The coffee pot lets out a low, sputtering growl that sounds almost judgmental. I glance over at it from the ladder and sigh. “Don’t you start, too.”
It bubbles back at me like a gossiping aunt. Typical. Everyone in Coral Bell Cove has an opinion—even my appliances.
I climb down, pour what’s left into a chipped lighthouse mug, and take a cautious sip. Bitter. Strong. Exactly how I like it.The mug’s chipped handle fits perfectly against my thumb, and the taste grounds me better than any meditation app ever could.
The day hums along like it has every morning since I openedA Page in Time. There’s comfort in the routine—the creak of the old floorboards, the way the salt air sneaks through the cracks in the windows, and the faint cry of seagulls diving near the pier.
Normal. Predictable. Safe.
Until the universe inevitably laughs and reminds me that safe doesn’t exist in Coral Bell Cove.
A thud against the door nearly makes me spill my coffee.
“Delivery!” someone shouts, followed by something heavy scraping against the entry.
I hurry over to yank the door open and find Grayson from the post office wrestling a box half his size up the steps.
“You’re gonna give yourself a hernia,” I warn.
He flashes a grin. “Probably. But then you’d have to read to me while I’m recovering.”
“Not unless it’s your eulogy.”
He laughs and drops the box with a groan. “It’s from Nashville. Must be one of those book bundles Ivy ordered for you.”
I crouch to check the label. Sure enough—From: Ivy Quinn-Wright.She’s made it her personal mission to keep the kids’ corner of my store stocked with her favorite titles.
“Thanks, Grayson. How’s your mom’s knee?”
“Better. She’ll be back to stalking Mrs. Winthrop’s Facebook posts any day now.”
“Glad to hear it. Send her my love—and tell her to stop commenting heart-eye emojis on every photo of my dog.”
He tips his hat and wanders off, whistling.
I drag the box inside, slice the tape open, and start unpacking. Children’s books, bright and colorful, tumble out likeconfetti—Goodnight Lighthouse,The Little Seagull That Could,and a stack of Ivy’s latest picture book about following your dreams. She always includes a note written in gold ink.
For Bailey’s littles, who already know stories make the world brighter.
My throat tightens. Ivy might be a pop star, but her heart is pure.
I tuck the books under my arm and head to the reading nook. The space is small—two beanbags, a round rug, and a shelf shaped like a sailboat—but it’s my favorite corner of the shop. Kids come here to escape. So do I.
I start arranging the books, lost in thought, when the bell jingles again.
“Tell me there’s coffee,” says a familiar voice.
Daisy’s back, holding a steaming cup of her own and looking far too pleased with herself.
“I thought you were baking,” I say.
“I was, until the fryer exploded. Minor incident. The fire department from the town over says it builds character.”
“Should I even ask?”
She waves her hand. “Don’t. But while we’re talking character, do you want to know who I just saw down at the docks?”
“No.”
