“I haven’t decided which way to go yet,” I muttered, kicking snow off my boots and unwrapping my scarf. “Do you have anything that fixes life? Or at least makes it quieter in my head?”
“Fantasy, mystery, or self-help?” Her eyes softened, her compassion evident even through her teasing. She reached under the counter and produced a tin of her famous shortbread, sliding it toward me with a gentle smile. “Here. Sugar is medicinal, at least that’s my philosophy.” The kindness in her gesture made my chest ache in a way I hadn’t expected, and for a moment, I let myself breathe in the comfort of her presence and the hum of the shop around us.
“I was hoping for witchy time travel or maybe a cookbook that doubles as an escape plan.”
“Ah,” she said, nodding gravely. “The existential dread shelf. Back left, next to ‘murder but make it cozy.’”
I snorted and headed toward the back corner of the shop. Cara’s store was all reclaimed wood, warm lighting, and small signs in her curly handwriting tucked between books:“You need this.”and“Romance lives here, you know you want it.”A patchwork armchair sat near the window with a crocheted llama pillow tucked into the side, and there was a rolling cart labeled“Blind Date with a Book”decorated with red heart stickers and wrapped in brown paper packages tied with twine. Of course, she was on theme for Valentine’s month.
She went into the back room while I browsed, running my fingers along the spines as if they might hold answers. I couldn’t even tell her what was bothering me. She liked Graham. She thought he was charming. She didn’t realize what he’d done tome, how he’d chipped away at me piece by piece until I no longer recognized myself.
Cara reemerged with a steaming cup and two books.
“One’s a romance where the main character gets revenge by becoming wildly successful. The other is about a woman who moves to the woods to scream and make cheese.”
“Both sound perfect,” I said.
She tilted her head, watching me too closely. “You okay?”
I paused. “I’m fine.”
“That’s your lying voice.”
“I don’t have a lying voice.”
“You do. It’s your serious, I’m fine, definitely not spiraling voice—the one with no hint of sarcasm and bereft of jokes. You want to talk?”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Then forced a smile. “Maybe later.”
She didn’t push. Just sat at the little reading nook under the window and kept an eye on me.
By the time I picked out two paperbacks and a mug that saidBook Babe, Cara had locked the front door and flipped the sign. I raised an eyebrow.
“Lucy texted. She’s on her way with pizza,” she said. “We’re doing a cozy sisters’ night right here, and you’re staying.”
I didn’t argue. Honestly, it sounded better than sitting at home spiraling while Remy and Linguini knocked things off counters for sport.
Moments later, the sound of a key turning in the lock and hurried footsteps echoing across the wooden floor was followed by a dramatic entrance as Lucy appeared, juggling a pizza box and a tote bag bursting with drinks and snacks. Her hair was pulled up in a high ponytail, cheeks flushed from the cold. With a triumphant grin, she appeared and announced, “Party’s here!” The room instantly felt warmer, her infectious energy filling thecozy space. “What’s the emergency?” she asked. “Do we hate someone? Are we hiding a body? Because I have a tarp in my trunk.”
Cara and I stared.
“What?” Lucy said. “I’m a children’s author. You’d be surprised how often my job inspires very specific fantasies.”
I snorted. “No emergency. I just needed books.”
“And comforting snacks. And distraction. And possibly a bodyguard.” Cara added.
Lucy’s eyes narrowed. “Something is different about you. Eliza, are you crushing on someone?”
I froze. “What? No. What?
Cara blinked. “Wait a minute. Is this about Nate?”
Heat rose in my cheeks, but I tried to play it cool, grabbing a slice of pizza as a distraction. The truth was, my thoughts had been a tangled mess ever since that last conversation with him. I could still hear his laugh, see the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. Not that I was going to admit any of that to my sisters.
She watched me carefully, then declared, “It’s Nate. Pieces are clicking into place in my brain. He’s at Coffee Cabin a lot, even more than a caffeine addict would be. I see him walking down there all the time. He has the jitters, and it’s because of you, not the coffee.”
“What? No,” I blurted, my voice cracking like a preteen boy.
