Page 10 of Collide (The Rhapsody of Heartbeats #1)

“You choose a seat. I’ll pick up the coffee. What will you have?” Mark asks, holding the door open.

“An iced caramel latte, please.”

He looks at me like I’ve grown two heads,

“You mean an iced macchiato, mate?” He laughs, feigning an Aussie accent.

I take a seat by the window, sinking into the comfort of the orange café armchairs on either side of a low brown coffee table.

Outside, I spot a few boutique stores across the street, and my eyes land on a vintage shop tucked between a laundromat and an Italian restaurant.

That looks interesting . I’ll make a stop after coffee.

Mark walks over with two coffees and sits opposite me. Continuing from where we left off, he opens his tablet, revealing a mood board of golden beaches, sunsets, bonfires, and laid-back fashion.

“Yeah, so we’re thinking San Diego for the shoot,” he says, taking a sip of his brew.

“Why San Diego?”

“The beaches,” he replies, grinning. “A bonfire beach party concept for the video. Your love interest? Your friend, the actor Logan Fisher, is pretty popular at the moment. Great for generating buzz.”

Oh, Logan. Riley’s cousin. My mind flashes back to our awkward teenage kiss.

“What’s Logan doing in San Diego?” I ask, sipping my drink, enjoying the sweet caramel.

“He’s there for Geek-Fest, promoting his movie. Only time he’s available,” Mark explains.

“When do I fly out?”

“Next week,” Mark replies casually.

Mark’s phone buzzes. “Chloe,” he answers, irritation flickering briefly.

“He did what?” He sighs. “Okay, five minutes.” He shoots me an apologetic glance.

“Go ahead. I’ll be fine,” I reassure him.

“I’m really sorry.” His eyes soften before he shoots to his feet. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah.” I smile warmly. “Thanks for the coffee, Mark.”

He rushes out, hails a cab, and waves goodbye through the window. I linger for a moment, anticipation already building for what’s coming.

Crossing the street to the store, I notice its name, Odds and Endings, feels fitting.

Like the kind of place where you could find everything and nothing at the same time.

Maybe a place for me to find some inspiration.

I toss my empty coffee cup into the trash outside and push open the glass door.

It feels out of place against the vintage charm of the shop.

The moment I step inside, I’m hit by the smell of aged leather and incense—warm and nostalgic, like a forgotten memory that never quite fades.

The store is overflowing with an eclectic mix of items: books stacked haphazardly, vintage rugs and furniture strewn about, random knick-knacks I’m sure I’ll never need, but that somehow draw me in.

There are old wooden tables, mirrors leaning against the walls, and countless light fixtures hanging from the ceiling, like they’re waiting for someone to bring them back to life. It’s a feast for the eyes.

A soft indie ballad croons quietly in the background, adding to the cozy, lived-in atmosphere. I spot a tall blond guy in a baseball cap talking with the shopkeeper. His crisp white shirt and designer jeans seem out of place amongst the mismatched treasures of the store.

I stop by a table covered in buttons—different shapes and sizes—and my fingers graze over the cool, smooth surface. Nearby, there’s a wooden curtain rod where dozens of scarves hang, their fabrics catching the dim light. I run my hands through them, mesmerized by the textures.

At the back wall stands a large oak bookshelf, its wood dark and polished with age. I’m definitely coming back here with Philippa. I’d love that shelf for the new apartment.

I make my way toward the other bookshelves, stopping to glance at the variety of books on display. Something catches my eye—a signed Joan Jett T-shirt, hanging on a rack between two shelves. Oh, score! I grab it, noticing it’s a little big, but I can make it work.

Next, I spot a big floppy hat, probably from the seventies, and pop it on my head, whistling to myself, getting lost in the small treasures surrounding me.

The store is warm and earthy, full of history and character.

I stand close to a shelf, immersed in its hidden gems, when a flash of red catches my eye.

A big red hardcover book with gold-leaf embossing, some of which has rubbed off.

The cloth cover is worn and frayed at the corners, and on the spine, the title reads Collection I of Creole and French Poetry .

Next to it is another book, bound in cream leatherette, titled The Greatest Love Poems and Letters, Volume 1 .

I pick them both up and tuck them under my arm. Maybe they’ll provide some inspiration.

I turn on my heel, my mind already racing with ideas, when— wham ! I collide with something hard. Wait, that wasn’t there before. The large floppy hat falls over my face, blinding me for a second.

No, it’s not a wall—I’ve run straight into someone.

I lose my footing and topple over, my elbow grazing the bookshelf as I go down.

In a rush, I try to reach out for something to steady myself, but it’s too late.

The books fall from under my arm, and before I can catch myself, my head makes contact with something, a sickening thud, followed by a crack.

Ouch.

“Sorry…shit,” I hear a man hiss. Instinctively, I reach up to touch the back of my head. When I look at my fingers, they’re covered in red. Blood. My blood.

And then, darkness.