Chapter one
Elorie
The storm rolls in like a memory I'm not ready to face.
Thunder cracks overhead, rattling the front windows of The Reading Nook hard enough that the fairy lights strung along the exposed brick shimmer. I fumble the mug I'm drying, ceramic clattering against the counter before I catch it. My pulse kicks, sharp and immediate, and I force my breath steady through the tightness crawling up my throat.
Storms remind me of leaving Denver in the rain, knuckles white on the steering wheel, driving away from a man who made me feel too small for my life.
The espresso machine hisses behind me, grounding me in the present. Pine Valley. The Reading Nook. Safe. I wipe down the counter with movements that are steadier than I feel, the scent of roasted coffee beans and lavender candles wrapping around me like a blanket. Soft indie music plays through the speakers, barely audible over the rain hammering the roof.
The lights flicker.
My hands go still on the towel. Once. Twice. The overhead fixtures dim and surge, casting shadows that stretchand contract across the mismatched chairs and overstuffed bookshelves. I set the towel down and move toward the back hallway where the breaker box is mounted. Sophie mentioned something about old wiring last week, said we'd need to get it checked eventually.
Eventually just became now.
Halfway across the bookstore, the outlet near the coffee bar sparks.
It's not loud, just a flash of orange light that sears itself into my vision. But my body doesn't care about logic or proportional responses. My hip catches the edge of a table as I stumble backward. Bookmarks scatter across the floor in a flutter of plastic and panic. Cold sweat prickles the back of my neck, and the rational part of my brain is screaming that it's just faulty wiring, nothing is burning, nothing is wrong.
My body doesn't believe me.
The door chimes.
I spin toward the sound, pulse hammering against my ribs. A man steps through, rain streaming from the brim of his cap and the shoulders of his dark blue uniform. He's broad enough to fill the doorway, moving with the unhurried calm that belongs to people who've walked through worse than thunderstorms. The outlet chooses that moment to pop. It’s not loud, just a sharp jolt.
The man looks at me for a second, then his eyes go straight to the outlet, tracking the faint wisp of smoke curling from the wall. He moves toward the center of the shop in three long strides.
"Breaker box?" His voice is calm, controlled.
"Back hall. Left side."
He disappears, and I hear the metallic clang of the panel opening. Thirty seconds later, the overhead lights die completely, leaving only the glow from the windows and the emergency exit signs.
He returns with a small flashlight in his hand, directed toward the outlet. He crouches in front of it and pulls a voltage tester from his belt. He touches it to the outlet, checks the reading, then nods.
"Dead," he says, more to himself than me.
I stand there frozen, watching him work. I look away before he catches me staring at the way his hands move like he has all the time in the world to make things safe. He appears to be a few years older than me, early forties maybe, with a face that looks like it's spent years cataloging emergencies and deciding which ones matter. There's a scar along his jaw, faint but visible in the dim light. Silver threads through his dark hair at the temples.
He glances up. Catches me staring anyway.
"You okay?" His voice is rough around the edges but not unkind.
His eyes stay on mine a moment longer than necessary, and I realize he's not checking if I'm injured. He's checking if I'm scared. The recognition in his gaze seems to know what panic looks like and doesn't judge it. It makes my lungs find a full breath for the first time since the spark.
I nod too quickly. "Yeah. It just startled me."
He doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push. My throat works around words that won't come.Thank youfeels inadequate.Who are youfeels too direct. So I stay silent and watch him work, this stranger who walked into my storm and made the danger disappear.
"Wiring's shot." He says it matter-of-factly, like he's commenting on the weather. "You're lucky it didn't do more than spark. I'll make sure it's safe for now, but you need an electrician out here soon."
"Okay." The word comes out smaller than I want. "Thank you."
He returns to the breaker box, and a moment later, the shop comes back to life.
For the first time, he really looks at me. Not a glance but a full assessment that makes me hyperaware of how I'm hugging my arms around myself, how my fingers have gone numb against my ribs as though he's cataloging the tremble in my hands and filing it away underimportant.
