My phone buzzes.
Michelle:Hey Bookaholics Anonymous. Let’s meet at Twin Waves Brewing Co. 2pm. Bring your crisis and your appetite for gossip.
I groan.
Michelle only calls extra book club meetings for three reasons: someone got engaged, someone’s having a baby, or someone needs an intervention.
Given that I’m the only current disaster in the group, I’m guessing it’s option three.
Twin Waves Brewing Companystirs with the chaos that happens when you put four opinionated women in a small space with excellent coffee and no filter.
Michelle has claimed our usual corner booth—the one with the slightly wobbly table and the perfect view of the waves crashing on the beach. Amber Walker is already there, looking radiant in a sundress. Hazel Sanders sits across from her, practical and put-together in jeans shorts and a loose, sleeveless blouse, reading something on her phone.
And then there’s Jo Lennox. She owns Driftwood and Dreams, the boutique next to Amber’s restaurant, and she has the kind of quiet resilience that comes from rebuilding your life brick by brick.
“Jessica!” Michelle waves me over with enthusiasm like she’s been plotting this intervention for days. “Sit. I ordered you a Bookaholic Special.”
“That’s ominous.”
“It’s delicious.” She slides a latte toward me, topped with foam art that looks suspiciously like a heart with an arrow through it. “Also, we need to talk.”
“Do we, though?”
“Oh, honey.” Amber’s expression is pure sympathy wrapped in expensive perfume. “Yes. We really do.”
I sink into the booth, accepting my fate. “Fine. What are we talking about?”
“Scott Avery,” all four of them say in unison.
“Absolutely not.”
“Too late.” Hazel sets her phone down, giving me her full attention. “Caroline texted the book club group chat this morning. Said you got a rent increase.”
I slump against the booth. “He wants to raise my rent forty percent or sell the building.”
The table goes quiet.
“That jerk,” Amber says finally, with feeling.
“I’m sorry, what?” Jo leans forward, her eyes sharp. “Scott Avery is trying to price you out of your own shop?”
“He says it’s a ‘market rate adjustment.’” I make air quotes with more aggression than strictly necessary. “Apparently my current rent is ‘substantially below market value for comparable retail space.’”
“That’s corporate speak for ‘I’m an big fat meanie,’” Hazel observes.
Michelle, however, is watching me like she’s about to say something I won’t like. “Did he seem upset when he told you?”
“What? No. He was perfectly calm. Professional. Maddeningly reasonable about destroying my entire life.”
“Interesting.”
“Michelle.”
“What? I’m just saying, Grayson mentioned that Scott’s been distracted lately. And you caught the bouquet at our wedding. And Scott was standing right there looking at you like?—”
“Like I was his last meal and his first prayer? Yes, you’ve mentioned this.” I take a long drink of my latte, buying time. “That doesn’t change the fact that he’s my landlord, and he just gave me sixty days to either pay rent I can’t afford or lose my shop.”
“Or,” Amber says slowly, “he’s creating a reason to see you regularly for the next two months.”
