Page 42 of Embers in Autumn
Mike was hunched over the desk in the office, one hand holding a clipboard, the other wrapped around a dented travel mug. His bald head gleamed under the fluorescent light. He glanced up when I stepped in, his mouth already tilting into a smirk.
“Morning, Captain Responsible,” he said, voice scratchy from too much caffeine and not enough sleep.
I brushed rain off my jacket. “Morning. Any updates?Flooding?”
He tapped the clipboard with a stubby finger. “Nothing our way. Drizzle today, maybe a storm system east, but basements around here are safe. You can unclench.”
Relief eased out of my shoulders. I nodded. “Good.”
I was almost to the door when Mike’s voice followed me. Too casual. Too pointed.
“Where you headed?”
“Bookstore,” I said, without thinking.
A pause. Then: “How was dinner last night?”
I stopped dead, turned back. “Excuse me?”
Mike leaned back in his chair, grin spreading slow and smug. “Dinner. At your place. With Amber.”
My jaw tightened. “I never told you about that.”
He shrugged, already pulling his phone out of his pocket. “Didn’t need to. God bless technology—and teenagers who can’t resist posting everything they do.”
With a flick, he turned the screen toward me.
There it was. A photo, grainy but warm. My kitchen table behind us, a plate of pasta half out of frame. Lana, flashing a peace sign and leaning into Amber’s shoulder, eyes bright with mischief. Amber, smiling soft and a little shy, her scarf still knotted at her throat. And me—caught mid-laugh, head tilted toward them both like I belonged there.
Something in my chest shifted, heavy and light all at once.
“Cute family portrait. Should I start shopping for a suit? Maybe fire-engine red tie for the wedding?”
I flipped him the bird without missing a beat.
“Go to hell.”
He nearly dropped his mug laughing.
But when I turned back toward the bay doors, the smirk on my own mouth was harder to shake. Because all the teasing in the world couldn’t touch the truth shining from that photo.
Lana had posted it. Not me, not Amber—Lana.
She wanted the world to see that moment. To mark it. And that said more than anything else could.
By the time I pulled up in front of the bookstore, the drizzle had turned everything slick and gray. My boots tracked damp prints up the steps, the bell above the door chiming low.
Amber stood behind the counter waiting for me, already pouring coffee into a mug like she’d known the exact second I’d walk in. She wore a checkered dress layered over a black shirt, her legs snug in knee-high boots. My chest tightened in a way I hadn’t prepared for. Damn it. If librarians had looked like this when I was a kid, I would have had my nose in books every day.
“Good morning,” she said, sliding the mug toward me.
“Morning, thanks.”
The door swung open again, a gust of rain following the delivery guy inside. His cap dripped water as he carried a small package to the counter. “Package for you, miss. From Mrs. Fairchild.”
Amber thanked him, scribbling her signature on the pad. My brows rose. “You know the mayor’s wife?”
The delivery guy tipped his hat and left, rain clattering on the glass as the door shut. Amber turned back to me with a shrug. “Not really. Last time it poured, she came in here with her phone dead. I lent her my charging cable.”
