space he’d left, wishing I had half the steady foot traffic his café pulled in every morning. People lined up for his coffee before the sun was up, and although he scowled through their orders, they came back for more. Meanwhile, myregister sat quiet more often than not, and I was left relying on the occasional story night or holiday event to keep the lights on. It was hard not to compare—Hunter’s grumpy charm seemed to sell lattes by the dozen, while my best efforts at magic and cookies barely paid the heating bill.
I replayed the disaster in my head—me blurting about Halloween cookies and offering him coffee, him looking at me as if I was the most idiotic person he’d ever met. With a sigh, I nudged the delivery box with my knee. No way was I going to heft that thing, but it didn’t budge; instead, my knee nearly gave out, and pain shot up my leg. Swearing under my breath, I fetched the box cutter and sliced it open—it looked like I was transporting the books inside a few at a time. Yay for my on-the-slim-side, un-muscled, but kinda cute self.
“Yes!” Inside was the final book in my favorite paranormal YA series by an author I adored, and on top of it was an envelope. My heart stuttered as I tore it open—AdrianfreakingTrevelyan had written me a note. Maybe it was his PA, maybe it was form-letter fluff, but it was addressed to me, Wesley Darkwood, care of The Story Lantern Bookstore.
Adrian’s note was short and scrawled in dark ink, but my eyes caught every word: he was thrilled to agree to come to Wishing Tree for a suggested book signingon December 21st, asked if I knew of any local inns or B&Bs where he could stay, and wondered if it would be all right to mention the event on his social media. He also said that I could message him directly if I needed to.
My heart thudded as I read it twice, then a third time, the paper trembling in my hands. There was a messaging address at the bottom, a direct email, and…
“He agreed. He’s coming. Oh my god, oh my god.” My very first book signing—and it featured my all-time favorite author? At Christmas? In Wishing Tree. Home of the Parade of Lights, the Christmas market, and the wishing tree itself.
I picked up a copy of the book, a sticky note on the front:ARC Copy for Wesley Darkwood and Brooke Haynes only.
“Oh my god! Brooke is gonna lose her shit!” I yelled. When I’d written to Adrian, I’d talked at length about how Brooke and I had read the series a hundred times, and he mentioned her! The book wouldn’t be released for another week, and the thrill of being among the first to hold it sent a fizz of excitement through me. There was nothing better—well, nothing except the moment when others would finally get to read it too, and I could gush and argue and revel in it with them.
Brooke was seriously going to die when sherealized what we had, but I wasdefinitelygoing to read it first. I sent her a message to say I had news, and by ten she was outside the door, Willow bundled on her hip, their cheeks pink from the cold.
“What news?” she said immediately. “Is everything okay? Is it the bank?”
I blinked at her. “Why would it be the bank?”
“I…” she shook her head. “Never mind.”
“This is something so good! I’m still in shock. That letter we sent to Adrian Trevelyan’s agent. Oh my god! Adrian himself… he wrote to me… he said yes!”
Her eyes widened, and then she whooped and danced over to me. Willow laughed as her mom placed her on the corner reading rug, her hands already reaching for the nearest picture book.
She put her hands on her hips. “Right, let’s start organizing this.”
“Brooke, you don’t have to?—”
“I’m here, deal with it,” she cut me off with the voice of a woman who managed three kids and a lawyer husband. I’d sent my half-hopeful, half-desperate plea six months ago. And he’d said yes. Hell. What now?
“We need a venue,” I said, panic rising. I hadn’t thought this through at all. “We can’t have it here in my store, it’s too small.”
Brooke leaned across the counter, eyes gleaming,and plucked a new notebook from the display, then grabbed a pen from behind the cash register. “Lucky for you, I already provisionally booked the town hall for the twenty-first.”
“What?” I stared at her. “You did?”
“As soon as you sent the letter to his agent,” she said, smug as anything.
I couldn’t help the grin. “Of course you did.”
She opened the notebook and clicked her pen as if she was about to dictate my entire future. “Okay then—tickets, promo, social media. Let’s go.”
And just like that, we were off—Brooke scribbling lists at lightning speed while I tried not to panic that Adrian Trevelyan, of all people, was actually coming to Wishing Tree for a signing.
Brooke tapped her pen against the notepad, already halfway through her list. “I’ll handle ticket sales—we’ll need to cap them, the hall only seats what, three hundred and fifty if you count the folding chairs in the back.”
