Page 10 of Unlucky in Love
There it was. Another folded piece of paper, sitting squarely in the center of the cushion.
Her palms dampened as she reached for it. She half expected it to vanish, to dissolve into a coffee stain, but it was real. Crisp paper, carefully folded, waiting just for her.
She unfolded it.
Stories are your secret escape, but you never leave the same shelf. Go to where your favorite heroines wait, and look on the third row where you always reach first.
Taylor blinked. Once. Twice.
The words blurred and then sharpened again. Someone had not only noticed she spent hours at the bookstore, but they knewexactly where she went, which shelf she gravitated to, which row she reached for first.
A laugh bubbled out of her, sharp with disbelief.
She folded the note quickly, shoving it into the pocket of her apron just as Jenna came back out front with a tray of muffins.
“You good?” Jenna asked, arching a brow.
Taylor pasted on a smile. “Fine. Just checking the chairs.”
Jenna shrugged and went back to arranging pastries.
Taylor spent the rest of the morning in a fog. She brewed lattes and called out orders and rang up customers, but her mind kept circling back to the folded paper in her pocket. Her fingers itched to pull it out, to read it again, to make sure she hadn’t imagined it.
She hadn’t. She knew she hadn’t.
But following it? Actually going to the bookstore? That was a different thing entirely. That was admitting something. That she wanted this to be real. That she wanted to believe someone, somewhere, saw her.
By noon, the internal debate had exhausted her more than the rush of customers. When Jenna offered to handle the counter for a while, Taylor didn’t argue. She hung up her apron, pulled on her coat, and slipped out the door.
The February air was sharp, the kind of cold that stung her cheeks and made her wish for gloves. She walked quickly, boots crunching against the salted sidewalk, heart thudding faster with every step.
This is ridiculous. It’s probably a prank. You’re going to look insane pawing through books like a lunatic.
But her feet carried her forward anyway.
The bell over the bookstore door jingled as she pushed it open. Warmth wrapped around her instantly, along with the familiar scent of paper and ink. The store was quiet, the way it always wason weekday afternoons. A man browsed in the history section. An elderly woman tucked a mystery novel into her basket.
Taylor exhaled, her pulse still jittery. She nodded politely to the clerk at the register, who was leaning on the counter with a half-empty cup of tea.
“Looking for anything in particular?” the clerk asked, her voice friendly but distracted.
Taylor shook her head too quickly. “Just browsing.”
Her voice cracked, and she winced, but the clerk only smiled and went back to her tea.
Taylor made her way toward the back. The romance section waited, a cluster of shelves crowded with bright covers and bold fonts. She crouched by the third row, the one she always reached for first, and ran her fingers along the spines. Her heart hammered so hard she was afraid the clerk would hear it.
Nothing. Just books.
She almost laughed. Of course it was nothing. She was being ridiculous.
Then her fingers landed on a glossy paperback, the newest release from her favorite author. She pulled it from the shelf, and a slip of paper fluttered to the floor.
Taylor froze.
Her breath caught as she crouched to pick it up. Not paper. A bookmark. Handmade, with a heart drawn in careful ink strokes. On the back, another note.
Every story needs a heroine. Maybe this one begins with you.
