Page 53
Felicity exhaled slowly.
In through her nose. Out through her mouth.
“Stay present,” she murmured, more to herself than anything.
She hadn’t had a flashback in years. She refused to start now.
Even if the lights tried their damnedest to pull her somewhere else.
“For fuck’s sake,” she muttered under her breath, adjusting the fall of her jacket as if that could settle the restless energy crawling along her arms.
She faltered at Books ’n Bake. A trolley stood on the sidewalk displaying a selection of bestsellers, a small table beside it laid out with baked goods, each one neatly wrapped and stamped with the shop’s logo. Bella was busy with a patron, fingers deft as she swapped a book for a handful of notes, her smile easy, practiced.
Felicity’s gaze slid past her into the bookstore, where a display of stacked novels formed a Christmas tree, blinking lights woven between the spines. Each book was wrapped in brown paper, with teasing descriptions scrawled across the front. A handwritten sign advertised “Blind Date with a Book.”
Her stare caught.
On him.
The man who made her yearn for things she had no business wanting, stretched out on the sofa in the store like … like he belonged there.
Ruth stood nearby, laughing at something he’d said.
Felicity’s jaw tightened, and she looked away.
Straight into Bella’s cold stare.
The woman’s gaze flicked — deliberately — toward the reading nook.
To Ruth. To Ronan.
Then back. “Don’t ruin that,” Bella warned. “She’s finally laughing again.”
Felicity looked away and moved on.
A family of five passed by, dressed in matching reindeer sweaters, mugs of something creamy and pale cradled in their hands. The scent hit a second later — hot chocolate, cinnamon.
And just like that, she remembered the cinnamon bun he’d delivered months ago. The warmth that had washed over her. Unwanted. Unasked.
And she had walked away. Turned her back on what he offered.
Just as well.
He’d clearly decided Ruth was worth pursuing after all.
“Fucking hell,” she muttered, weaving through the edge of the crowd, her attention fixed on what she could control. The rhythm of her steps. The weight of her weapon. The steady, familiar press of duty anchoring her to the moment.
Duty to the star pinned to her shirt.
And the promise she made.
By the time her shift ended and she pushed through the door to the small lobby wedged between the flower shop and the travel agency, the streets had emptied, an eerie silence settling over Main.
Cold, running on empty, she climbed the stairs to her apartment and let herself in. It took a moment to deactivate the alarm, the interior awash in the flickering glow from the street below.
She shed her jacket, gloves, duty belt, and ripped off the beanie.
It felt like stripping off armor — layer by layer — until there was nothing left between her and the world. Nothing to hide behind. Nothing to hold her together.
