Page 1 of Embers in Autumn
CHAPTER 1
Amber
The bell above the door jingled as another customer stepped out into the crisp October air, leaving behind a swirl of cinnamon and paper that seemed to cling to the room.
I leaned against the counter, closing my eyes for just a second, breathing it in. My bookshop still didn’t feel entirely real, even a year after I opened it. Shelves lined with carefully chosen novels, candles flickering on little tables, the soft hum of an old record player in the corner. It was the dream I used to whisper about when life was still on track.
And then it wasn’t.
I tightened my grip on the mug of tea in my hands, the warmth grounding me. If I let myself linger too long on the mess of my last relationship—the ten years I lost, the hollow ache that followed—I’d drown. So instead, I clung to this. My grandmother’s house, the store below, the upstairs apartment that creaked with age but wrapped me in comfort every night. This little town had saved me, piece by piece.
Maplewood Harbor was the kind of town that never hurried you along. Resting on the edge of a wide, glimmering lake, it seemed to move with the water’s rhythm, calm one moment and restless the next. At dawn, a pale mist would rise from the surface, drifting over the weathered wooden docks where fishermen cast their lines in easy silence. Their voices carried low across the still air, mingling with the cries of gulls that wheeled overhead, waiting for scraps.
The heart of town stretched up from the shoreline in a slow curve toward the square. Main Street was lined with brick buildings whose paint had softened under decades of sun and rain, each one holding its own kind of history. The bakery spilledthe scent of cinnamon and sugar into the street every morning. The diner, with its squeaky red stools and fogged windows, poured coffee strong enough to wake the heaviest sleeper. The hardware store always had its door propped open, no matter the season, and children darted in and out of the sweet shop that had stood on the same corner for three generations.
The people of Maplewood Harbor were as much a part of the place as the cobblestones underfoot. They noticed everything, talked freely, and had a stubborn streak as wide as the lake itself. Yet they were loyal, too, and generous with a wave, a smile, or a loaf of bread pressed into your hands when you needed it most. It was not a glamorous town, but it was steady. It had gathered me up in its quiet way and made me feel, piece by piece, like I belonged again.
Through the window, the leaves were burning gold and amber, scattering across the cobblestone street. I’d strung tiny white lights around the shopfront this morning, and they already glowed against the gray sky, promising warmth inside. People slowed as they passed, some coming in for a book, others just for the comfort. That was enough for me.
The bell jingled again, sharp against the hush of pages turning.
I looked up, ready with a smile, and froze.
She couldn’t have been more than twelve, with a messy braid down her back, a backpack slipping from one shoulder, and the kind of eagerness in her eyes that only true book lovers carried. She inhaled like she’d just walked into a cathedral.
And then he followed her.
Tall. Broad. A dark jacket stretched across shoulders built for carrying more than their share of weight. His hair was brown, a little too long, brushing against his forehead. He looked like he’d shoved a hand through it a dozen times today. His eyes, a gray so deep they looked stormy, swept the shop once beforelanding on me.
My pulse did a strange, traitorous little skip.
“Dad,” the girl said, tugging at his sleeve. “It smells like—like cookies and books and fall.”
Her voice was reverent. His lips curved slightly, as if he couldn’t help it.
I set my mug down quickly, wiping my hands on my apron. “Welcome in,” I said, voice steady even though something inside me was not. “First time visiting?”
The girl nodded eagerly. He didn’t. He just studied me with a kind of quiet intensity that made me want to smooth my hair and hide behind a stack of novels at the same time.
“Lana wanted to stop,” he said finally, his voice low, warm, with just enough gravel to make me wonder what it would sound like in the dark.
Lana. The name suited her, bright and curious.
“Well, Lana,” I said, crouching slightly so we were eye level. “You’re welcome to explore as long as you like. We’ve got a section over there just for young readers. Fantasy, adventure, some classics.”
Her eyes widened, and she was off in an instant, braids swinging as she disappeared between shelves.
Which left me with him.
He lingered by the counter, one hand braced on the wood, fingers scarred but steady. His eyes flicked across the shelves, then back to me.
“You run this place alone?”
“Yeah,” I said, giving a small nod. “Just me.”
He studied me a beat longer than was comfortable. “That’s brave.”
The word landed heavier than I expected. Brave. Not a compliment I heard often, not when so much of my bravery had been silent. It warmed me and embarrassed me all at once.
