Page 27 of Love Story

How do I know that?Because instead of all the shit in Boston being the first thing I thought of this morning, it was Sam’s face that filled my thoughts.

Fuck.

It wasn’t something I wanted to admit, but there it was, staring me in the face whenever I thought about him.The problem was it wasn’t Sam who’d flirted with me last night—it was Haider.

Haider was friendly, charming even, but he wasn’t… Sam.Haider’s sparkle and relentless energy were easy to like, but I didn’t crave it.What I wanted, what I couldn’t stop thinking about, was the peace that came with Sam.Strong, stoic, gorgeous Sam.And every time I glanced over at him across the table, I’d felt weird in a thrilling and downright terrifying way.

When we’d stood on the library steps, his hands steadying me after I slipped, there’d been a moment—just a breath—when I thought we might kiss.And then, nothing.He’d stepped back, his hands dropping away, and the moment was gone.

And now there was Haider, who’d taken my number last night and sent me a good morning message with a coffee emoji and a heart.

A freaking heart.

Haider was a nice guy, but he wasn’t Sam.

I sent back amorning, then thumbed through other messages on my phone, trying to push all thoughts of Sam out of my head.“I didn’t come here to be attracted to anyone,” I muttered, scrolling mindlessly.

Owen had only been with me for the money, which I found out way too late.That much had been painfully obvious when he’d dropped me like a hot potato the second things had gotten tough.I’d helped him through his degree, paid for everything when he couldn’t, and believed it when he said he saw us forever.I could settle for that because I liked him, didn’t love him, but hell, my career came first in everything anyway, and I told myself it was fine then.At least I had someone who wanted to be with me at company events.

Pity party, table for one.

I hated that I still thought about him sometimes, that he still occupied even the smallest corner of my mind because he didn’t deserve it—not after what he’d done.Not after he’d made me feel like I was only worth what I could give him.

And yet another message from him today, asking for money.I was alone, bruised, broken, and trying to rebuild something from the pieces I had left.The irony wasn’t lost on me.Maybe Owen had left me for being too much of a mess, but at least now, I was my own mess.

Still, the sting of him dumping me lingered.And sometimes, in the quiet moments when I let myself think too much, I wondered if I’d ever get it right.If I’d ever find someone who wanted me—not my money, not what I could do for them, just me.

I scrolled then to the WordBook reading app.

My post about the latest Nelson book had somehow gained traction—more than I’d expected or wanted.My comment had been simple enough—pointing out how the author’s lack of research had thrown me out of the story.But now, die-hard fans had latched onto it, accusing me of everything from being a fake fan to outright slander.The replies were a mixed bag—some people agreed with me, but the loud ones were the ones who didn’t.

Luckily, my online handle, BenDover123—the best I could come up with when I was fifteen and first joined the app—was anonymous enough to shield me from real-world consequences.No one knew who or where I was except Rach29 from the book club.She’d been in my same English class at school, so we knew each other’s real names but had promised to keep our identities to ourselves.

No one was going to track me down and… I read the latest comment and winced… someone suggested they were going to thrust a copy ofWar and Peaceup my ass.No novel was going anywhere near my ass, whatever user TheoFlume87 thought.

I skimmed a few comments, liking those supporting my point, before pocketing the phone and resolving to ignore the rest.It wasn’t worth the stress, not when I had enough to deal with.

But even at the library, as I tried to distract myself with books, my thoughts circled back to Sam.To his quiet strength, his steady presence.He was everything I shouldn’t want right now, but that made me want him more.

How could I start a new life in the middle of nowhere, New Hampshire, if I went to bed with the first man I saw?

So, helping Harriet with her books had been a welcome distraction.It was a task that didn’t demand much from me—just a steady rhythm of sorting, stacking, and occasionally leafing through something interesting.She’d been working through boxes of donations for weeks, and while she claimed she could manage fine on her own, I’d seen the relief in her eyes when I’d offered to help.For me, it was a chance to lose myself in something simple.No coding, investment reports, or endless spirals of what-ifs and why-did-I-bother.Just books.

I loved books.

Most boxes were filled with old novels, dog-eared and faded, or encyclopedias so outdated they still listed Pluto as a planet.Not that I disagreed—I felt sorry for poor old Pluto.I’d spent half an hour flipping through one from the seventies, marveling at its retro designs and the fashions that time forgot, and imagined the rest of the boxes would be the same.I did some hasty research on where we might be able to sell these old books to seventies enthusiasts, but in my heart, I knew Harriet would never let them go, and the library would be stacking them in a far corner in some display complete with a glitter ball and a pair of flares.

I opened another box, but it wasn’t another seventies deposit—it was full of much older books, magazines, and handwritten reports.The reports used words like spile and sugarbush and a meticulous list of daily temperatures for 1921 through 1927.At the bottom, buried under the final set of cracked leather-bound journals, I found something exciting—a small bundle of letters tied with a faded blue ribbon.The top one was addressed toSC, written in ink faded with time.

The ribbon was brittle in my fingers as I untied it, my curiosity sparked.The paper was aged, the edges frayed, and the ink was smudged as though someone had read these letters a hundred times.I carefully unfolded the first one, the handwriting elegant and precise, like something from a bygone era.

Dearest Samuel,

My heart is yours, now and forever.

The Grove will always be ours.

Your Clara.

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