Page 1 of When the Angel Falls First

ONE

Josie

“Not a chance in hell.Definitely not him.”

Online dating turned me into a horrible person.

I’d always prided myself on never judging a book by its cover—all the more important as yours truly opened her own bookstore. But when it came to men? I was about the worst cover-judge out there.

If it had been up to me, I’d sooner dive into a Dickens novel or dance with Dumas. Instead, I sat hunched over my counter, bathed in the glow from my tablet, scrolling through a dating app, hunting for some poor soul to escort me to my great-grandmother’s upcoming hundredth-birthday bash. If you thought it was because I wanted a knight in shining armor to whisk me away from my bookish bliss, you’d be as wrong as Mr. Darcy was about Elizabeth Bennet at their first meeting.

I needed a human shield.

With a date by my side, my family would be more likely to behave—fewer biting remarks, less prying, and maybe even a fewcongratulationson grabbing a man. None of my family hasever said a word about me opening the Bookish Cat just a month ago in the heart of Seattle.

It was the realization of a dream born when I was a little girl. A dream I never thought possible until someone whispered words in my ear that gave me the courage I needed to quit my course in accounting and just go for it.

As far as Saturdays go, it seemed as typical as could be expected at the shop, my sanctuary for bibliophiles. The ambient noise of radio jazz humming softly behind me made for a soothing backdrop. The scent of fresh ink and crisp paper was more comforting to me than any fireplace. This was my refuge and a long figurative distance away from the men of FindYourGuy.com.

The app was a veritable carnival of humanity, including the muscle-bound gym fanatic, whose profile was a sea of sweaty six-pack selfies.

“More brawn than Bronte,” I mused, moving on to the next.

The fisherman, all waders and wide smiles, with a bio that read like the collected works of every fishing joke in the world.

“Not exactly my catch of the day.”

And then there was the seemingly nice guy who just happened to have a disturbing enthusiasm for taxidermy.

“Norman Bates meets Dr. Doolittle. No, thank you.”

How was it possible, I wondered, that in the vast sea of online dating, no one seemed to even remotely resemble the elusive man who had been everything I ever wanted?

But I knew why.

None of them are Caleb.

I found my fingers grazing over the worn, leather-bound journal I kept under the glass counter, the one thing in this shop that wouldneverbe for sale. It was empty, not a singleline written on its many blank pages. Its emptiness mocked me, just like Caleb’s sudden departure from my life seven years ago.

He’d been there, and then he wasn’t. Vanished as if there hadn’t been something incredible growing between us.

It was raining the day he left, which wasn’t even poetic—just a daily reality in the Pacific Northwest. We were standing in front of a bookstore I was admiring, just moments after he’d said the words that I’ve carried with me ever since. I could have sworn he was going to continue on to say something dramatic, something life changing…

And then he was running. Away from me.

Not another word, only a half glance over his shoulder to where I stood, drenched and alone. That was the end of every kiss, every embrace, every moment of true sensual bliss in my life. The journal fell as he went, a piece of him that was now etched into my life, blank pages and all, as I’d never dared to write a word in it.

My heart pinched as I traced my thumb over the cover. The raised leather drew a design that was invisible to the eye, but my fingertips knew it well from the many years of following along its edges. Even though nothing was written in it, the journal was far from new, the pages frayed and bent, the cover no longer the unblemished, rich color of coffee, but scratched and nicked.

I’d tried to pen him out of my life, tried to replace him with chapter after chapter of new men. But each one was less remarkable than the last, and none could compare to the plot twist that had been Caleb. Each passing day only made it more and more obvious.

I sighed and tucked the journal under a receipt book, out of sight and out of mind—or so I hoped. It seemed no matterhow many years passed, that book, that man, would always leave me with a bittersweet taste of longing.

I missed him, the human cliffhanger who left me aching for every unwritten word of our story.

The soft jingling of the bell above the door brought me back from the edge of my daydreaming. I looked up to see a man shuffle in, the wind outside hustling him through the door with a cold slap of rain on his coat. The sudden change from the muted blues of jazz and the rustling of pages to the fresh smell of damp wool was jarring.

The man seemed entirely out of place, his posture rigid, his eyes darting around the room as if the books were about to stage a coup. His hands were clamped around a wet baseball cap, twisting it in an anxious rhythm that matched the drumming of rain on the windows.

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