Page 13 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf
“Morning, Rowan.”
Every muscle in my body locks tight.
Ofcourseit’s him.
Because this town is small and cruel and clearly conspiring against me.
I duck lower behind the endcap, heart thudding like a war drum.
But fate, the smug bastard, isn’t done.
As I slide a hefty sea myths volume onto the top shelf, my elbow catches the neighboring stack—hard.
Books cascade like dominos, the last few tumbling straight into the open aisle.
I lunge to catch one—just as a larger shadow steps into view.
Too late.
My shoulder smacks square into solid, immovable muscle. Books scatter across the floor with a dramaticwhump.
“Shit,” I mutter, scrambling to gather them. “Sorry?—”
I look up.
And there he is.
Aeron.
Kneeling opposite me, broad hands already scooping up spines and pages.
Close enough that I can see the faint stubble on his jaw, the silver threads in his hair, ears as pointy as ever, the way his sea-glass eyes narrow with something unreadable.
For a second, neither of us breathes.
“It’s... fine,” he says, voice low. “No harm done.”
I force a brittle laugh. “Your reflexes are better than mine, clearly.”
He smirks—just barely. “Occupational hazard.”
I reach for the last book at the same time he does—our fingers brushing.
Heat zings up my arm like a shock.
I snatch my hand back too fast, almost dropping the damn thing again.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“No need.” His gaze lingers on me a beat too long. “Good to see you...notbehind a lens this time.”
I swear my pulse skips.
Professional, Evie. Detached. You know how to do this.
“It’s just a gig,” I say, straightening and dusting off my jeans. “Don’t read into it.”
His smile turns crooked—like he hears the lie.
