“And your register.”
“And—fine—my pulse.”
She shrieks—quietly, because she respects my shelves—and claps a hand over her mouth. “I knew it. You have the roof-ache.”
“Is that like heartache, but with roofing metaphors?”
“It’s when a man shows up with a hammer, and suddenly, your eaves aren’t the only thing feeling tender.”
“Out.”
“Can’t. I brought carbs.” She perches on the stool by the counter, eyes dancing. “So what did we learn? The man still has a face that could cause a power outage. And?”
“And nothing,” I say primly. “He bought two books and demonstrated unsafe levels of confidence around my personal space. End of report.”
“Did he apologize?”
“Not… exactly.”
She narrows her eyes. “Exactly how ‘not exactly’ are we talking?”
“He didn’t say the words. But there was a tone.”
“A tone.”
“A tone,” I repeat, because my brain has chosen vague nouns over vulnerable honesty.
She slides me a takeout cup with my name scrawled across it in loopy frosting-piped handwriting.BAILEY, STOP PANICKING.“Sweetheart,” she says more gently, “you are six foot two of bravado away from revisiting your origin story. Of course, you’re rattled. But men like him don’t usually come back different.”
“He’s…quieter,” I admit. “And he looked at my roof before he really looked at me.”
“Progress,” Daisy declares. “In this economy.”
The bell jingles. Mrs. Winthrop enters like a weather system in a floral scarf. “Darlings,” she coos, “I have excellent news. I saw Crew Wright at the pier in sweatpants that could have paid my mortgage.”
Daisy elbows me. I choke on coffee air.
Mrs. Winthrop leans across my counter, her perfume doing violence to the concept of subtlety. “He purchased a black coffee like a man with sins and a conscience. Also a blueberry scone, which tells me he’s still redeemable. Men who choose blueberry want a second chance.”
Daisy nods gravely, playing along. “What do men who choose chocolate chip want?”
“Chaos,” Mrs. Winthrop says without hesitation. “Anyway, Bailey, may I please have something tasteful yet invigorating? Preferably with a lighthouse and a man who knows how to wield a rope.”
I hand her a coastal mystery. “Minimal rope play, maximum yearning.”
“Excellent.” She taps the lid then pats my hand. “And you, my dear, deserve both.”
The door swings again and again. The morning becomes a parade: a contractor in need of maps, a toddler who “reads” upside down, a tourist couple who saw my shop on Ivy’s Instagram and gasp at the spiral staircase like it’s a ride at a theme park. I field questions, make jokes, sell books, and refuse—point-blank, with a smile—to discuss the quarterback in the town like he’s a rare bird sighting.
Underneath it all, the memory of his voice keeps tapping on a closed door in my chest.Help rarely arrives because you need it. It arrives because it wants to stay.
My phone buzzes against the register. It’s Lila, predictably.
Lila:Mom says you’re “looking rosy.” Should I be excited or call an ambulance?
Me:It’s cold. I’m a person with blood.
Lila:Blood that’s been stirred by poor choices and broad shoulders?
