Safe.
I nearly dropped the box I was shelving when I heard it.
“This one any good? Or is it all just yearning and pining and almost-kisses?”
My stomach did something traitorous. I turned — slowly — and there he was.
AnselfuckingBarlowe, leaning against the display table like he was invented for it. Leather jacket. That messy, troubled-actor-who-forgot-to-sleep hair. The same crooked smile I remembered from the napkin — thenight— I never threw away.
“Depends,” I answered, cocking my head like it’s no big dealhe’s here, like I haven’t imagined this exact moment a hundred different ways. “You into yearning and pining?”
He didn’t miss a beat. Didn’t look away. “Lately? Yeah.”
My throat went dry.
The silence between us stretched, not awkward but… charged. Like the beat before a first kiss. Or the half-second before a firework goes off.
I shifted the book in my hands just to ground myself.
It didn’t work.
Get it together, Haddock.
“Didn’t expect to see you here.” My voice was surprisingly calmer than I had expected.
“Didn’t expect to come in,” he admitted. “But I was walking by, saw the name on the door. Figured if I was gonna buy a book full of yearning, might as well get it from someone who’s an expert.”
I laughed — quietly, but for real. “Flattery from a has-been. What an honor.”
“Ouch,” Ansel pressed a hand to his heart, grimacing. “That hurts, Juniper.”
I tried not to think about howperfectmy name sounded falling off of his lips.
By now, people around the shop were starting to notice. The older couple in the corner did a terrible job covering their whispers, and I could see the gaggle of teens furiously searching away on their phones.
Even in his so-called retirement, his fame remained. I nodded, hoisting the box I was sorting up on my hip, beckoning him to follow.
As Iforcedmyself not to turn around, I headed towards the romance section, using the new shipment of books as an excuse to get away from the front of the store. I didn’t need to look to know he was behind me — I could feel it, the way you can sort of sense a storm in your bones before it breaks. Every step he took seemedlouder than it should be. Or maybe it was just the blood rushing in my ears.
“Have you been stalking me, Ansel Barlowe?” I asked while crouching down to shelve the books.
He gave a dramatic gasp behind me. “You wound me.”
I glanced over my shoulder just in time to catch him leaning against the edge of the shelf, hands in the pockets of that ridiculous jacket, trying far too hard to look unbothered.
“I liked one comment,” he said, holding up a single finger. “One. And then the algorithm just… kept feeding me your posts. Book recs, mostly. Some café selfies. That one reel of you yelling about dog-earring paperbacks? That was art.”
I raised an eyebrow. “So you admit it. Digital stalking.”
“Reluctantly,” he said, grinning. “But in my defense, I didn’t know you worked here until last week.”
I blinked. “So itwasa coincidence.”
He hesitated — just for a second — and then ran a hand through his hair, the first sign of real nerves. “Kind of. I’m in town for a few weeks. New role. Indie film. Thought I’d kill some time, wander around, maybe browse a few books, and… okay, fine. I may have recognized the storefront from your profile.”
I stared at him.
“Hey,” he said, holding up his hands. “It’s not like I showed up holding a boombox over my head.”
