Page 3 of Unlucky in Love
Emma gave her the look. The one that sliced through all of Taylor’s practiced deflections. “Your job isn’t your dream. Don’t act like I don’t know you’ve got half-finished novels on your laptop. Don’t act like I haven’t seen that world map above your desk with pins stuck in every city you want to visit.”
Taylor’s cheeks warmed. She grabbed a scone from the bakery case and plated it for Mrs. Jenkins at table three. “Dreams don’t pay rent.”
“They could,” Emma countered. “If you’d actually send your manuscript to an agent instead of hoarding it like a dragon guarding treasure. You’ve got something, Taylor. You just don’t believe it.”
Taylor ducked back behind the espresso machine, grateful for the shield of hissing steam. Customers called out thank-yous, and she raised a hand in automatic reply. Inside, her chest ached at Emma’s words.
She had dreamed of more once, scribbling stories late at night, promising herself that someday she’d travel the world.
Emma was still watching her with that piercing look, the one that made Taylor want to crawl under the counter. “You can’t hide behind this café forever, Tay.”
Taylor swirled a spoon through the milk foam, watching the white curl disappear into the espresso. “I’m not hiding. I’m… managing.”
“Managing isn’t living,” Emma said gently.
Taylor forced a laugh. “Easy for you to say. You’ve got the husband, the baby, the picket fence. I’ve got…” She gestured around the café. “Coffee and bagels.”
Emma leaned in, lowering her voice. “And manuscripts. And talent you pretend doesn’t exist.”
Taylor’s throat tightened. She focused on wiping down the already spotless counter.
If only Emma knew.
She didn’t know about the pen name, or the self-published books Taylor uploaded in the quiet hours of the night. She didn’t know about the cheap royalties that trickled into Taylor’s bank account each month—a couple hundred dollars here, barely enough to cover groceries.
And Emma definitely didn’t know why Taylor had never dared to send her work to a publisher or an agent.
Taylor’s mom had always been quick with a drink in hand and quicker with her criticism. A high-functioning alcoholic, charming to everyone else but viciously sharp at home. Every time Taylor tried to shine with good grades, art contests, stories she wrote in spiral notebooks, her mom cut her down with a laugh or a sigh.
Don’t embarrass yourself, Taylor. Don’t think you’re special.
Those words had rooted deep.
Now, even with her own café, her own life, Taylor still lived like she was bracing for someone to tell her she wasn’t good enough.
“I’m fine where I am,” Taylor said finally, keeping her voice light. “Some people want book deals and Paris. I’m happy with coffee beans and small-town gossip.”
Emma didn’t buy it—her raised eyebrow made that clear—but she didn’t push. She adjusted the baby’s blanket and gave a little smile. “Someday, Tay. Someday you’re going to realize you deserve more.”
Taylor plastered on another smile, but inside her chest the words rattled around, sharp and dangerous.
More.
She wanted more. She just didn’t believe she deserved it.
* * *
Emma gathered her diaper bag and stroller, wrangling her baby with practiced chaos. “I’ll let you get back to it. Call me tonight—I want to hear if you actually take my advice for once.”
Taylor waved her off with a smile, watching her best friend disappear out the door in a whirl of squeaky wheels and baby giggles. The café settled back into its steady hum.
She was just reaching for another stack of cups when the bell over the door jingled again.
And there he was.
Ryan Carter.
It had been years since she’d really seen him. Sure, he came back for quick visits now and then—holidays, birthdays—but Taylor had always found a way to be busy during those trips. Too many shifts at the café. Too many excuses. Anything to avoid that awkward churn in her stomach when she remembered the night she kissed him like a fool.
