Page 52 of Embers in Autumn
“Alright,Mockingjay,” I said, combing through the strands. “Let’s get this braid just right.”
As I wove the braid down her back, Dean leaned on the counter, watching us with that soft, proud look that never failed to tug at me.
By the time the clock struck six, the shop was buzzing. Kids poured in with parents in tow, laughter and squeals bouncing off the shelves. A miniature Spider-Man tugged at his mask while his friend in a Hulk costume flexed dramatically for the adults. A group of girls swished past in glittering gowns, claiming to be every Disney princess at once.
And then came the book characters—Hermione Grangers with frizzy wigs and wands made from chopsticks, a Sherlock Holmes complete with a magnifying glass, and one boy proudly dressed as Percy Jackson, wielding a plastic sword wrapped in foil.
The shop looked magical. Pumpkin lights blinked across the window, the fake candles glowed, and the air smelled of sugar and cinnamon from the cupcake display. I’d set up a table at the back for games: a pumpkin toss with little beanbags, a “guess how many candy corns in the jar”challenge, and even a scavenger hunt through the shelves where clues led kids to different books.
Dean got roped into helping with the games almost immediately. At one point I caught him crouched down at eye level with two little superheroes, mock-serious as he explained the“proper throwing stance”for the pumpkin toss. His fedora tipped forward, his grin quick, and the kids adored him.
I couldn’t stop watching.
When the time came for the costume contest, the kids lined up in front of the counter, jittery with sugar and anticipation.
First place went to a boy dressed as Dracula, complete with slicked-back hair, a velvet cape, and makeup that made him looklike he’d just stepped out of an old Hammer film. He bared his plastic fangs and hissed, sending the little ones into shrieks of delight.
Lana came in second, her Katniss braid neat and proud, her bow held high. She squealed and hugged me tight when Carol handed her the little gift bag of books and candies.
“I can’t believe I won something!” she exclaimed, beaming up at Dean.
“You deserved it,” I told her, smoothing her braid with a smile.
Dean leaned in close, his breath brushing my ear as he murmured, “You know she only won because I slept with the judge.”
I tilted my head, my lips curving. “No. There was no bribery involved. But how about lunch on Sunday as a consolation prize?”
His grin turned wicked, his eyes locking with mine. “How about dinner Saturday night instead? Lana’s staying at my sister’s house.”
My stomach flipped, the kind of swoop I hadn’t felt in years. I managed to keep my voice even as I handed another cupcake to a girl dressed as Wonder Woman.
“Saturday it is.”
The party stretched on with games, prizes, and laughter. Parents mingled near the shelves, some browsing while their kids showed off their costumes. I caught myself laughing more than I had in ages, the warmth of the room wrapping around me like a blanket.
And through it all, every time I glanced toward the counter, Dean was there. Fedora tipped, eyes on me, as if this little bookstore was exactly where he wanted to be.
By the time the last cupcake was gone and the final trick-or-treat bag had been handed out, the shop was a mess of candywrappers, paper bats dangling crookedly, and a scattering of pumpkin beanbags under the table. The air was warm with the faint scent of sugar and wax, laughter still echoing faintly in the walls even though the children had long gone home.
Lana had curled up in one of the armchairs by the window, her bow and quiver abandoned at her feet, braid spilling down her shoulder as she drifted into sleep. Her face was soft in the glow of the fake candles, lashes fanned against her cheeks.
Dean and I worked side by side, picking up stray wrappers and stacking chairs. It was companionable, quiet—the sort of silence that felt full rather than empty. Every time our shoulders brushed, I felt a little spark, subtle but undeniable.
When I bent to retrieve a beanbag from under a shelf, Dean was already there, his hand brushing mine as he reached for it too. I looked up, and his face was so close, his fedora tipped back just enough for me to see the warmth in his eyes.
We didn’t speak. We didn’t need to.
The decorations swayed gently from the ceiling as if the whole room was holding its breath. My pulse thrummed in my throat, my lips parting just slightly as his gaze dipped down to my mouth.
Then he kissed me.
Not the hot, dizzying kiss of the other day, but something softer—sweet, steady, a promise tucked into the way his lips lingered against mine. I leaned into it, my fingers curling into the front of his jacket, the sound of rain still faint against the window outside.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against mine. “You did good tonight,” he murmured, his voice rough but tender.
“So did you,” I whispered, my eyes drifting to Lana asleep in the chair. “She had the best time.”
He glanced at his daughter, the corners of his mouthsoftening, then looked back at me. “So did I.”
