Page 21 of Love Story

When I was growing up, books were my constant.They didn’t judge, and they didn’t expect anything from me.I could lose myself in a thriller, fall for the hero in a romance, or puzzle over a mystery for hours.

But it wasn’t only reading.I loved reviewing on the WordBook platform—getting my thoughts down and shaping them into something helpful or insightful.It was a way to connect to other readers and give back, maybe, to the authors who’d given me so much.I liked dissecting a plot twist or praising a well-crafted character.

There was something satisfying about finding the words to explain why a book worked—or didn’t.I liked thinking that maybe my reviews helped someone decide to pick up a book or even inspired an author to push their craft further.It felt like being part of the conversation, part of something bigger than just me and the page.

Only I’d learned that posting reviews when my life was upside-down was a bad thing.

“It’s a re-read.”

“That good?”

“No.Yes.I mean, when I first read it, I wasn’t impressed.It’s lacking in detail, given it deals with white-collar crime,andit’s set in small-town New Hampshire, it feels like he’s made it up.”

She laughed then.“Isn’t that what authors do?”

“Authors should research,” I grumped, and she smiled.“My online book club discussed it when it first released, and we wondered if a ghostwriter wrote it instead of Nelson himself.”

“Is that a thing?”She didn’t seem quite as affronted as my online book club, and I did.

“It is,” I summarized.“And it’s a shame if he did.”Not that this was what I thought, but everyone else had jumped on my review and accused me of accusing him.

Fuck my life.

Harriet stirred her fragrant tea, her calm, piercing gaze settling on me.I’d learned by now it meant a question was coming—usually one I wasn’t ready for.

“So,” she said, her tone light but deliberate, “was there someone waiting for you back in the city?”

“‘Someone’?”I asked, buying time as I tore a piece of pancake and dipped it into the syrup.

“A boyfriend,” she clarified, her words careful, as if she thought she might startle me.“Someone waiting for you and wondering why you left Boston.”

I froze and could feel her watching me, waiting, but I didn’t look up.“No one,” I said finally, keeping my voice even.“There wasn’t anyone.”

Harriet eyed me as though she didn’t quite believe me but didn’t want to push.“No one at all?”

I shrugged, forcing a half-smile I hoped was convincing.“Owen—my ex—wasn’t interested in… after… he just wasn’t interested in me.”

Her silence was heavier than the words she wasn’t saying.When I glanced up, her expression softened, and the sadness in her eyes made something twist in my chest.I wouldn’t say I liked that expression—the way it made me feel I’d failed at something I hadn’t even tried for.

“You’re young, Ben,” she said gently, stirring her tea again.“You should have someone.Someone to—” She stopped herself and smiled.“Well, never mind.”

I popped the bite of pancake into my mouth to keep from saying something I’d regret.Harriet didn’t ask me anything else, and for the first time since I’d arrived in Caldwell Crossing, I felt like running again.

We ate in silence a bit longer.“Why don’t you help me out and volunteer at the library until you decide what you want to do next?”she asked, setting the book down.“We could use the extra hands, and I could use the company.”

I hesitated, not because I didn’t want to, but because the offer felt… easy and something I’d enjoy.Jeez, I hadn’t enjoyed much in a long time.

She raised an eyebrow.“We have some boxes of estate sale books that ended up not selling and were donated, but I promise I won’t make you catalog whole collections.Unless you’re into that.”

“I don’t know the first thing about working in a library,” I admitted.

“That’s what I’m here for,” she said breezily.“You’ll catch on.”

It was an easy sell.I nodded, setting my fork down.“Okay.Yeah.Why not?”

Her smile widened as if she’d expected that answer all along.“Good.We’ll leave at eight-thirty.And yes, you’re dressed fine,” she added before I could ask.“Jeans and a shirt are all you need.Just make sure you have layers—the archive room is cold.”

I glanced at the clock, seeing I had over an hour to prepare.Harriet’s way of welcoming me to Caldwell Crossing might be wrapped in pancakes and old books, but it was clear she wasn’t about to let me sit around and waste the day.And for once, I didn’t mind.

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