Delilah’s smile softens. “Small town. New faces stand out.”
“Clearly.”
She hesitates for just a second, then adds, “You’ve got good neighbors, though.”
My mind immediately goes to the mechanic shop.
“To the left?” I ask.
Her eyes flicker with something—amusement, maybe.
“Archer Kade,” she says. “Yeah. He’s… dependable.”
“That’s one word for him.”
Her brow lifts slightly. “You’ve met?”
“He stopped a shelf from taking me out yesterday,” I admit. “Then told me my building was basically a death trap.”
Delilah laughs, not at all surprised. “That sounds like Archer.”
“Does he always communicate like that?”
“Pretty much.”
I take a sip of coffee, considering. “He owns the garage?”
“Born and raised here. Took it over years ago.”
“That explains the ‘I’ll fix everything whether you asked or not’ energy.”
Delilah smiles knowingly. “He means well.”
“I’m sure he does,” I say. “He’s just… intense.”
That word feels inadequate. But it’s the closest I’ve got. After a few more minutes of easy conversation—and a second cup of coffee I absolutely need—I thank Delilah and head back out.
The bookstore looks the same as I left it. Of course it does. I unlock the door and step inside, already mentally preparing myself for another round of cautious cleaning and organizing.
But I stop just inside the entrance.
Something’s different. The air feels… disturbed. I frown, stepping further in. And then I see it.
The broken shelving unit from yesterday—the one that nearly crushed me—is no longer leaning precariously in the middle of the floor. It’s been repaired. Not perfectly, but solidly. The cracked panel has been reinforced. The joints tightened. The entire unit stands straight and stable, as if it belongs that way.
I stare at it for a long moment.
“What…?”
I move closer, running my hand along the wood. The repairs are clean. Efficient. Done by someone who knows exactly what they’re doing. Someone who had access. Someone who didn’t say a word about it.
Archer.
A mix of irritation and reluctant appreciation twists in my chest.
“You could’ve just said you were going to fix it,” I mutter.
Instead, he did it quietly. Without asking. Without telling me. Without even sticking around for a thank you. I turn and head back outside, crossing the short distance to the mechanic shop.
