Not the book she was supposed to write. Not even the genre. Her agent repped cozy mysteries. Her brand was tea and cats and bodies discovered in quaint village settings. And yet here it was—romance and magic and a world she hadn't known was waiting.
She saved the file. Named it "DON'T DELETE" because she knew herself well enough.
She was still looking at the document when she felt someone watching her.
A scan of the coffee shop, and she found him immediately.
Corner table, near the back. Brown hair that needed cutting, stubble that suggested forgetfulness rather than style. Laptop open, coffee cup long empty, a paperback splayed face-down beside him, a sci-fi novel with a spaceship on the cover. He wore a faded T-shirt with a logo too cracked to read, what might have been a venue name once. His fingers moved across the keyboard in bursts—urgent, then stopping, then starting again. Between bursts, he'd pick up his phone and tap at it, or stare at the screen like he was trying to hear something that wasn't there. Then back to typing. Then the paperback—a few lines, set it back down. A reset.
When he paused, his eyes swept the room. Found her.
Jen looked away first. Pretended to read her screen. But she kept tracking him from the corner of her eye. She noticed his hands, long fingers, calluses at the tips.
He was back to typing. Whatever he was working on had him the same way her new document had her—consumed, struggling, racing to capture it before it disappeared.
The "DON'T DELETE" file. Another paragraph. Then another.
The man in the corner kept typing.
Two more hours passed. When she packed up to leave, he was still there, coffee cup finally refilled, paperback now closed, posture looser than before.
Their eyes met as she passed his table. He raised two fingers off the laptop, a small salute, the kind you give a fellow traveler. She returned it.
No words exchanged.
But Jen left knowing she'd be back at that table tomorrow. And wondering if he would too.
Carrie arrived at the farmer's market as vendors were starting to pack up.
Excursion Park had transformed for the morning. Tents lined up along the paths, the late-morning crowd already thinning as noon approached.
She wandered through what remained. Strawberries picked up and put back, picked up again. Lettuce she didn't need, radishes she'd never cook with, a jar of local honey that caught her eye.
At the far end, one tent was still fully set up. Saltmeadow Farm, the hand-painted sign read. Wooden crates of vegetables in neat rows. Behind the table stood a woman around sixty—silver hair in a loose braid, dirt under her nails, deep tan lines at her collar.
"Still shopping?" the woman asked as Carrie approached.
"Just looking. I think I overbought at the other tables."
The woman laughed. "Happens to everyone. First market of the season?"
"First for me."
A satisfied nod. "You'll learn the rhythm. Different things come into season as the weeks go by. July, you'll want the tomatoes and corn. August, the peppers and melons."
Carrie picked up a zucchini, dark green and firm, smaller than the supermarket kind. "These are gorgeous."
"Best time of year for them." The woman leaned against the tent post. "I'm Marge. My husband and I started the farm forty years ago. He's back loading the truck. We're the last ones here most weeks."
"I'm Carrie."
"You look like you needed to get out of the house." Marge said it matter-of-factly, no judgment.
Carrie laughed, surprised. "Is it that obvious?"
"I've been doing this a long time. You learn to read people." Marge started bagging the zucchini. "If you want a break while you're here—somewhere to get out of your own head—we do tours of the farm. Nothing fancy. Walk through the fields, see how things grow. Some people find it grounding."
"That sounds nice."
