Scott reaches for it at the same moment.
We both bend down. Heads nearly collide. His hand lands on mine instead of the pencil.
We freeze.
Crouched beside my staff picks table. Faces inches apart. His hand warm on mine. My hair everywhere.
His eyes are very gray this close. The kind of gray that makes you think about shelter from storms and danger.
His expression shifts for a quick moment into heat, maybe, or panic, and his fingers flex against mine before he catches himself.
He straightens abruptly, holding out the pencil like it might bite him. Like proximity to me is a workplace hazard requiring immediate retreat.
“Thank you,” I manage, standing and taking the pencil with fingers that are absolutely not trembling.
I twist my hair back up with aggressive dignity, jabbing the pencil through the bun with too much force. When I look back at Scott, he’s staring at my V. Langley display with an unreadable expression.
“You’re a fan,” he says. Not a question.
“Of his early work, yes.” I cross my arms over my old cardigan. “Before he started writing like he forgot what love actually feels like.”
Scott’s face closes like a door, a wall going up.
He sets the lease folder on the counter. “You have sixty days, Jessica. I’d suggest you make a decision before the deadline.”
He turns toward the door. Austen follows him with continued treasonous affection, meowing like they’re old friends parting after a lovely visit.
But Scott pauses with his hand on the frame. Doesn’t look back.
“For what it’s worth,” he says quietly, “I hope you find a way to keep the shop. Even if it’s with someone else’s building.”
And then he’s gone, the bell chiming his exit, leaving me alone with my racing heart and a folder full of papers that might as well be my shop’s obituary. How can I survive this?
My hands start shaking the moment I’m sure he can’t see.
“That went well,” I tell Austen, who has returned to the counter with a self-satisfied look. “I especially liked the part where I threatened his business model and got a romance novel stuck to my knee. Very professional.”
Austen grooms his paw, unconcerned.
“Also, you’re a traitor. I want that noted for the record.”
Why did I ever think opening a bookstore was a good idea?
Because stories matter. Because books save lives. Because somewhere a teenager is going to walk in looking for escape from a hard home life, and I’m going to press exactly the right book into their hands.
Because love isn’t just something you read about. It’s something you build, story by story, reader by reader.
Even if your landlord disagrees, and he looks at you like you matter and then threatens your livelihood in the same breath. Even if arguing with him makes your heart race in ways you refuse to examine.
Even then.
The Fiction Nookparticipates in Twin Waves’ “Letters to Local Authors” program. Brass boxes are mounted on the wall near the register, each labeled with a participating author’s pen name. Readers can drop letters asking questions, sharing what books mean to them, requesting advice on life and love and everything between.
I manage the program, which means I collect the letters weekly and distribute them to the appropriate PO boxes. It’s a small thing, but meaningful. Several friendships have formed through these anonymous exchanges. One reader told me the letters kept them alive during a dark year.
I check the boxes now, sorting through the usual collection. Three letters for the local mystery writer. Two for the poet who runs the community college creative writing program.
And one in the box labeled simply “Coastal Quill.”
