Page 27 of If Tomorrow Never Comes

Elliott gripped the phone tighter. “I’m lucky you’re my person.”

“Don’t make me cry. I gave you one job when you left.”

“Sorry.” She traced her thumb along the seam of a couch cushion. “There’s, um. Something else.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“People were asking about me, and when I mentioned my degree and the kind of design I do, Carly sort of asked if I’d be interested in working with Jamie’s sister. I guess she’s been looking for help with her business website and stuff.”

“Jamie’s sister?”

“Yep.”

“That’s . . . not ideal.”

“I don’t know why I said yes. Everyone was looking at me, and I’d just told everyone how I wanted to help small businesses. Wouldn’t it have seemed weird to say no? And it’s a great opportunity, right? The thing with Jamie aside ... Barely a week here and I already have a client. The sooner I build my portfolio and get established, the sooner I can stop making coffee and focus on what I really want to be doing.”

“But ... can we put the thing with Jamie aside?”

“We can try.”

Yuka sighed heavily, then cleared her throat. “You know what? You’re right. This is fine, we’re fine, you’re fine. You’ll blow that woman away with what you can do, her business will thrive because of you, and she’ll refer you to everyone else she knows. Small business owners stick together. It will be so great.”

The temptation to askBut what if it’s not great?rose up, but Elliott tamped it down.

Think positive. You can do this.

They hung up shortly thereafter, and Elliott sat on the couch in the quiet space for a few minutes. If she was at home, she’d be in thekitchen with her mom or on the back porch with her dad and their German shepherd. Maybe sitting in the café in their bookstore, reading the newest employee-recommended book of the week.

She wasn’t used to the silence. Wasn’t sure she liked it, yet. So far, all it did was remind her she was here alone. If she got sick or something else happened, no one would know.

Stop.She exhaled forcefully, as if expelling the thought before it could gain a strong hold.You’re fine. You can do this.

She just needed a distraction.

She eyed the boxes stacked around the living room and stood, hoping that unpacking and organizing would keep her mind busy for several hours.

After sliding on a cloth headband to keep her hair back, she queued up an upbeat playlist on her phone and spent the next few hours emptying every box. Only an hour remained before her Starbucks shift when she lowered herself to the floor with the final box,Booksscrawled across the top in Sharpie.

She considered what was inside and hesitated before finally sliding the box cutter through the tape. As a voracious reader, she wanted—needed—the books inside this box.

All except one.

Naturally, the book in question was right on top, the pink cover glaring at her from its perch atop her favorite novels.

She stared at it for the span of several blinks, considering. She couldn’t return it. No one she knew would want it, and she didn’t particularly want to keep it. Maybe she could donate it. Did libraries take random books about baking?

A local culinary school, maybe?

She shoved it onto the shelf with more force than necessary, where it would stay until she decided where to take it, and made quick work of the rest of the box.

“Where did you say you’d heard about the bakery, again?”

“I stayed at the hotel across the street before my transplant, and I noticed it one night. It was already closed, but the name caught my eye.” Elliott cast a quick glance at Carly before they crossed the street toward Melt My Tart. For someone who didn’t do it often, the lie came out surprisingly smoothly. She was careful not to look across the street to the hotel and the exact spot she’d sat with Jamie for hours, melting into his body as they talked and laughed and kissed, and where she’d dozed off and eventually slipped away like a thief in the night.

“It’s so clever, right?” Carly half turned to face Elliott as she opened the door, shaded by a pink-and-white-striped awning. “It’s legit, too. Blythe makes a mean lemon tart.”

The sweet scent of sugary baked goods rushed to meet them as they walked in, immediately reminding Elliott of the cooking class she’d gone to with Jamie. His sister might be a master of lemon tarts, but Elliott doubted she’d ever find something that hit quite the same as that first bite of French vanilla soufflé. She couldn’t recall what she’d had for dinner or the genre of music the band had played at the bar that night, but she knew the perfect, airy texture of a dessert that wasn’t too sweet or too savory, and the exact color of Jamie’s eyes as he’d watched her.

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