Grumpy Second Chance

Tessa

The shipping gods have it out for me, and today they sent a martyr to deliver the news.

The driver stands in my doorway holding a box rained on hard enough to qualify as a crime scene. Three copies of Rebecca, drowned.

"It's not you," I tell him, taking it. "You just drive the truck. Tell Nolan he owes me a Rebecca. Specifically a Rebecca. He'll know what that means." He escapes gratefully into the rain.

"You apologized to him," Della says from Fiction, delighted. "You were ready to commit crimes thirty seconds ago."

"The books deserved better. He didn't make the call." I shove the soggy hardcovers aside. Three survived. Two didn't. I mourn for exactly two seconds. This is the job.

Marwood Books smells like cedar and old paper and the cinnamon candles Della swears sell more fiction. Morning light spills across the crooked floors I can't afford to fix. I've loved this place with embarrassing sincerity since I was seven, watching my grandmother talk strangers into books they didn't know they needed.

The bell above the door jingles.

I look up.

Micah Tarbell stands just inside the doorway, rain darkening the shoulders of his jacket.

Every thought in my head shuts down at once.

My fingers tighten around the edge of the counter. Hard enough that the wood presses into my palm.

Five years, and my body recognizes him before the reasonable parts of me catch up.

But some things are exactly the same. The way he reads a room before stepping into it. The way his attention lands on a person and stays.

Five years ago, Micah was my best friend.

Then my boyfriend.

Then the man who left.

He closes the umbrella. Lifts his eyes. They land on mine. Stop.

The smell of rain pulls loose a memory I haven't touched in years. A bonfire on the shore of Haverlin Lake. Wind off the water. My hand sliding through his hair before I kissed him for the first time.

"Tessa."

My name sounds exactly the same in his mouth.

Across the room, Della looks between us slowly.

"Oh no," she whispers, delighted.

His attention never leaves me.

I set the tea down before I drop it. "Micah."

Calm. Almost convincing.

Inside, everything I thought I had handled tips sideways at once.

He looks older. Tired, maybe. Still unfairly attractive. Still standing like a man who has decided exactly where he's allowed to take up space.

Della brightens. "Micah Tarbell. This feels terrible for everyone."

He almost laughs. Almost.

"You two know each other?" Mrs. Ellis asks from Biography, because God refuses to grant me dignity today.

"This town is a disease," I mutter, and then immediately feel guilty, because I don't mean it, and Mrs. Ellis once drove me to the hospital when I had a kidney stone and didn't tell a single person for a full week out of respect for my privacy.

Della ignores me. "They used to be in love."

"Della."

"What? It's context."

Mrs. Ellis gasps and pretends to browse harder. Coward.

I fold my arms. "What are you doing here?"

Micah's jaw shifts. "I'm overseeing the Pembrook restoration."

Silence drops.

"Oh, absolutely not," Della says.

My stomach sinks. The old textile mill sits dead center in the redevelopment corridor. Half the town wants preservation. The other half wants luxury retail and wine bars nobody asked for. Marwood Books sits three blocks from the proposed expansion zone.

Micah catches my expression. His own tightens. "I didn't realize your block was included."

"That feels threatening."

"You think I'm trying to shut you down?"

"Aren't rich developers legally required to destroy at least one beloved local business?"

"I'm an architect."

"That's developer adjacent."

Della makes a choking sound trying not to laugh.

Micah looks around slowly. The reading nook. The crooked shelves. The mural in children's. His gaze pauses near Poetry.

"Still haven't fixed the floor."

I narrow my eyes. "It adds character."

"It's a structural hazard."

"There it is," Della whispers. "Nature is healing."

I ignore her. Mostly because hearing Micah complain about the floorboards should not affect me this much. It does anyway.

Because he remembered.

He looks back at me. "You kept the mural."

The comment lands soft. My grandmother helped paint that forest twenty years ago, after a pipe burst ruined the original wallpaper. We did it on a Saturday in October with bad brushes and cheap paint and she let me do the moon, which came out lopsided and which she called "atmospheric."

"People threatened riots when I mentioned repainting."

"Reasonable response."

There. That almost-smile. Small enough most people would miss it.

I don't.

The two teenagers near Fiction have stopped pretending to browse and are now openly watching us. I catch their eye and they scatter immediately. Good instincts.

I step around the counter. Too aware of how little space exists between us. He tracks the movement. Always watching. Always noticing.

Five years and my body still reacts to his attention like betrayal.

...