Page 1 of Embers in Autumn

Amber

The bell above the door jingled as another customer stepped out into the crisp October air, leaving behind a swirl of cinnamon and paper that seemed to cling to the room.

I leaned against the counter, closing my eyes for just a second, breathing it in.

My bookshop still didn’t feel entirely real, even a year after I opened it.

Shelves lined with carefully chosen novels, candles flickering on little tables, the soft hum of an old record player in the corner.

It was the dream I used to whisper about when life was still on track.

And then it wasn’t.

I tightened my grip on the mug of tea in my hands, the warmth grounding me.

If I let myself linger too long on the mess of my last relationship—the ten years I lost, the hollow ache that followed—I’d drown.

So instead, I clung to this. My grandmother’s house, the store below, the upstairs apartment that creaked with age but wrapped me in comfort every night.

This little town had saved me, piece by piece.

Maplewood Harbor was the kind of town that never hurried you along.

Resting on the edge of a wide, glimmering lake, it seemed to move with the water’s rhythm, calm one moment and restless the next.

At dawn, a pale mist would rise from the surface, drifting over the weathered wooden docks where fishermen cast their lines in easy silence.

Their voices carried low across the still air, mingling with the cries of gulls that wheeled overhead, waiting for scraps.

The heart of town stretched up from the shoreline in a slow curve toward the square.

Main Street was lined with brick buildings whose paint had softened under decades of sun and rain, each one holding its own kind of history.

The bakery spilled the scent of cinnamon and sugar into the street every morning.

The diner, with its squeaky red stools and fogged windows, poured coffee strong enough to wake the heaviest sleeper.

The hardware store always had its door propped open, no matter the season, and children darted in and out of the sweet shop that had stood on the same corner for three generations.

The people of Maplewood Harbor were as much a part of the place as the cobblestones underfoot.

They noticed everything, talked freely, and had a stubborn streak as wide as the lake itself.

Yet they were loyal, too, and generous with a wave, a smile, or a loaf of bread pressed into your hands when you needed it most. It was not a glamorous town, but it was steady.

It had gathered me up in its quiet way and made me feel, piece by piece, like I belonged again.

Through the window, the leaves were burning gold and amber, scattering across the cobblestone street.

I’d strung tiny white lights around the shopfront this morning, and they already glowed against the gray sky, promising warmth inside.

People slowed as they passed, some coming in for a book, others just for the comfort. That was enough for me.

The bell jingled again, sharp against the hush of pages turning.

I looked up, ready with a smile, and froze.

She couldn’t have been more than twelve, with a messy braid down her back, a backpack slipping from one shoulder, and the kind of eagerness in her eyes that only true book lovers carried. She inhaled like she’d just walked into a cathedral.

And then he followed her.

Tall. Broad. A dark jacket stretched across shoulders built for carrying more than their share of weight.

His hair was brown, a little too long, brushing against his forehead.

He looked like he’d shoved a hand through it a dozen times today.

His eyes, a gray so deep they looked stormy, swept the shop once before landing on me.

My pulse did a strange, traitorous little skip.

“Dad,” the girl said, tugging at his sleeve. “It smells like—like cookies and books and fall.”

Her voice was reverent. His lips curved slightly, as if he couldn’t help it.

I set my mug down quickly, wiping my hands on my apron. “Welcome in,” I said, voice steady even though something inside me was not. “First time visiting?”

The girl nodded eagerly. He didn’t. He just studied me with a kind of quiet intensity that made me want to smooth my hair and hide behind a stack of novels at the same time.

“Lana wanted to stop,” he said finally, his voice low, warm, with just enough gravel to make me wonder what it would sound like in the dark.

Lana. The name suited her, bright and curious.

“Well, Lana,” I said, crouching slightly so we were eye level. “You’re welcome to explore as long as you like. We’ve got a section over there just for young readers. Fantasy, adventure, some classics.”

Her eyes widened, and she was off in an instant, braids swinging as she disappeared between shelves.

Which left me with him.

He lingered by the counter, one hand braced on the wood, fingers scarred but steady. His eyes flicked across the shelves, then back to me.

“You run this place alone?”

“Yeah,” I said, giving a small nod. “Just me.”

He studied me a beat longer than was comfortable. “That’s brave.”

The word landed heavier than I expected. Brave. Not a compliment I heard often, not when so much of my bravery had been silent. It warmed me and embarrassed me all at once.

“Or maybe stubborn,” I said quickly, forcing a smile. “Depends who you ask.”

His mouth curved slightly. “Sometimes those are the same thing.”

Before I could answer, the bell over the door jingled, letting in a gust of cold October air and a woman bundled in a red scarf. She gave me a quick smile as she moved toward the display near the front, running her gloved hands along a stack of new releases.

“Excuse me,” she called after a moment. “Do you have the new mystery from Eliza Crane?”

I stepped out from behind the counter, my cardigan brushing against my knees. “Yes, it just came in yesterday.” I pulled a crisp copy from the shelf and held it out. “She’s at her best in this one—twists until the very last page.”

The woman’s eyes lit. “Perfect. I’ll take it.”

I rang her up, slipping the book into a paper bag and sliding it across the counter. She thanked me, the bell jingling again as she disappeared into the chilly morning.

When I turned back, Dean was watching me. Not intrusively—just that steady, observant way of his.

“You make it look easy,” he said.

“What, selling books?” I lifted my cold mug, wishing it held fresh tea.

“Making people feel like they belong here.”

The words caught me off guard. I cleared my throat, reaching for safer ground. “So… do you live in town?”

He hesitated, weighing what to share. “Yeah. Been here a few years. Work keeps me busy.”

There was something careful in the way he said it, not closed off but measured, like he wasn’t used to handing out pieces of himself.

From the back of the shop came the sound of Lana’s laughter, bright and unguarded. Dean’s eyes softened instantly, that storm-gray focus easing into something warmer.

The sight tugged something sharp and unexpected in my chest. I looked away quickly, fingers curling around my mug as if it still had any heat left to give.

“Coffee?” I asked, blurting it out before I could stop myself. “I keep a pot on for customers. Or tea, if you’d rather.”

He studied me again, those storm-colored eyes flicking to the mug in my hand, then back to my face. And when the corner of his mouth curved up, just slightly, it felt like the first spark catching in dry kindling.

“Coffee,” he said. “Black.”

I poured him a mug of coffee from the little pot behind the counter, the aroma filling the air, sharper than the spiced candles burning near the windows. He took it with a nod, his hand brushing mine just for a second. Heat shot up my arm, though his expression gave nothing away.

Before I could say anything else, Lana’s voice rang out.

“Miss? Could you help me?”

I followed the sound and found her in front of the middle shelf, staring at a stack of bright paperbacks with her arms folded like she was about to negotiate a serious deal.

“Of course.” I crouched down beside her. “What are you looking for?”

She shrugged, but her eyes shone. “I like stories that feel… big. Like adventures. Or when there’s magic, but also regular kids who just find themselves in the middle of something amazing.”

I smiled, because that was exactly the kind of reader I’d been at her age. “When I was your age, I loved The Secret Garden. It isn’t magic in the wand-and-spell kind of way, but the way the garden transforms feels magical all the same.”

Lana tilted her head, polite but not entirely sold.

“And Anne of Green Gables ,” I continued, pulling a copy down and brushing my thumb across the cover. “Anne’s a dreamer. Sometimes people think dreaming is a weakness, but she proves it’s her greatest strength.”

Her lips curved, though her eyes darted toward another shelf stacked with glossy covers.

“Those sound good, but I’m kind of into stuff that’s…

bigger. Worlds that feel endless. Like Percy Jackson .

Or Keeper of the Lost Cities . Or those sci-fi adventures where kids end up in space stations fighting aliens. ”

“Ah, you’re a galaxy-sized dreamer. That tracks.

” I crouched lower, scanning the shelf with her.

“In that case, have you read Amari and the Night Brothers ? It’s got secret societies, magical gear, all kinds of danger.

” I slid the book out and handed it to her.

“Or, if you want something that leans more sci-fi, The Last Cuentista . It’s about carrying stories into the future when everything else is gone. ”

That caught her. Her eyes widened, a spark flaring behind them. She hugged both books to her chest like they’d already chosen her.

“That’s more like it,” she whispered.

Behind me, Dean chuckled. The sound was low, warm, a vibration that ran straight through me.