Page 40 of The Pumpkin Pie Book Nook

He spent the next part of his evening wrapped up in domestic chores, laundry, straightening the living room, packing Emma’s lunch, getting her ready for bed, and getting everything ready to do it all over again tomorrow.

When he was finished, he checked in on work. His boss had emailed earlier with a “quick question” that, in publishing language, usually meant an entire new list of demands. He had a manuscript to review, deadlines to hit, and more work than time.

Two hours later, he took a break, even though he had more work to tackle.

But instead of getting back to it, after checking on Emma—blanket tucked under her chin, llama pajamas peeking out, her hair fanned across the pillow—Tyler retreated back to his office and sat down at his desk like a responsible adult.

He reopened the laptop. And then, like muscle memory, his fingers betrayed him.

Two clicks and the indie fiction site loaded. AfterHoursAuthor’s page. A new update posted minutes ago.

Tyler stared at the title, a small, helpless laugh catching in his throat. Of course. Of course it would appear now, when the house was quiet and his brain was exhausted enough to want something easy and comforting and indulgent.

He told himself he’d just skim.

But the chapter was… a lot. Explicit in that way that made his body go hot before his mind could catch up, like his skin had read it faster than his eyes. He got three paragraphs in and already his pulse had kicked up, heat pooling low and sharp. He hadn’t reacted this way in a long time.

It would have been easier before to let the fantasy stay safely on the screen. To let anonymous words scratch a private itch without consequence.

But tonight, his mind didn’t stay on the page. It went to Robyn.

Robyn in the bookstore aisle, lips warm and sure against his, hands clutching his shirt like she needed him to be real. Robyn’s quick, startled laugh. Robyn’s eyes when she got anxious and tried to pretend she wasn’t.

Jesus.

Tyler closed the tab, feeling very unsure of what to do with himself. His body burned for Robyn, for release. He took a steadying breath and picked up his phone, trying to clear his head, when he remembered the text from Robyn two hours ago.

He opened the photo once again.

It was Elsie’s shot. Tyler and Robyn were outside the inn, the sun caught in her hair, his hand at her back—without him even remembering doing it—both of them turned toward the metal canister like they were sharing a secret.

The photo shouldn’t have looked charged. It was wholesome, technically. Historical-town-mystery wholesome.

Except Tyler could feel the moment in it—the way he’d stepped closer, the way Robyn had looked up at him with that quick, bright vulnerability, the way his body had already started to treat her like his without permission. And now it was on her Instagram. For anyone to see.

He sat with that for a moment, waiting for the panic to arrive. The instinct to protect Emma and to keep whatever was growing between him and Robyn safe, secret.

Slow, he reminded himself, even as desire burned low and relentless through him.

But God help him, slow was getting harder by the day. Soon, wanting her was going to outrun whatever control he had left.

NINETEEN

ROBYN

Robyn knew a bit more of what to expect for the book club meeting now, but that didn’t stop her from adjusting the plates, napkins, and cups on the serving table for the tenth time before restacking printouts of the second installment into crisp, satisfying piles, making everything look just right. She added highlighters and pens to the table so others could annotate their copies the way she liked to.

“I printed extra copies in case someone needs it,” she said, mostly to fill the silence, because the bookstore felt strangely intimate before the others would soon arrive. She unclipped her hair, letting it fall to her shoulders before twisting it back up and securing it.

Tyler smiled at her with a boyish grin, making her forget that she’d ever been a serious person with a tenure-track job and a carefully curated sense of composure. “I’m sure it’s perfect,” he said softly, rolling his shirt sleeves up. An act that shouldn’t have been tantalizing, but here she was, fantasizing about how good those arms would feel around her waist.

If only the club members wouldn’t be arriving soon, she thought, picking up a stack of books and heading toward the historical fiction section. She’d wanted to put together a little sales table to highlight the titles Isabel’s story reminded her of, but there hadn’t been time, and now she just needed them out of the way before the book nook turned into meeting central.

The second installment of Isabel’s manuscript had kept her up half the night—the writing was raw and urgent in a way the first part hadn’t been, the romance deepening into something fierce and complicated. Robyn had found herself turning pages with her heart in her throat, desperate to know how the story ended.

Nervous energy prickled under her skin as she shelved them quickly, her mind darting ahead the way it always did.

Nine days. That was the number that had been hovering in the back of her mind. If they couldn’t piece the complete story together in time, the Midnight in Maple Falls event would fall flat.