Page 5 of Tides of Redemption
But he wasn’t ready to hear any of that. His walls were up, professional distance restored like armor.
“Well.” I took a step back. “I should let you work.”
He nodded, relief and something else—regret?—crossing his face. “Thanks again. For the coffee.”
“De rien. You’re welcome.” I turned to go but paused at the door. The morning light streamed through the windows,illuminating Mason’s disheveled hair. He looked beautiful and broken and so familiar it hurt.
I’d do anything to win him back. To deserve a second chance. To prove that this time, I wasn’t going anywhere.
I just had to figure out how.
CHAPTER FOUR
Mason
I watched Caleb’s retreating form through the bookstore window until he disappeared, then took another sip of the perfectly made latte he’d brought me. The sweet vanilla taste lingered on my tongue.
I grabbed the box of new arrivals that needed shelving. The familiar scent of fresh paper and ink filled my senses as I opened it, grounding me in the present. But my thoughts kept drifting back to last night, to this morning.
Caleb remembered exactly how to help me during the storm—counting breaths, turning on lights, holding me close. My body still recognized his touch as a safe haven. I pulled out a stack of books, letting the weight of them steady me. Romance novels. Of course. The universe had a sick sense of humor.
The way he looked at me this morning, like he wanted to wrap me in his arms again… God, I wanted to let him. I shelved the books with more force than necessary, straightening their spines with sharp, jerky movements.
He was still so thoughtful, so gentle. But he was gentle when he left, too. “Follow your dreams,” I’d said. I hadn’t said, “ForgetI exist.” The next book slipped from my grasp, thumping against the hardwood floor. The sound echoed in the empty store.
I moved down the row, adjusting books that didn’t need adjusting, just to keep my hands busy.
Eleven years, and he still knew exactly what I needed. But that was the problem. I’d neededhim; he’d chosen something else. My throat tightened. I grabbed the feather duster from behind the counter, needing to move, to do something.
The sun shone as I dusted shelves that were already clean. The wood gleamed beneath my hands, smooth and familiar.
He’d looked like he hadn’t slept either. Had he worried about me? The thought made my chest ache.
I should have thanked him properly. For last night. For this morning. For remembering. For caring. But thanking him meant acknowledging what happened. He had me off kilter, and the duster trembled in my hand. I set it down before I could knock anything over.
The latte was cooling on the counter. I took another sip and let the rich espresso wash over my tongue. How was I supposed to keep my distance when he kept showing me he was still the same Caleb I fell in love with? The one who noticed everything, who always knew what I needed, who took care of people?
The one who left.
I grabbed the empty box harder than necessary and broke it down for recycling. My fingers caught on a cardboard edge, and I welcomed the small sting. Physical pain was easier than the hurt in my soul.
The morning sun warmed the bookstore. Another beautiful day in Seacliff Cove. Perfect weather for tourists, for book browsing, for falling in love.
I couldn’t let that happen. Not again. Not with him.
But as I sipped the last of the latte he’d brought, I realized my heart had already stopped listening to what I couldn’t let happen.
CHAPTER FIVE
Caleb
Morning light, softened by blinds to protect the artwork, lit Austin Beaumont’s colorful paintings. The transformation from last week’s show of local artists was complete, though a stack of wrapped, unsold canvases in the storeroom waited for their painters.
The door to the gallery swung open and a middle-aged man walked in. A salt-and-pepper beard, neatly trimmed, framed his jaw. His worn, paint-spattered jeans screamedartist. He radiated a warmth that put me at ease. He held out his hand for a shake. “Todd Matthews.”
Ah. The artist of the modern realism watercolors of historic Seacliff Cove. I took his hand in a firm grip. “Caleb Sullivan.”
“Welcome to Seacliff Cove.” He glanced around at the Beaumont show that had replaced his. If he felt any resentment, it didn’t show in his gentle smile. “Can’t believe you left theLouvreand came to our small town.” He grinned, revealing laugh lines. “You’re living above the bookstore?”
