Page 3 of Because I Liked A Boy (Because I Liked A Boy Trilogy #1)

A Place To Land

By the time I pull the car up in front of a little coffee shop with a hand-painted sign that reads The Maple Bean, the afternoon sun has dulled to a heavy gray. My new sedan rattles slightly when I cut the engine, but it’s mine, and for now that’s enough.

Inside, the warmth hits immediately—coffee and cinnamon layered thick in the air, sweet enough to soften the edge of the day.

Wooden tables are scarred with rings from years of mugs, each one its own story.

Chalkboard menus hang above the counter, scrawled in pastel chalk with curls of steam rising from the illustrated cups.

A record player hums from the corner, crackling faint jazz under the low thrum of conversation.

The barista looks like she belongs in the middle of it all.

Her ginger hair is piled into a messy bun, tendrils slipping free as she works the machine with practised ease.

A striped apron wraps her waist, gold hoops glinting when she turns to greet me with a grin that’s too bright for the gray day outside.

“Vanilla latte, please,” I say, brushing damp hair back from my face. “And—do you have Wi-Fi? My signal’s useless.”

“Of course.” She nods toward a framed scrap of paper pinned by the register. “Password’s on the board. Just don’t blame me if it cuts out mid-scroll. Maplewood Wi-Fi has a mind of its own.”

A laugh slips from me before I can stop it. “Noted.”

She sets a cup under the hiss of the steamer. “New here?”

I hesitate, then nod. “Just got in today.”

Something playful flickers in her grin. “Then you’ll need caffeine. And friends.” She slides the cup across the counter, vanilla and espresso curling into the air between us. “I’m Ruby.”

“Isabella.”

“Well, Isabella, I’ll keep you caffeinated. The friends thing’s up to you.”

I take the latte to a corner table, the wood warm against my elbows.

Outside, rain begins to mist the glass, tracing thin rivers down the pane.

My phone buzzes weakly until I finally coax a listing up on the screen: One-bedroom apartment, Maple Street.

Six-month lease minimum. Available immediately.

My chest tightens. Six months. Exactly the amount of time I told myself I could disappear.

I dial, heart in my throat. A woman’s voice answers, brisk and no-nonsense. “Hello?”

“I’m calling about the apartment on Maple Street. I have cash ready for a deposit. Could I see it today?”

There’s the sound of papers shuffling. “Earliest I can do is in an hour. Lease minimum’s six months. You’d need to pay first month and deposit up front.”

“Perfect,” I say quickly. “I’ll be there.”

When I hang up, I pull Withering Heights from my bag, its cracked spine folding open like an old habit. Ruby’s voice drifts over.

“Good taste.”

I glance up. She’s leaning on the counter now, green eyes glinting. “You should check out Page Turners,” she says. “Two streets over on the left. Best bookshop in town. They’re hiring too, if you’re sticking around.” She winks, cheeky as ever. “And it looks like you are.”

Her casual confidence makes something in me ease. “Thanks,” I say, gathering my bag.

“See you around, Belle.”

The nickname lands like a pebble in my chest, sharp and unwelcome. Nathan’s voice, Penelope’s, tangled with memory. I force a smile anyway and push out into the drizzle.

* * *

Page Turners sits crooked on the corner, green paint peeling from its trim. The windows are crowded with secondhand books, their covers sun-bleached and leaning against one another like tired old friends. A faded sign hangs above the door: PAGE TURNERS — EST. 1968.

The bell above the door jingles when I step inside.

The air is cooler here, heavy with the musk of paper and leather, touched with the faint sweetness of cedar polish.

Dust motes spin lazily in the slanted light from high windows, gilding shelves that groan under the weight of too many lives and too many stories.

I trail my fingers across cracked spines. For the first time in weeks, the knot in my chest loosens. Books have always been my escape. They don’t lie. They don’t betray. They don’t leave you gasping for breath at the side of the road.

“New face.”

The voice rumbles from behind the counter.

I turn. A tall, wiry man with silver hair watches me from behind low glasses. His blue eyes are sharp, but not unkind. A steaming mug sits beside the old register, the rising curl of coffee blending into the dusty air.

“Looking for something specific?” he asks.

“Just… looking.”

His gaze narrows slightly. “Most new faces go straight for whatever’s trending. Safe reads.”

The words scrape something raw in me. “Do you have The Maltese Falcon?”

His brows rise. “Hammett?”

I nod. “It was my brother’s favourite. He read it until the spine cracked.”

For a moment, Mr. Whitaker just studies me. Then he turns, pulls a battered black-and-gold copy from the shelf behind him, and sets it on the counter. “Not what I expected. But a damn good choice.”

“My brother had the same taste as you,” I murmur.

“Then your brother had good instincts.”

The twist in my chest sharpens. I run my thumb along the spine. “I saw your sign. You’re hiring. I’d like to discuss the job.”

“You’re hired.”

I blink. “Just like that? No résumé?”

“I don’t need one.” His voice is steady, final. “I’m a good judge of character.”

Before I can argue, he nudges the book toward me. “Enjoy it. On the house. And I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Nine sharp.”

The words wedge themselves deep inside me, solid and certain. For the first time since the crash, something feels like it belongs.

When I step back into the rain, the book is clutched tight to my chest, warm from his hand. A car. A job. Maybe even a home, if Maple Street doesn’t fall through. It’s not much, but it’s enough to start breathing again.

I square my shoulders and head toward the viewing.

The rain hasn’t let up by the time I find Maple Street.

My wipers drag across the glass, squeaking with each pass, the sedan rumbling like it’s already tired of me.

Rows of houses stretch along the narrow road, some with paint peeling from their siding, others with neat porches dressed in flower boxes.

Number 14 waits at the corner, a squat brick building with ivy curling up one side. The front steps are chipped, the white railing flaking under the weight of too many storms, but there’s something steady about it. Lived-in. Not perfect, but standing.

A woman stands under the porch light, umbrella hooked over one arm, folder tucked against her chest. Her raincoat is buttoned to her chin, hair tied back in a no-nonsense bun. When I climb out of the car, suitcase bumping at my heels, she gives me a brisk nod.

“Isabella?”

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Cooper. Owner.” She gestures me up the steps, her voice clipped but not unfriendly. “It’s a small unit, but solid. Six-month lease minimum, as I said on the phone. First month and deposit due on signing.”

I nod, clutching the strap of my bag tighter. “That won’t be a problem.”

She studies me for a beat longer than necessary, like she’s measuring whether I’ll bolt. Then she turns the key and pushes the door open.

The apartment smells faintly of lemon polish and old wood. The entryway opens straight into a living room with a threadbare sofa, a coffee table scarred with rings, and a narrow bookshelf tucked against one wall. A single lamp glows in the corner, warm but a little lonely.

Through an archway, the kitchen waits—linoleum tiles faded, cabinets painted an uneven cream, but clean.

A window over the sink looks out into a postage-stamp yard slick with rain.

Upstairs, the bedroom is small but bright, a slanted ceiling cutting across it, the window framing nothing but gray sky.

“It’s… quiet,” I say softly, trailing a hand across the window frame.

“That’s Maplewood,” Mrs Cooper replies. She flips open her folder. “Six months, no subletting, no pets without permission. Rent due on the first. Do you want it?”

The word leaves before I can think. “Yes.”

She hands me the lease. Her pen scratches across the paper with the sharp efficiency of someone who’s done this a hundred times. “Welcome to Maplewood.”

Her footsteps fade down the steps, the door clicking shut behind her.

Silence floods the apartment.

I set my suitcase by the couch and stand in the middle of the room, listening to the rain drum against the windows, steady and relentless.

The walls are bare, the furniture mismatched, the air faintly scented with lemon polish and something older—dust, maybe, or memories. It’s not London. It’s not home.

But it’s mine.

I sink onto the worn sofa, The Maltese Falcon still clutched in my hand, and stare at the keys glinting on the table. Six months. I just signed six months of my life away to a town I’d never heard of until this morning.

Six months without Nathan.

Six months without Penelope.

Six months without the life I thought I’d have.

The weight of it presses down, heavier than the rain outside. But beneath it—thread-thin and trembling—something else flickers. Relief.

Today, I bought a car from a cocky mechanic who wouldn’t stop smirking at me. I drank coffee made by a girl who treated me like I belonged here. I walked into a bookstore and walked out with a job and a promise of tomorrow. And now, somehow, I have a roof over my head.

I tip my head back against the sofa, close my eyes, and let the rain fill the silence.

A car. A job. A home.

It isn’t much. But it’s enough to start over.