Page 2 of Embers in Autumn

“She’s got you pegged, huh?” he said, his voice carrying a mix of amusement and pride.

Lana grinned up at him, hugging the books tighter. “Yeah. She gets it.”

My heart tugged, sharp and unexpectedly soft.

Dean stepped closer, his presence filling the space between the shelves. “You always this good at talking kids into leaving with half your stock?”

“It’s a gift,” I said lightly, though my pulse betrayed me by skipping when his storm-gray eyes met mine and lingered.

His gaze flicked away, roaming the shelves, the little reading nook by the window, the record player in the corner. He sipped his coffee before saying, “I have to ask… owning a bookstore. In this economy. Is that actually a viable business?”

The bluntness might’ve stung, if not for the curiosity in his tone—like he wasn’t trying to insult me, just genuinely trying to understand.

“It’s… a challenge,” I admitted. “Not exactly a path to riches. But people still crave connection. Some love the smell of paper, the feel of it in their hands. The way a shop like this can make you feel like you’re stepping into another world. And that? Amazon can’t ship it in a box.”

Dean gave a slow nod, but before he could answer, Lana piped up.

“Dad’s not wrong, though. Most people order books online now. It’s faster, cheaper. I read something that said bookstores are kind of a dying art.” She put back A Wrinkle in Time , her voice softening. “But some people still love coming to places like this. I do.”

Something caught in my throat at that. The honesty in her voice, the way she said it like it mattered that this shop stayed alive.

Dean’s eyes swept over the space again, slower this time. When he finally looked back at me, there was a flicker of approval there. “At least you’re not paying rent,” he said. “Owning the house helps.”

I nodded, smiling faintly. “Yeah. That’s the one thing I don’t take for granted.”

Our eyes caught and held a beat too long. His were thoughtful, steady, with a flicker of something I could not name. Then Lana tugged his sleeve, her face lit with excitement.

“Dad, can I get this one?” She held up Amari and the Night Brothers like she had just uncovered buried treasure.

Dean’s stern expression softened in an instant, a fond smile breaking through. “Yeah, bug. You can get that one.”

At the counter, Lana set the book down with care, smoothing the cover as though it might wrinkle. Then, as if she could not resist, she reached for the display of candles. Two jars joined the pile: Pumpkin Chai and Autumn Woods.

I grinned. “Excellent choices. Those are bestsellers in this house.”

Dean looked at the candles with open suspicion. “Candles. In a bookstore.”

I raised a brow while reaching for the brown paper and string. “You say that like you’re about to write me a citation.”

His jaw tightened as he gave me that steady, no-nonsense look. “You know how quickly one of these could turn a place like this into an inferno?”

I paused, caught off guard, then tilted my head with a teasing smile. “Are you always this tense about scented candles, or is this a special occasion?”

No flicker of amusement crossed his face. His voice was calm but solid, heavy with experience. “I’m a firefighter. I’ve seen what happens when people think candles are harmless. One mistake, one spark, and all this”—his hand swept toward the shelves—“is gone in minutes.”

The seriousness in his tone wasn’t sharp, but it carried weight. The kind of weight that came from nights he would not tell stories about. It made the air shift, made me notice the faint scar along his wrist, the strength in his hands, the quiet in his eyes.

I paused, the wrapped candles in my hands, studying him. For the first time, I noticed the faint scar running along the inside of his wrist. It wasn’t hard to imagine him hauling heavy hoses, kicking through doors, pulling people into safety.

Beside us, Lana let out a long, dramatic sigh and looked at me with wide, apologetic eyes. “Sorry. My dad’s a total killjoy sometimes.”

Something warm bubbled up in my chest, and I couldn’t help but laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Dean gave her a look that was half stern, half indulgent. “Killjoy or not, you’re not lighting those candles in your room.”

“Dad,” she groaned, rolling her eyes as if she’d heard the speech a thousand times.

I slid the bag across the counter, my fingers brushing his as he reached for it. “Don’t worry,” I said softly, a smile tugging at my lips. “I promise, no unattended flames in here. Cross my heart.”

For just a heartbeat, his gaze held mine. Something unreadable flickered there—intensity, protectiveness, maybe even curiosity. Then he cleared his throat, straightened, and placed a gentle hand on Lana’s shoulder.

“Thanks for the help,” he said.

“You’re welcome.” My voice was steadier than I felt.

Lana glanced back once, flashing me a grin before tugging her dad along. The door swung shut behind them, and silence settled over the shop again.

I sank into the old armchair by the front window, tugging my cardigan tighter around me. Outside, leaves skittered down the cobblestones, bright and careless, while inside the only sound was the faint crackle of the record turning on the player.

And just like that, memory crashed over me.

It always seemed to come in waves, these little ambushes of the past. I could see Mark standing in the kitchen of the apartment we used to share, sleeves rolled up after work but hands firmly in his pockets, like the dishes in the sink didn’t exist. Like I didn’t exist.

I’d just come home from a ten-hour day at the advertising firm, my body aching from sitting at a desk, my brain fried from clients and deadlines. And still, I’d put my bag down and started cooking, because if I didn’t, no one would.

He’d sit on the couch, TV blaring, claiming he was “too tired” after his day.

“You know I make more than you,” he’d say when I dared to complain. “I’m the breadwinner, Amber. You should be grateful.”

Grateful . Fuking Grateful?

The word still made my stomach twist.

When I wore pajamas, he called me sloppy. When I put on makeup, he eyed me sideways and muttered that I was “ probably trying to impress someone.” If I was quiet, I was angry. If I spoke, I was annoying. God forbid it was the wrong time of the month.

It was like living under a microscope that only magnified my flaws.

And I played along. Smiled when he wanted to go out, laughed at the right times, nodded when his coworkers’ wives looked at me like I was lucky. Because when I wanted to go out, or suggested a vacation, it was always a “ waste of money. ”

So I shrank. A little more each year. Until I hardly recognized myself.

The worst part wasn’t even the endless criticism, the exhaustion of being both partner and maid while he sat smugly in front of the game. The worst part was how he made me question my own worth.

How, after ten years, I believed him.

And then came the final blow.

It wasn’t me sneaking around, after all. It was him. I found the messages first—saccharine, ridiculous, enough to make me sick. Then the receipts. Then, finally, the truth he couldn’t hide anymore.

A year later, I was still picking glass out of the wound.

I pressed my palms into my eyes, willing the tears back. It wasn’t that I still loved him. God, no. But the bitterness of betrayal still lingered. The rage at wasting so much of my life with someone who never saw me.

That was the worst of all: how invisible I’d been to a man who promised to love me. The silence of the shop pressed in, heavy, and I leaned back in the armchair, staring at the ceiling beams. I hated how easily the old memories clung, like cobwebs I couldn’t quite sweep out of the corners.

And then… that man from earlier.

It wasn’t the first time a stranger had caught my eye since the breakup, but something about him had rattled me more than I wanted to admit. The broadness of his shoulders, yes... but it wasn’t just that. It was the way he’d looked at Lana when she spoke. That softness. That devotion.

It made something ache deep inside me, because I knew men like that existed—I just hadn’t been with one.

Not that it mattered. Men like him were already spoken for.

He was probably married, the type of husband who brought his wife flowers just because, who carried her coffee into the kitchen in the morning with a kiss on the cheek.

The kind who made reservations once a year for her birthday, nothing extravagant but enough to remind her she was worth celebrating.

Mark’s voice cut through the fantasy like broken glass. We’re past our prime, Amber. What do we have to celebrate? Amber. Amber…

His tone, sharp and dismissive, twisted in my chest until my stomach knotted.

“Amber!”

I blinked, startled, the sound shifting. No longer Mark’s scorn but the warm, lilting voice of one of my favorite regulars.

“Carol?” I straightened in the chair as the door closed behind her.

Carol Winthrop-Deveraux-Bennett—her full name a mouthful of old family branches and social history—was seventy-one, a widow, and easily one of the most elegant women I’d ever met.

Her silver hair was swept into a neat bun, a silk scarf tied around her throat, and her coat matched the sky outside, a moody autumn gray.

But it was her eyes, a piercing shade of blue, that always stole the show. They sparkled with mischief no matter the weather.

“I brought you something,” she said, her smile soft but sure as she lifted a small basket wrapped in a checkered cloth.

Inside, still warm, were delicate hand pies filled with blueberries. The buttery crusts were dusted with sugar, little oozes of violet filling peeking out like they couldn’t contain their sweetness.

“Oh, Carol,” I breathed, standing to take them. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “But I wanted to.” She plucked one out and offered it to me.