“Were they?”
“They were terrified, overwhelmed tears. ‘I’m actually doing this and David is going to be right and I’m going to fail and everyone will know I’m impractical and stupid and—’” She cuts herself off. “But also happy tears. Because even if I failed, at least I’d know I tried.”
The ocean glitters between us, waves rolling in lazy and eternal. A pelican skims the surface, hunting for breakfast. The whole world feels soft and new and full of possibility.
“You didn’t fail,” I say.
“Not yet.”
“Not ever.” The words come out fiercer than I intended. “The Fiction Nook isn’t going to fail. I won’t let it.”
She turns to look at me, really look at me, and there’s something vulnerable in her expression that makes my chest ache.
“Why do you care so much? About my little bookstore?”
Because I’m in love with you, your reviews taught me how to be a better writer, and I’ve been writing you letters for months and you don’t know it’s me. Because everything I’ve done since I met you has been about protecting you, even when it looked like I was threatening you.
“Because some things matter more than profit margins,” I say instead. “Even if I’m terrible at showing it.”
“You’re not…” She says it softly, like a confession. “You’re just...hidden. Like there’s a version of you underneath all the suits and spreadsheets that you don’t let people see.”
I freeze.
“It doesn’t fit,” she continues. “Scott Avery, Real Estate Developer, secretly reading Whitman in the reference section. It’s like finding out a calculator has feelings.”
“I’m not a calculator.”
“No. You’re not.” She tilts her head, studying me. “So who are you, really? When no one’s watching?”
I should lie. Should deflect. Should make a joke and change the subject.
Instead, I say: “Someone who’s tired of pretending.”
“Pretending what?”
“That I don’t feel things. That business is all that matters. That I haven’t been—” I stop myself just in time. “That I haven’t been changing. Because of you.”
“Me?”
“You. This place. The way you fight for what matters.” I turn to face her fully. “You make me want to stop hiding.”
“Then stop.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?”
Because if I stop hiding, you’ll know everything. You’ll know I’m V. Langley, the author you’ve been reviewing. You’ll know I’m Coastal Quill, the correspondent you’ve been falling for. You’ll know I kicked you off my ARC team and read every brutal word you wrote about me and let it break me open in ways I’m still not sure I can survive.
“Because some truths are harder to tell than others,” I say.
“Try me.”
We’re close now. I’m not sure when that happened—when the careful distance between us collapsed into something dangerous. I can see the sunrise reflected in her eyes, all gold and pink and impossibly beautiful.
“Jessica—”
“You scare me,” she admits. “The way you look at me. Like you’re trying to memorize me.”
