1
TESSA
The moving truck rattles like it’s about to come apart as I ease it down Main Street, my hands tight on the wheel, my shoulders already aching from the drive. Redwood Crossing is smaller than I expected—quieter, too. The kind of place where everything feels like it’s holding its breath.
Or maybe that’s just me.
I slow to a stop in front of the bookstore. My bookstore.
The sign above the windows readsHolloway Books, the gold lettering faded and flaking. The windows are dusty enough that I can barely see inside, and the door looks like it hasn’t been opened in years. For a long second, I just sit there, engine idling, staring at it.
This was a good idea. It had to be. I force myself to move.
The engine cuts, the sudden silence pressing in around me. I grab the keys from the passenger seat—the keys—and step out of the truck. The air is all pine and sun-warmed asphalt, clean in a way that feels almost foreign.
The key sticks in the lock. Of course it does. I jiggle it, twist harder, mutter under my breath, and then finally—click. The door creaks open like it’s protesting the disturbance.
“Great,” I murmur. “Already judging me.”
Inside, the air is stale and thick with dust. Sunlight filters through the grimy windows in long, hazy beams, illuminating rows of empty shelves and warped floorboards. It smells faintly of mildew and old paper—like forgotten stories.
I step fully inside, letting the door swing shut behind me. This is mine now.
I walk slowly through the space, my boots echoing softly. The shelves lean at odd angles, some bowed in the middle, others barely standing upright. There’s a dark stain spreading along one section of the ceiling, the plaster sagging ominously.
Water damage.
“Okay,” I say, hands on my hips. “Okay, we can fix this.”
But even as I say it, I know. This is worse than the listing photos showed. Way worse.
I crouch near the counter, running my fingers along the wood. It’s soft in places, the finish peeling. The floor dips slightly beneath my weight. Structural issues. Plumbing. Shelving. Probably electrical too, because why not.
A short laugh escapes me, sharp and humorless.
“Well, Tessa,” I mutter, “you wanted a fresh start.”
I head back outside before the weight of it all can settle too deeply.
The sunlight feels brighter now, almost harsh. I take a deep breath and move to the truck, pulling open the back. Boxes stare back at me. My life, neatly packed and labeled.
“Let’s do this,” I say, grabbing the first one.
I carry it toward the door, adjusting my grip as I step up onto the sidewalk—and that’s when I notice it. The mechanic shop next door.
I hadn’t really registered it when I pulled in, too focused on not crashing the truck and my own nerves. But now it’simpossible to miss. The garage door is open, shadows stretching deep inside, the scent of oil and metal drifting faintly on the air.
And someone is watching me.
I pause, the box heavy in my arms.
He stands just inside the garage, half in shadow. Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark hair. I can’t make out all the details from here, but I feel the weight of his gaze like a physical thing.
Not curious. Assessing.
I shift, suddenly aware of the dust on my jeans, the sweat sticking my shirt to my back.
“Can I help you?” I call, trying for casual and landing somewhere closer to defensive.
