“Allegedly grumpy.”
“You raised my rent by forty percent.”
“I was trying to get your attention.”
“By threatening my livelihood?”
“I never claimed to be smart about this.”
She laughs again, and I want to bottle the sound, save it for the moments when the old voices in my head tell me I’m not enough.
We talk about what comes next—carefully, without pressure. I don’t ask her to define what we are. She doesn’t offer. But there’s an understanding forming between us, unspoken but solid. We’re figuring this out together. That’s enough for now.
“I should get to the shop,” she finally says, glancing at the time. “Caroline’s been handling the morning rush alone, and peak season waits for no emotional breakthrough.”
“Can I walk you?”
“It’s less than a block away.”
“Nearly one block of your company sounds significantly better than zero blocks.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling as she slides out of the booth. I leave money on the table—enough to cover both drinks and a generous tip for Michelle’s emotional support services—and follow her out into the August heat.
The boardwalk is already crowded with tourists, the salt air mixing with sunscreen and fried dough from the stand near the pier. Jessica navigates through them with the ease of a woman who’s done this her whole life, and I follow in her wake, content to watch her move through the world she loves.
When we reach The Fiction Nook, she pauses at the door.
“Thank you,” she says. “For being honest. For waiting. For all of it.”
“Thank you for showing up.”
“I almost didn’t.”
“I know. I’m glad you did.”
She reaches up and straightens my collar—a small, intimate gesture that makes my heart stutter. “We’re doing this, then. Whatever this is.”
“Whatever this is,” I agree.
“Okay.” She takes a breath. “I’ll see you later?”
“I’ll be at Hensley House this afternoon. Event prep. Mrs. Sanders has opinions about the lighting.”
“Mrs. Sanders has opinions about everything.”
“I’ve noticed.”
She smiles, and for a moment, I think she might kiss me. The possibility shimmers with potential. But instead, she squeezes my hand once, quickly, and pushes open the door to her shop.
“Later,” she says.
“Later.”
I stand on the boardwalk as she disappears into the cool shadows of the bookstore, red hair catching the light before she’s gone.
I’m in love with her. I told her, and she didn’t run.
It’s not a happily ever after, not yet, but it’s a beginning.
