Chapter Two: Coffee and Coincidences

Two days passed before Evelyn saw him again.

It wasn't raining this time. In fact, the sun was out in full force, painting golden stripes across the sidewalk and warming the chill left behind by the April storms. Evelyn stood behind the counter at Hart & Ink, pretending to read Persuasion but really just watching the door.

She told herself she wasn't waiting for Owen. That would be foolish. He was just a stranger who liked poetry and had a nice smile. He probably wandered into a different coffee shop, found another quiet bookstore, or maybe he wasn't from HavenBrook at all—just passing through like most people did. But despite all that logic, her heart had other ideas.

At exactly 10:47 a.m., the bell above the door jingled.

She looked up instinctively, and there he was—less damp, still charming.

"Hey," he said, smiling like they'd already shared a dozen mornings like this.

"You're dry," she teased.

"I figured I'd try coming in under different circumstances. See if you're as friendly when it's not pouring."

She closed her book. "Depends. Did you bring coffee?"

He held up two cups. "Black with cinnamon for you, vanilla for me. I wasn't sure if you'd be here, but I took the risk."

She blinked, surprised. "How did you know how I take my coffee?"

He shrugged, setting the cups on the counter. "Lucky guess."

Or maybe it wasn't luck. Maybe he'd asked someone. Maybe he'd noticed more than she thought. Evelyn studied him for a moment, unsure whether to feel flattered or suspicious.

"You always bring offerings when you visit bookstores?" she asked.

"Only when I'm trying to impress the girl behind the counter."

Heat rose in her cheeks, and she busied herself with the lid on her cup. "You're a little too smooth for a writer."

"Would it help if I told you I have three unfinished manuscripts, a rejection email from The New Yorker, and a crippling fear of first drafts?"

She smiled. "Much better."

Owen lingered in the shop for most of the morning. He sat near the poetry section, sipping coffee, occasionally scribbling into a battered notebook. He didn't interrupt her while she worked, and she didn't ask what he was writing, though she was dying to.

Around noon, the lunch crowd came in—mostly retirees and tourists who wandered in after the bakery next door. Evelyn moved around the store, answering questions, ringing up a few sales, and pretending not to glance over at Owen every five minutes.

By one, the rush had faded, and the bookstore was quiet again.

"So," she said, leaning against the counter. "Where's home for you? Or are you just visiting HavenBrook for the rain?"

"I grew up in Boston," Owen said, stretching. "Moved around a bit after college—D.C., Portland, New York for a minute. But I'm renting a little cabin outside town for now."

"Really?"

He nodded. "Trying to finish this book. I figured a slower pace, fresh air, and fewer distractions might help."

"Has it?"

"Depends. You count as a distraction?"

She rolled her eyes. "I might."

"Then no. Not working at all."

She laughed. "How long are you staying?"

"Three months. Maybe more. Depends if I make any progress—or completely lose my mind."

She wanted to ask what his novel was about, but something in his expression—an uncertainty, maybe even fear—made her hold back. Instead, she said, "Well, I hope we have enough rain to keep you inspired."

That afternoon, they walked to the bakery together. It wasn't planned. He offered to buy her a muffin to repay the "bookstore therapy," and she agreed before she could second-guess herself. They sat outside at a little bistro table, their conversation meandering like an old river: from favorite authors to worst dates to who would survive longer in the wilderness. Evelyn confessed she'd once eaten a dandelion out of boredom during a fourth-grade camping trip. Owen countered with a story about locking himself out of his apartment in just a towel.

By the time they parted ways, the sun had dipped low enough to turn the street gold.

"Same time tomorrow?" he asked, holding the poetry book she'd recommended.

"Maybe," she said, smiling. "Depends if it rains."

But the next day, she was there. And so was he.

⸻

Weeks passed like pages in a novel neither of them wanted to end. They fell into a quiet rhythm—mornings at the bookstore, afternoons with coffee, the occasional walk by the lake where spring wildflowers bloomed like secrets across the trail. Evelyn introduced him to her favorite hidden spots in HavenBrook: the used records shop run by a retired DJ, the lakeside bench with the best view of the sunset, and the tiny art gallery where local kids displayed their watercolor dreams.

Owen, in return, let her read pieces of his writing—not much at first, just snippets. A line of dialogue here, a paragraph there. His words were beautiful, filled with longing and nuance. He wrote about people who were broken and soft and brave in quiet ways. People a lot like her.

"You should finish it," she told him one day, as they sat on the back porch of the bookstore, legs dangling over the edge.

"I want to," he said. "But sometimes I worry the ending won't be worth it."

She looked at him, really looked at him. "Then change the ending."

Their eyes met, and something passed between them—unspoken but undeniable.

The next morning, he brought her a daisy tucked inside her coffee sleeve. She pressed it into a notebook that night, unsure if it meant anything but hoping it did.

By May, HavenBrook bloomed into full spring. The town square was painted with tulips, and the bookstore's windows were flung open most afternoons to let the breeze in. Evelyn found herself laughing more, sleeping easier, even dreaming again—of things she hadn't let herself imagine in a long time. Not since her mother died. Not since Jason left.

Owen never pried, but he listened when she spoke. About her mom's illness. About how she'd given up the New York internship because she couldn't leave her uncle alone with the store. About how sometimes she wondered if she was wasting time in a small town, or if this was exactly where she was supposed to be.

"You're not wasting anything," he told her. "You're living. There's a difference."

And slowly, day by day, Evelyn let her heart open again.

One Saturday morning, she came in early to find Owen already inside. The front door was unlocked, and he stood behind the counter with a stack of new releases.

"How did you—?"

"Your uncle let me in," he said, grinning. "Apparently, I'm 'bookstore approved' now."

She laughed. "Well, look at you. Practically a staff member."

"I even made coffee. And alphabetized the bestsellers shelf."

Evelyn raised an eyebrow. "Now that's love."

He paused, just for a moment. And the air shifted.

Neither of them said anything about it, but the word hung there between them, fragile as a spider's thread.

Later that day, Owen kissed her.

It was raining again—of course it was—and they were alone in the store, the rest of the world muted by the patter of water on the windows. She stood on her tiptoes to reach a book on the top shelf, and when she turned, he was there—close, too close—and she didn't move away.

His hand brushed hers. Her breath caught.

And then—softly, carefully—he leaned in.

Their lips met like punctuation at the end of a sentence they'd been writing together for weeks. Warm. Sure. Inevitable.

When they finally pulled apart, she whispered, "What took you so long?"