And standing here with her, talking about the thing that still aches, hurts less than it did a minute ago.
She turns the phone back toward me, holding it out carefully, like she’s returning something precious rather than just a device. Our fingers brush as I take it—barely there, the lightest contact—and it still feels like a jolt straight through my chest. Electric. Immediate. Entirely unexpected and deeply wanted.
“Thank you for showing me,” she says softly, like she understands that I didn’t have to.
I nod, because words are suddenly unreliable. My thumb curls around the phone, but I don’t pull back right away. Neither does she. Her fingers linger against mine—warm, steady, real. The kind of touch that doesn’t ask for anything but somehow offers everything.
My breath stutters. Just once. Enough that I notice it.
She does, too.
Her gaze lifts to mine, searching. It’s not prying, not worried. There’s no rush in her expression. No expectation, just something gentle opening between us.
I swallow, acutely aware of how close we are now. Of how easily I could tip forward. Of how my body seems to recognize her in a way my brain is still scrambling to catch up with.
For a second, I think about stepping back. Giving us both room and breaking the intimacy of this moment. Doing the smart thing.
Instead, I stay exactly where I am, because I donotwant to move.
Her hand falls away first, slow and unhurried, like she trusts that I won’t disappear the second the contact ends. Her quiet confidence settles into me, steadying instead of rattling. Which is funny to me, how the table has turned and I feel as if she’s suddenly taking care of me.
The shop drifts back into focus around us, but the moment stays. It’s quiet, steady, and tucked somewhere just behind my ribs.
I slip my phone back into my pocket, grounding myself in the motion, then look at her again.
“Talking about it, sharing with you about it,” I say, my voice low but even. “It helps.”
“I’m glad.” Her smile is small and sincere, the kind that doesn’t ask for anything back. Like she understands what that cost and respects it.
She exhales, then straightens just a little, that gentle shift from intimacy back into the rhythm of the day. “Now,” she says, almost apologetic, “I hate to change the subject, but before the week starts, we need Sawyer’s Plant Pick.”
My lips curve despite myself.
“Ready to find your next horticultural victim?”
As I follow her down around the shop, listening to Juliette as she waxes poetic about philodendrons and Peace Lillies, I realize whatever this is between us doesn’t feel fleeting or accidental. I’ve only known this woman a week, and I can already sense something happening that might quietly change the shape of my days. Something worth showing up for.
And something I could keep coming back to…again and again.
CHAPTER 10
JULIETTE
Old Town at dusk feels like it’s in on a secret. Tonight’s the kind of evening where the light goes soft, the sidewalks slow down, and the cherry blossoms are showing off like they know exactly what they’re doing.
I pause outside Vivian’s jewelry store when I spot the sign taped to the door, written in neat, confident handwriting:
CLOSED EARLY FOR BOOK CLUB
I push inside anyway and point at it. “Book club? You have a book club now?”
The shop glows. Glass cases line the walls, catching the light and throwing it back in small, sharp flashes—diamonds, gold, silver, all of it arranged with deliberate care. Every surface seems to shimmer just a little, like the place is permanently mid-twinkle. It’s elegant without being intimidating, the kind of space that makes you straighten your shoulders without realizing you’ve done it.
Behind the counter, a woman I’ve never met laughs—easy and genuine.
“No,” she says. “Vivian just thinks it sounds more professional thanclosed because we felt like it.”
She has dark chestnut hair, warm brown eyes, and the relaxed confidence of someone who belongs exactly where she is. A Vivian-type, through and through. I see it instantly.
