Chapter 1
Isla
There is something undeniably romantic about owning a bookstore, especially when that bookstore sits on a quiet little street in Greenwich Village, surrounded by old brick buildings, charming cafés, and the kind of narrow sidewalks that look as though they belong in a movie set somewhere in Europe rather than in the middle of New York City.
At least, that is what I keep telling myself whenever the ancient radiator makes a noise that resembles a dying animal, the front door refuses to close unless I throw my entire body weight against it, or another bill arrives in the mail with a number that makes me seriously reconsider every decision I have ever made.
This morning, however, my biggest concern is the ceiling.
I stand in the middle of my bookstore with a chipped ceramic mug warming my hands, staring at the suspicious brown stain that has been slowly spreading across the ceiling above the historical fiction section for the past two weeks. It has grown considerably since yesterday, and the small bucket I placed beneath it is beginning to look less like a precaution and more like a permanent addition to the furniture.
“Please don’t do this to me today,” I whisper, tilting my head back as though the building might actually listen if I sound sufficiently desperate. “We have been doing so well lately, and I really don’t think either of us needs another disaster.”
A drop of water falls from the ceiling and lands directly in the bucket.
Plink.
I close my eyes and inhale slowly through my nose, resisting the urge to scream at an inanimate object before nine in the morning.
Absolutely wonderful.
“Are you seriously having another conversation with the building?”
The familiar voice comes from somewhere behind me, accompanied by the soft jingling of the bell above the entrance, and I don’t even need to turn around to know that my best friend has arrived.
Blair Hayes has a very particular way of entering a room. She never simply walks into a place; she arrives with the kind of effortless confidence that makes people turn their heads, whether she intends for them to or not. It probably helps that she looks like someone who belongs on the cover of a fashion magazine rather than inside a bookstore that smells faintly of old paper, cinnamon, and questionable electrical wiring.
“I’m trying positive reinforcement,” I explain, finally turning toward her while gesturing vaguely at the ceiling with my mug. “Apparently, threatening to burn the place down isn’t an effective long-term maintenance strategy, so I’m exploring healthier communication methods.”
Blair stops just inside the doorway, her perfectly shaped eyebrows rising as she takes in the bucket, the damp ceiling, and my expression.
“Isla, sweetheart, I say this with all the love in my heart, but I think your bookstore might actually be trying to kill you.”
“She’s just going through a difficult time.”
“She has been going through a difficult time since approximately nineteen eighty-seven.”
“Old buildings have character.”
“Old buildings have mold.”
I gasp dramatically, pressing a hand against my chest. “Take that back!”
“Absolutely not.”
She grins as she makes her way toward me, carefully navigating around a precarious tower of secondhand novels that I have been meaning to organize for approximately three days. In one hand, she carries a small paper bag from the bakery around the corner, while the other holds two takeaway coffees, one of which I immediately recognize as mine from the excessive amount of caramel written across the side.
God, I love this woman.
Blair is beautiful in a way that should probably be illegal before ten in the morning. Her long blonde hair falls in glossy waves over the shoulders of her cream-colored coat, framing a face with delicate features, full lips, and striking blue eyes that seem to sparkle with amusement even when she is doing absolutely nothing. She has the kind of naturally curvy figure that makes even the simplest outfit look deliberately chosen, with a narrow waist and soft curves in precisely the right places.
I, on the other hand, have spent most of my life looking like the slightly disheveled younger sister of someone who actually knows how to dress.
My dark brown curls currently sit in a messy knot on top of my head, with several stubborn strands escaping around my face no matter how many hairpins I sacrifice to the cause. My figure is slender, with narrow hips and a smaller chest than Sienna’s, and I am wearing an oversized forest-green sweater, black leggings, and a pair of fuzzy socks hidden inside my worn leather boots.
I have also managed to get dust on my cheek despite having been awake for less than two hours.
People have always said that Blair and I look like complete opposites, and I suppose they are right. Where she is blonde, bright, and impossible to overlook, I am brunette, quieter, and far more comfortable disappearing between the shelves of a bookstore than becoming the center of attention at a crowded party.
But appearances have never mattered much between us.
Blair has been my best friend since we are five years old, when she marches across our elementary school playground, finds me crying behind the climbing frame because two older girls have stolen my favorite book, and announces that we are going to get it back.
She doesn’t even ask my name first. She simply takes my hand, drags me across the playground, and informs the girls that if they don’t return my book immediately, she is going to tell the teacher that they have been eating glue.
I still have absolutely no idea why that particular threat works, but it does. Twenty years later, very little has changed.
Blair is still the first person to defend me, the first person to tell me when I am being ridiculous, and the only person who can make me laugh when everything around me feels like it is falling apart.
She isn’t my sister by blood, but somewhere along the way, the distinction stops mattering. When I think of family, I think of her, because she is the person who knows every version of me, including the ones I would rather forget.
“Here,” she says, handing me my coffee before leaning forward to kiss my cheek. “You look like you need this more than oxygen.”
“I would marry you if it were socially acceptable.”
“Darling, you couldn’t afford me.”
“Rude.”
“Accurate.”
I take a long sip of the warm caramel latte, practically melting as the sweetness hits my tongue, and Blair laughs at the expression on my face before placing the bakery bag on the counter.
“I brought croissants too, because I know you, and I know that your idea of breakfast is usually three cups of coffee and whatever emotional damage you collect from your fictional boyfriends.”
“That is a deeply unfair characterization of my lifestyle.”
“Is it?”
I consider arguing, but the fact that I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday evening makes defending myself rather difficult. Instead, I take another sip of coffee and follow her toward the counter.
My bookstore, Between the Pages, is not particularly impressive by New York standards, especially when compared to the enormous, beautifully designed bookshops scattered throughout Manhattan. The shelves are mismatched, the wooden floorboards creak beneath almost every step, and the narrow staircase leading to the tiny storage room upstairs has a concerning tendency to wobble whenever someone walks on it too quickly.
The front windows are framed by faded dark-green paint that has begun peeling around the edges, and the little brass bell above the door occasionally rings even when nobody enters, something Blair insists means the building is haunted.
I prefer to believe there is a draft.
At the back of the shop, two old armchairs sit beside a crooked floor lamp, creating a small reading corner where customers can settle down with a book and forget about the world outside for a little while. A faded Persian rug covers the floor beneath them, and a small wooden table holds a constantly changing selection of novels I think deserve more attention.
Every available surface seems to contain books.
They fill the shelves from floor to ceiling, spill into carefully balanced piles beside the register, and occupy the windowsills where I keep promising myself I will eventually put plants. Some are brand-new releases, others are secondhand treasures with cracked spines and yellowed pages, and a few are old editions I have personally rescued from estate sales because the thought of someone throwing them away makes my chest ache.
There are books with love letters tucked between their pages, novels with handwritten notes in the margins, and poetry collections that smell faintly of dust and vanilla.
Nothing matches, very little is organized according to any sensible system, and I love every single inch of it.
This place is mine.
Not the building itself, unfortunately, because the universe apparently believes that would be far too generous, but the bookstore, the shelves, the books, and every little detail inside these four walls belong to me.
Two years ago, I take every dollar I have saved, combine it with a small business loan that still gives me nightmares, and purchase the struggling bookstore from an elderly gentleman named Mr. Whitmore, who has owned it for nearly forty years.
He tells me that the place has a soul and Blair tells me that the place has structural damage.
Both things turned out to be true.
Still, there is nothing quite like unlocking the front door every morning, switching on the little golden lamps between the shelves, and breathing in the familiar scent of paper and coffee while the city slowly wakes around me.
For a few precious moments before the first customer arrives, the bookstore feels like a world entirely separate from the noise and chaos of New York.
A world where stories matter more than money, where happy endings still exist, and where even the darkest characters can sometimes find someone willing to love them.
“You’re doing that thing again,” Blair observes as she removes her coat and drapes it over the back of the chair behind my counter.
I blink, returning my attention to her. “What thing?”
“The thing where you look around this place like it’s your firstborn child.”
“She is my firstborn child.”
“She is a financial liability with water damage.”
“And yet I love her unconditionally.”
Blair shakes her head, but there is affection in her smile as she pulls a croissant from the paper bag and places it in my hand.
“Eat, please. I refuse to spend my morning explaining to paramedics that my best friend fainted because she considers fictional men a food group.”
I take a bite of the croissant, which is still warm and filled with almond cream, and release an appreciative hum.
“Okay, this might actually be the best thing you’ve ever done for me.”
“Really? Better than the time I held your hair while you threw up after your twenty-first birthday?”
“We agreed never to discuss that again.”
“Or the time I threatened to key Oliver’s car after he stood you up?”
“Blair.”
“Or the time I spent six hours helping you assemble these ridiculous shelves because you insisted that paying professionals was unnecessary?”
I look toward the nearest bookshelf, which leans slightly to the left. “You did a terrible job with that one.”
Her mouth falls open.
“Oh, you ungrateful little...”
The bell above the entrance rings before she can finish threatening my life, and we both turn toward the door.
Mrs. Donnelly, one of my favorite regular customers, steps inside wearing a bright purple raincoat and carrying a floral umbrella despite the fact that it isn’t currently raining.
“Good morning, girls!” she calls cheerfully.
“Morning, Mrs. Donnelly!” I reply, immediately setting my croissant aside. “Did you finish the mystery I recommended?”
The older woman’s expression turns positively scandalized.
“Finish it? Isla, sweetheart, I stayed awake until two in the morning because I absolutely had to find out whether the husband was responsible.”
I grin as I make my way around the counter. “And?”
“And I was right!” she announces triumphantly before lowering her voice. “Although I must say, the wife should have poisoned him much sooner.”
Behind me, Blair snorts into her coffee and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
Mrs. Donnelly is seventy-three years old, has been married to the same man for nearly fifty years, and reads enough murder mysteries to make me mildly concerned for Mr. Donnelly’s safety.
Fortunately, her husband appears to be perfectly happy, although he does occasionally joke that he has started checking his coffee for suspicious ingredients.
“Well, if you’re in the mood for another questionable marriage and an even more suspicious husband, I have something I think you’ll love.”
Her eyes light up. “Oh, wonderful. Show me.”
I lead her toward the mystery section, carefully stepping around the bucket beneath the leaking ceiling while she tells me about her granddaughter’s latest relationship disaster. For the next fifteen minutes, I listen, recommend three books, and somehow end up promising to set aside a fourth when it arrives next week.
This is my favorite part of owning a bookstore. Not the paperwork, the invoices, or the constant anxiety over whether I can afford next month’s rent, but the people who walk through my door looking for something they cannot quite explain.
Some want adventure, others want comfort and a few want to cry over fictional people because apparently their real lives aren’t emotionally devastating enough.
And sometimes, people simply need somewhere quiet to exist for a little while.
I understand that better than most.
Mrs. Donnelly eventually makes her way back to the counter looking thoroughly pleased with her selections as she continues telling me about her granddaughter’s disastrous love life. After paying, she insists on showing Blair and me a picture of her cat, who apparently has developed a habit of sleeping in her husband’s favorite armchair.
“Well, I’d better get going before Harold starts wondering whether I’ve run away with another man,” she announces with a mischievous smile, carefully slipping her books into her handbag.
“Tell him I said hello,” I reply, watching as she adjusts her purple raincoat and makes her way toward the entrance.
“Of course, sweetheart. And do something about that ceiling before the whole place comes crashing down!”
I laugh and promise her that I will, although we both know there’s a good chance the ceiling will outlive us all simply out of spite.
The little brass bell jingles as she disappears onto the sidewalk, leaving behind the familiar scent of her floral perfume, and I turn toward Blair, who is still standing behind the counter with an amused expression.
“Well, that was...” The bell above the door rings again, interrupting me before I can finish my sentence.
I glance toward the entrance, already preparing my usual cheerful greeting, when a tall, broad-shouldered man steps inside, bringing a gust of cool New York air with him.
And just like that, the words die on my lips.
