I pick up his phone and slowly scan for the results. They were posted five minutes ago on the library website. Ronin must have been refreshing the page all day to have gotten them so quickly.
My eyes fly over the words, skimming down to where the finalists are listed. Second and third place are a blur of text, and I zero in on the last line.
First place, Amelia Baker, Blue Fields.
My hand flies up to my mouth as I gasp, and Ronin can’t contain himself any longer. He rushes around the counter and lifts me into a huge bear hug, my feet leaving the floor as hetwirls me around.
“You did it, baby!” he says into my ear, his arms tight around my waist. “I am so fucking proud of you, Mel! I knew you could do this.”
He places me back on my feet and I lean into him. His mouth claims mine and for a moment, I forget I’m standing in the middle of the place I work and sadly not in the privacy of my new bedroom. My hands roam up his back as I pull him closer to me before I hear a throat clearing lightly behind us.
I pull away, peeking over Ronin’s shoulder to see Sydney standing behind us with an armful of books and a smirk on her face. “Should I give you guys the room, or…?”
“Shut up.” I shoot her my middle finger before stepping a proper distance away from Ronin. “I placed first in that short story contest.” Even as I say it out loud, I can’t believe the words are true. I actuallywon?!
“Oh, damn girl! Congrats!” Syd high fives me before setting the pile of books down on the front counter. “Totally knew you’d kill it. You can thank me in your acknowledgements when you write your book now.”
I try to pinch her, but Syd dodges my attack before pulling me into a brief hug. “I can’t believe it,” I admit, running my palms down my cheeks. “It feels a little surreal at the moment.”
Ronin leans on the counter, his hair falling over his black-framed glasses, blue eyes shining with pride. “Come over tonight to celebrate.”
He clasps my hand in between both of his, his thumbs running over the top of my knuckles, waiting for my answer.
“A celebration sounds absolutely perfect,” I reply, leaning over the counter to kiss him again.
Sydney disappears back into the shelves of books, muttering under her breath something along the lines of PDA being banned around single people.
“I’ll see you tonight, then,” Ronin promises, before tearing himself away to return to the diner.
I lean back against the wall behind the front desk.
I actually did it. I’m going to be published inThe EmeraldTimes. My little story about fate will be read by countless readers. My chest fills with pride for the first time since I started my writing journey. I had a few accolades in college for different writing projects, but after years of struggling in LA, this feels absolutely amazing. Validating in a way I didn’t realize I wanted or needed.
I suddenly feel as if the lofty goal of writing a novel isn’t so lofty anymore. It’s tangible—within my reach. And with the cash prize that this contest comes with, I may actually be able to publish it on my own—if I can get it written.
My mind flashes back to December, when I visited Nora and accepted her job offer. I had an image then of a book in the display window with my name scrawled across the front. I smile to myself, determined now to make this vision a reality.
Part III
Blue Fields, I’m Yours
Chapter Thirty-Seven
RONIN
Blue Fields’ Summer Seafood Festival—one of my favorite celebrations of the year—is kicking off this weekend, and Double Shot has been prepping for days, our freezer overflowing with crab, salmon, mussels, clams, and every other seasonal fish available. I’ve been showering twice a day just to make sure I get the smell out of my hair. I don’t know how Kian does this full-time and never shows up stinking of fish.
The entire town square has been taken over by booths that will offer all sorts of merchandise and foods, from tasting booths to homemade crafts and everything in between. Just this morning, Mel texted me a photo of her mother’s dining table covered in tiny crocheted sea creatures. This is the first year Grace will be running her own booth, and Mel has been helping her finish the last batches of little seahorses, crabs, and octopuses.
Through the large front windows of the diner, I catch a glimpse of a team of volunteers busy hanging string lights in the trees and draping colorful streamers around the gazebo. Another pair of townspeople are constructing a large photo op standee that’s shaped like a giant clam with space in the center for kids to sit for a picture. Off to the side, there are two more cutoutsalready standing proud and ready—a matching pair of lobsters with holes cut out in their heads.
Needless to say, the festival is a huge draw for our town. We’ve been swamped with tourists flooding in from all over the country, and today is no different. The dining room is packed full of people, and I can only imagine that the few inns dotted throughout the area are sold out.
William rounds the corner just as I’m finishing up an order at the bar, coming from the hallway that leads to our offices. He spies me behind the counter, his expression grim, and as he makes his way over, my belly immediately drops.
Something is wrong.
“Do you have a moment?” he says as he approaches. “It’s a little urgent.” He nods his head over to the corner, away from the patrons that are seated at the bar.
