But how am I going to do that when she lives close enough that I can see her kitchen window from mine? Likethatwon’t be torture.
“Thanks for all your help,” she says. “I can take it from here.” Neesha sets the cupcakes on the counter, keeping a safe distance, which is probably for the best. Plus, there’s the whole thing about me being a hockey player. I can’t change who I am; I can only change her perception of athletes—a daunting task, but I’m willing to try.
I walk toward the door, Henry following me like he doesn’t want me to go. “Any time you need a baking assistant, you know where to find me.”
She looks down at my t-shirt, now smudged with frosting. “Your shirt looks terrible. I’m sorry.”
“Worth it,” I say. “Because now I know how to make cupcakes.”
“I could wash it. It’s the least I can do after you agreed to help me.”
I shake my head. “I can’t let you do that. It’s called neighbors helping neighbors, remember?” I put my hand on the door handle and test it. The frame is splintered where I broke through, and it doesn’t close properly anymore. “Actually, I should fix this tonight before someone else decides to break in.”
“Tonight?” She looks exhausted. “You don’t have to?—”
“I owe you a working door after my dramatic entrance,” I say with a sheepish grin. “Let me grab some wood filler and a new strike plate from my place. It won’t take more than twenty minutes to fix.”
She hesitates. “But I can’t pay you anything.”
“Neighbors helping neighbors, remember?” I step toward the door. “Besides, I won’t sleep well knowing your door doesn’t lock properly.” I run my fingers along the splintered doorframe, mentally calculating what it would take to replace the whole thing. She deserves better than this flimsy door, but tonight I’ll have to settle for making it functional. “Just give me five minutes to get my tools.”
“Okay…neighbor,” she says, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
“Well, as your closest neighbor, you should have my number,” I say, picking up her phone from the counter and holding it up so she can unlock it.
She looks at me skeptically, but complies. “Why, though?”
“If something breaks or your smoke alarm goes off again, you’ll know where to find me.”
I enter my contact information and hand the phone back to her. She stares at the screen for a moment before tucking it away.
“I probably won’t need to call,” she says quietly.
“But you have it, just in case,” I say, then grin. “Try not to burn anything down while I’m gone.”
CHAPTER 7
NEESHA
Another week passes and Lucian continues to stop in for coffee at the bookshop, despite the fact he has more syrup flavors than most coffee shops. Every morning he arrives at 8:15 sharp, ordering the same medium roast. He’s predictable, but I don’t know what to think about the fact that he keeps popping in for his morning pick-me-up. It’s almost like he has another reason to stop by, but I don’t want to make assumptions. Small-town people are naturally this way—friendly, like golden retrievers who don’t know a stranger. But that doesn’t fit with what Lucian said about his neighbor-boundaries.
The man specifically said he moved here for peace and quiet, away from people monitoring his every move. So why is he voluntarily inserting himself into the daily drama of a bookstore cafe where everyone knows everyone’s business?
Maybe he’s just being polite? Or maybe—and this is where my mind starts creating elaborate scenarios that don’t exist except in my head—heactuallylikes having one neighbor he can interact with on his own terms.
When I open Falling for Books this morning at 7:00 a.m., I notice the cafe is actually bright enough to see what I’m doing. I glance up toward the broken pendant lamp, the one that’s beendead for months, and blink. It’s glowing like it was never broken.
“Emmy?” I call.
My friend pokes her head out from the storage room.
“Did you fix the light?” I point at the functional pendant above me.
“Nope. Maybe it just started working again?”
“Em, lights don’t magically fix themselves.”
She shrugs. “Maybe Dawson messed with it when he stopped in yesterday.” She nods toward the barista bar. “Hey, did you see that order on the counter? Someone left it in the mail slot this morning.”
