Page 1

One

The scent of baked goods may be the only thing keeping me sane these days. The promise of a warm scone, sweet tea, and a quiet place to read my book is the best part of my week.

I fidget in my seat, my fingers trailing over the one-inch scar at my left temple, then I casually move them down to my earlobe. It’s a nervous gesture at this point. I do it no less than a dozen times a day. Letting my hand fall, I cross my legs. I take in the sunshine on this outdoor patio and breathe in buttery pastries from my favorite Tesoro café. Then I open my security blanket—my book.

“The Apartment Pact,” I say, reading aloud the title of my latest romcom.

I’ve read more books in the last six months than possibly the rest of my life. I constantly have a book open or headphones on telling me a story. There’s peace and a mindless joy in living a life that isn’t your own, even for a moment. Sure, my bookish friends have problems, but I know they’ll be solved by the end of the story. Because my books all have happy endings.

That’s how I like it.

I still cry when it’s over. Happily ever after and all.

I’m one page in when there’s a rustle two tables away. I lift my chin, soaking up the summer sunshine on my cheeks, and take one little glimpse at my neighbor. The broad, redheaded man is back. Like always, two tables away with a book in hand. He’s facing me again, but he doesn’t meet my eyes. Which is fine by me.

I bite my inner cheek. We might be on the same schedule. He’s reading something new today. Quickly, I let my eyes rove over the front cover and title of his book—Brothers in Ash and Iron.

Something historic, something non-fiction, something I would have loved to read a year ago. But not anymore. No, thanks. Give me all the fictional happily ever afters with semi-predictable characters and plots. Love is never boring. Or sad. Love in the fictional world never lets you down. Sure, I know who will end up with who, but it’s going to be good. I still enjoy the journey.

I’ve been staring a solid eight seconds—the man has seriously impressive shoulders—when his gaze lifts. I swallow, my eyes fluttering down to my open page, but not before I spy his kind smile. He’s caught me looking. And yet, it’s a smile that doesn’t call me crazy. It’s a smile that says he likes a guaranteed happily ever after, too.

Carlos, my waiter walks up and I give the redhead one more casual glimpse before looking at the older man who waits on me every Monday morning. The stranger’s eyes are back on his book. Whew.

“Anything else today, Miss Rosie?” Carlos says, the wrinkles around his eye creasing with his grin.

I can’t bring myself to correct him on my name. Months ago, on my second Monday at The Sugar Pine Café, he recognized me from the week before. He asked my name and told me his. He’s been calling me Rosie and speaking to me like a beloved niece ever since.

“No.” I grin up at the older gentleman. “How’s Partida?”

“Better.” He shrugs, but his wrinkles transform from happy to worried as he talks about his granddaughter. “Well, some. She liked the book you loaned her.”

“I’m glad. It was a favorite of mine when I was twelve.” I press my bookmark into the pages of my romantic comedy and close my novel. “I have more if she wants them. A broken leg is going to make having a fun summer tricky.”

I’m not sure why, but I glance two tables over, just in time to see the redhead quickly look away from me. Has he been listening? Has he been watching me like I’ve been watching him?

I press my lips together, and peer up into Carlos’s dark eyes.

“I’m sure she’d love that,” Carlos says. “We’ll have to arrange a brunch for the two of you. She’d like to meet you.”

“Sure.” I grin. Thinking about someone other than myself for once is strangely cathartic. “I could bring some rocks for her to paint while we chat. Kids love that.”

“Painting rocks?” he says, his grin crooked.

“Yeah.” But then—I’m not sure how I’d know that. It seems like an activity kids might like. Something is making me say it, so I go with it. “She could easily do that with her broken leg.” I lift my glass to my lips and take a small sip.

“Rosie,” he hums. “You’re such a sweet girl. No kids of your own?”

I cough on the ounce of liquid in my mouth. “No.” I shake my head, and with a slight tremble, I set my cup on the table. “You have to have a significant other to have kids.”

“No man?” My friend’s eyes widen. “At all?”

I bite my inner cheek and tell the nerves swelling inside of me to slow their roll. “Nope.” Although my head is conjuring a tall, dark man in a suit with a wide grin and perfect teeth. Someone lost to me.

“But you’re such a pretty girl. So smart. So kind.”

My eyes flick to the redhead, whose shoulders aren’t just broad, but could legit be boulders. The man works out when he isn’t reading about the Civil War. He’s smiling down at his book. It feels… suspicious. That book doesn’t exactly conjure happiness.

Maybe he is listening to us…