Page 13 of Knotting the Cowboys

The scent hits me immediately—coffee and paper and vanilla and something indefinable that speaks of stories waiting to be discovered. My eyes need a moment to adjust from twilight to the warm interior lighting, and when they do, my breath catches.

It's everything a bookstore should be and rarely is.

The cafe takes up the right side, all warm wood and mismatched chairs that somehow create perfect harmony. The coffee bar gleams with copper and brass, an espresso machine that looks both vintage and well-maintained holding court.

Chalkboard menus in swooping handwriting advertise drinks I've never heard of alongside classics. Tiny tables tuckedinto corners promise intimate conversations over steaming mugs.

The left side belongs to the books, and they own it completely.

Floor-to-ceiling shelves create a maze of literary possibilities, with hand-painted signs marking genres in the same swooping script as the menu.

"Romance (Swoony)" and "Mystery (Murdery)" and "Self-Help (But Make It Fun)." Overstuffed armchairs lurk in corners like friendly trolls, each with its own reading lamp and side table. Persian rugs in jewel tones overlap on the worn wooden floors, creating islands of color and comfort.

But it's the feeling that gets me—immediate and overwhelming.

Safety.

Welcome.

Home.

Words I've trained myself not to think, but they flood through me anyway. This place doesn't care that I'm unmated, that I'm running, that I own nothing but what fits in a duffel bag.

It just exists, warm and inviting and utterly without judgment.

A place I can get used to…even for a little bit.

"Oh," I breathe, and it's inadequate but all I have.

"Right?" Wendolyn watches my face with satisfaction. "I had the same reaction when I first walked in. Like finding a piece of yourself you didn't know was missing."

String lights crisscross the ceiling, creating a canopy of stars that makes the whole space feel intimate despite its size. Plants hang from macrame holders, trailing green in defiance of my black thumb. A fireplace I hadn't noticed from outside crackles in the far corner, surrounded by yet more chairs and a couch that looks like it eats people in the best way.

For one blessed moment, my worries fade to background noise. The weight of my broken car, my empty wallet, my uncertain future—it all still exists, but muted under the bookstore's spell.

I'm just a woman standing in a magical place, breathing in stories and possibilities, feeling something unknot in my chest that's been twisted for so long I'd forgotten it wasn't supposed to hurt.

"Welcome to Wildflower & Wren," Wendolyn says softly. "She's not much, but she's home."

Home.

The word reverberates through me like a struck bell, beautiful and painful all at once.

I've been running so long I'd forgotten places like this exist—spaces that embrace rather than evaluate, that offer instead of demand.

"She’s perfect," I whisper, meaning it down to my bones.

Tomorrow A New Beginning

~WILLA~

"Come on," Wendolyn says, moving through the bookstore with the easy familiarity of someone who knows every creaking board and hidden corner. "Let's get you upstairs before?—"

A massive orange blur launches itself from the top of a bookshelf, landing on the counter with surprising grace for something that looks like a small pumpkin with legs. The cat—because it is indeed a cat, though I've seen smaller dogs—fixes me with eyes the color of aged whiskey and lets out a meow that sounds more like a rusty gate.

"And there he is." Wendolyn sighs with fond exasperation. "Fitzgerald, meet Willa. Willa, meet the true owner of this establishment."

Fitzgerald pads closer, his considerable bulk making the counter groan. His fur is every shade of orange from pale ginger to deep marmalade, and he's got the kind of presence that makes you want to ask permission before petting him.

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