Ozzy’s hand rests on the steering wheel, relaxed but ready. His eyes flick to mine. “You okay?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
Then I add, quieter, “If I start freaking out, can we leave?”
Ozzy’s jaw tightens in that protective way. “We leave the second you want.”
Something in my chest loosens.
We drive through winding roads and rolling hills, and then Magnolia Ridge appears like a postcard—tree-lined streets, quaint storefronts, a few people walking dogs, strings of lights even though it’s daytime like the town refuses to be anything but charming.
I stare out the window, stunned by how… normal it all looks. How safe it looks. Like nothing bad could ever happen here. Which is a lie. Bad things happen everywhere. But still. It’s beautiful.
Ozzy parks a little off main street and we step onto the sidewalk. The air smells like coffee and sunshine and something sweet baking somewhere. I inhale like I’m trying to breathe in a life I never had. Ozzy keeps close but not hovering. His gaze trackseverything—cars, people, reflections in windows. He’s relaxed in his shoulders, but I can tell he’s scanning.
Always scanning.
We stroll past a boutique with floral dresses, a tiny diner, a shop window full of handmade candles. Then I see it. A sign in big black letters: BOOK, SPINE, AND SINKER
I stop dead.
Ozzy glances at me. “Bookstore?”
“Yes,” I whisper like I might scare it away.
Ozzy’s mouth curves. “Let’s go.”
The bell above the door jingles when we enter.
The warmth hits first—cozy air, the scent of paper and vanilla candles. Rows of bookshelves stretch across the shop, and there’s a little seating area with mismatched chairs and a table stacked with romance novels. Romance. My chest tightens.
I’ve read romance before, but always in secret, always like it was something I didn’t deserve. Like love stories belonged to other girls. Girls with soft lives and supportive mothers and futures that didn’t feel like a cliff.
Ozzy drifts along the shelves like he belongs in a bookstore, which is somehow even more ridiculous and sexy than him in roller skates. He pulls out a book and flips it over, reading the back.
“Do you actually read?” I tease.
Ozzy doesn’t look up. “I read.”
“What do you read?”
He glances at me, eyes amused. “Stuff that tells me how to break things.”
I laugh. “Shocking.”
We move deeper into the store and I notice a little crowd gathered near a table.
A man stands there signing books—brown hair, charming smile, confident energy. A stack of paperbacks sits beside him with a banner that reads: TRIPP ATWOOD — LOCAL AUTHOR SIGNING.
Next to him is a woman with warm eyes and a friendly face, chatting with customers like she knows everyone.
Tripp looks up and smiles at us as we approach. “Hey there. Welcome in.” His voice is easy, like he’s been talking to readers all day.
The woman beside him beams. “Hi! I’m Millie. Let me know if you need help finding anything.”
Ozzy nods politely. “Thanks.”
Tripp’s gaze flicks between us like he’s reading our vibe, and his smile turns a little mischievous. “You two together?”