Even Sigmund looks skeptical.
“Fine,” I admit. “Maybe I have some...complicated emotions. But that doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means you’re in the sweet torture phase of an enemies-to-lovers arc,” Hazel says knowledgeably. “Classic romcom progression. You’re right on schedule.”
“My life is not a romantic comedy.”
“Sweetie,” Mrs. Sanders says gently, “you just spent twenty minutes on a beach with a man who owns your building, covered in coffee, surrounded by seagulls, defending your complete lack of feelings to a group chat you’ve been avoiding. If that’s not a romcom, I don’t know what is.”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it.
Because she might have a point.
“I need more coffee,” I announce. “The kind that doesn’t end up on my clothing.”
“Twin Waves Brewing Co. opens soon,” Michelle says. “I’ll make you something with extra shots. You look like you need it.”
We start walking back toward the boardwalk as a group, and I try very hard not to notice Scott’s figure in the distance, still walking, hands in his pockets, looking as confused as I feel.
Twenty minutes later,I’m sitting in Twin Waves Brewing Co. with a quad-shot latte and six women who are taking turns psychoanalyzing my love life.
“I don’t run away from happiness.”
They all give me identical looks.
“Okay, maybe I run a little. But with good reason! Happiness is terrifying!”
“So is living above your bookstore alone with a judgmental cat forever,” Michelle points out.
“Austen is not judgmental. He’s discerning.”
“He screamed at me for twenty minutes yesterday because I moved his food bowl two inches.”
“He has standards.”
My phone buzzes.
Caroline:Someone left a letter in the shop mailbox. Want me to bring it to you or wait until you open?
My heart stops.
“What is it?” Michelle asks.
“A letter from Coastal Quill.”
The entire table goes silent.
Me:Bring it to the coffee shop.I’m here with the book club.
Caroline:Oh boy. Good luck.
She arrives five minutes later, looking far too gleeful for someone who’s about to watch me have an emotional breakdown.
“One letter,” she announces, handing me the now-familiar cream envelope. “From your mystery man.”
I open the letter with shaking hands, aware that my friends are all leaning in to read over my shoulder.
Dear Between the Lines,
