“Yes.”
“With a bookshop owner heroine.”
“Yes.“ My voice cracks. “And Macy just told me someone on BookTok is doing a theory thread trying to figure out which real Southwest town inspired it.”
“Okay.” Jess takes a breath. “Okay, this is... manageable. They don’t know you’re Sienna Saguaro. You’ve been careful.”
“Have I?” I’m walking faster now, my feet carrying me through the familiar streets without conscious thought. “I wrote about a bookshop in a small Southwest town, Jess. There’s a legend about star-crossed lovers. The town square layout. The—“
“Lots of small towns have legends and town squares, Sadie. Practically all small towns have those two things,” she cuts in, her voice firm. “You changed enough. The town doesn’t have the same name. The bookshop in your story is called Desert Pages, which is completely different from Wildflower Books. It’s okay. You changed enough. Stop panicking.”
“I don’t think I’m panicking. I’m being realistically concerned.”
“You’re spiraling. I can hear it in your voice. The last time this happened—“
“We don’t need to bring that up now.”
I can hear her moving around, probably pacing her Portland apartment. “Look. Listen to me. Tonight, you host the book club like the professional bookshop owner you are. You listen to your readers discuss your book while you remain in the background. You smile, nod, and keep your poker face. Then you go upstairs to your apartment, pour yourself some wine, and breathe. No one is going to connect Sadie Pierce to Sienna Saguaro.”
I want to believe her. I really do.
“And if they do?” I ask quietly.
“Then you deal with it. But Sadie? You wrote a beautiful book. You have nothing to be ashamed of,” Jess says. “Look, I hate to do this, but I have to get to work. But you’re going to be fine. Just breathe. Host the book club. Don’t overthink it.”
“Easier said than done.”
“I know. But you’ve got this. No one will find out. Call me after, okay? I want to hear how it goes.”
“Okay.” I take a shaky breath. “Thanks, Jess.”
“Anytime. And Sadie? Congrats on hitting number three. You deserve this.”
“Thanks.” I smile through the nerves.
The line goes dead. I lower my phone and look up, realizing for the first time my feet have carried me to Herrera’s Forge.
How did I end up here?
The wide doors are propped open, and I can hear the rhythmic clang of metal on metal drifting out into the street. That sound always does something to my chest, settles something restless I can’t quite name.
The bookends. That’s why I’m here. Mateo said he’d have those bookends ready this week, and I need them for the shop.
That’s the only reason.
I take a breath and step inside.
The temperature jumps about twenty degrees the moment I cross the threshold, making it feel like an early summer morning rather than a cool pre-winter afternoon. Heat radiates from the forge in the back, and my eyes take a second to adjust to the dimmer lighting after the bright November sun.
Mateo’s at the anvil, his back to me, shoulders moving in that steady rhythm I’ve watched dozens of times over the years. More times than I should probably admit, even to myself. There’s something hypnotic about watching him work—the precision, the strength, the absolute focus.
I’ve always told myself I come here because his metalwork is beautiful. Because he’s a friend. Because the forge is calming.
I’m a damn liar.
I take another moment to watch. Black t-shirt. Worn jeans. Work gloves. He’s completely focused on the piece of glowingmetal in front of him, bringing the hammer down with an accuracy that looks effortless but I know takes years to perfect.
The muscles in his arms flex with each strike.
