Page 44 of Healing Hearts
A little further down, Kate and Grace are serving bagels and coffee at Kate’s booth, a nod to the much-anticipated reopening of the Bean & Bagel. The comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafts my way, momentarily soothing my nerves. I consider grabbing a cup but quickly dismiss the idea. Coffee won’t cure what’s ailing me today.
"Isn’t this great?" Becky chirps as she strolls by, cradling a sleeping fluffy puppy in her arms. The adopt-a-pet booth she’s running has been a hit all morning, with crowds of festival-goers stopping to coo over all the animals.
"It’s fantastic," I reply, my voice tinged with forced cheer. Internally, I remind myself I don’t need a puppy. No matterhow adorable they are, I’ve got enough chaos to deal with without adding another four-legged responsibility to the mix.
Becky beams, completely oblivious to my inner turmoil, and continues down the aisle, chatting with festival-goers and showing off the puppy. I envy her carefree energy.
The truth is, I feel like the walls are closing in. The conversation with Melissa keeps replaying in my head, her words haunting me. She’s right—readers want to meet Sophie Quinn. The demand for author appearances, interviews, and book signings has only grown louder with each new release. But the thought of stepping into the spotlight, of revealing my identity, terrifies me. What if I lose everything? My friends, my hometown, my job—my entire quiet, carefully curated life could crumble in an instant.
A little girl tugs at her mother’s hand near my booth, her face lighting up as she spots the library’s sign. “Mommy, can we get a bookmark?” she asks, her voice brimming with excitement.
I crouch down, offering her one of the brightly colored bookmarks featuring cartoon animals. “Here you go,” I say with a genuine smile. The child’s delight warms me, momentarily easing my anxiety.
“Thank you!” she chirps before skipping away, clutching her new treasure.
Moments like this remind me why I love what I do. The library, the children, the joy of connecting people to stories, it’s my passion. But how can I reconcile this life with my identity as Sophie Quinn? Writing was supposed to be an escape, a private outlet for my creativity. I never imagined it would lead to this level of success—or this much stress.
I glance back at the bookstore’s booth. A small crowd has gathered, flipping through the latest Sophie Quinn novels and chatting animatedly
“Brooke!” Kendall’s voice cuts through my spiralingthoughts. She’s striding toward me, her clipboard tucked under one arm. “Are you okay? You look very pale.”
I force another smile, hoping it doesn’t look as fake as it feels. “Just... a lot on my mind.”
Kendall narrows her eyes, clearly unconvinced but too busy to press the issue. “Well, take a deep breath and enjoy the festival. You’ve earned it.”
“Thanks, Kendall,” I say, my voice softening. “I’ll try.”
As Kendall moves on, barking orders at a group of volunteers, I glance back at the bookstore booth once more. The stack of Sophie Quinn books seems taller than ever, each one a reminder of the secret I’m so desperate to protect—and the risks of keeping it hidden.
I plaster on another smile and greet the next festival-goer, determined to make it through the day without unraveling.
I’ve been here for hours and I’m running low on bookmarks and thinking about packing it in for the day when I see him walking towards me.
Trevor.
He strides towards me through the crowd, his tall frame impossible to miss. His relaxed confidence stands out against the chaotic backdrop of the festival. In his hand, he’s holding a bouquet of vibrant hibiscus flowers of every possible color. His smile is easy, his dimples on full display, and my heart skips a beat.
“Hey, beautiful,” he says when he reaches my booth, holding out the bouquet to me. His voice is smooth, carrying the kind of comfort I hadn’t realized I needed until this moment. Just his presence soothes me.
I take the flowers, their sweet scent filling my senses andmomentarily pushing my worries aside. “Trevor, these are lovely. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he says, his voice warm and sincere. His gaze lingers on me, and for a moment, the noise and chaos of the festival fade into the background.
“How’s the festival going?” he asks, leaning casually against the booth’s edge.
“Good,” I manage, though my smile feels brittle. “We’ve had a lot of little kids signing up for storytime.” I hold up the last few of my bookmarks. “And these things are flying off the shelves.”
Trevor chuckles, his eyes twinkling. “Sounds like you’re the star of the show.” There’s a glint in his eyes, “Speaking of being the star of the show, are you sure you don’t want to enter the Miss Hibiscus contest? Because you’d be a shoo in to win if you did.”
Before I can respond, a commotion erupts across the way in front of the bookstore. A man’s booming voice cuts through the festival noise, turning heads and stilling the cheerful hum of conversation.
“I can’t believe this trash is allowed here!”
I look up to see a tall, angry man carrying a lit torch in one hand and beating a drum that is slung over his head with the other. His face is red with fury as he barrels toward the bookstore’s booth, waving the torch like he’s on some self-righteous crusade. The heat of his anger seems to radiate across the square, silencing everyone in his path.
“These books are ruining the morals of women and young girls!” he shouts, pointing at the table stacked high with books. My books.
I freeze, my pulse hammering in my ears. It feels as if the torch’s flames are aimed directly at me. My legs feel like jelly, and for a moment, I can’t move, can’t speak, can’t even breathe.
