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I’M ATTRACTED TO Sam.

How do I know that? Because instead of all the shit in Boston being the first thing I thought of this morning, it was Sam’s face that filled my thoughts.

Fuck.

It wasn’t something I wanted to admit, but there it was, staring me in the face whenever I thought about him.

The problem was it wasn’t Sam who’d flirted with me last night—it was Haider.

Haider was friendly, charming even, but he wasn’t…

Sam. Haider’s sparkle and relentless energy were easy to like, but I didn’t crave it.

What I wanted, what I couldn’t stop thinking about, was the peace that came with Sam.

Strong, stoic, gorgeous Sam.

And every time I glanced over at him across the table, I’d felt weird in a thrilling and downright terrifying way.

When we’d stood on the library steps, his hands steadying me after I slipped, there’d been a moment—just a breath—when I thought we might kiss.

And then, nothing. He’d stepped back, his hands dropping away, and the moment was gone.

And now there was Haider, who’d taken my number last night and sent me a good morning message with a coffee emoji and a heart.

A freaking heart.

Haider was a nice guy, but he wasn’t Sam.

I sent back a morning , then thumbed through other messages on my phone, trying to push all thoughts of Sam out of my head.

“I didn’t come here to be attracted to anyone,” I muttered, scrolling mindlessly.

Owen had only been with me for the money, which I found out way too late.

That much had been painfully obvious when he’d dropped me like a hot potato the second things had gotten tough.

I’d helped him through his degree, paid for everything when he couldn’t, and believed it when he said he saw us forever.

I could settle for that because I liked him, didn’t love him, but hell, my career came first in everything anyway, and I told myself it was fine then.

At least I had someone who wanted to be with me at company events.

Pity party, table for one.

I hated that I still thought about him sometimes, that he still occupied even the smallest corner of my mind because he didn’t deserve it—not after what he’d done.

Not after he’d made me feel like I was only worth what I could give him.

And yet another message from him today, asking for money.

I was alone, bruised, broken, and trying to rebuild something from the pieces I had left.

The irony wasn’t lost on me.

Maybe Owen had left me for being too much of a mess, but at least now, I was my own mess.

Still, the sting of him dumping me lingered.

And sometimes, in the quiet moments when I let myself think too much, I wondered if I’d ever get it right.

If I’d ever find someone who wanted me—not my money, not what I could do for them, just me.

I scrolled then to the WordBook reading app.

My post about the latest Nelson book had somehow gained traction—more than I’d expected or wanted.

My comment had been simple enough—pointing out how the author’s lack of research had thrown me out of the story.

But now, die-hard fans had latched onto it, accusing me of everything from being a fake fan to outright slander.

The replies were a mixed bag—some people agreed with me, but the loud ones were the ones who didn’t.

Luckily, my online handle, BenDover123—the best I could come up with when I was fifteen and first joined the app—was anonymous enough to shield me from real-world consequences.

No one knew who or where I was except Rach29 from the book club.

She’d been in my same English class at school, so we knew each other’s real names but had promised to keep our identities to ourselves.

No one was going to track me down and…

I read the latest comment and winced…

someone suggested they were going to thrust a copy of War and Peace up my ass.

No novel was going anywhere near my ass, whatever user TheoFlume87 thought.

I skimmed a few comments, liking those supporting my point, before pocketing the phone and resolving to ignore the rest. It wasn’t worth the stress, not when I had enough to deal with.

But even at the library, as I tried to distract myself with books, my thoughts circled back to Sam.

To his quiet strength, his steady presence.

He was everything I shouldn’t want right now, but that made me want him more.

How could I start a new life in the middle of nowhere, New Hampshire, if I went to bed with the first man I saw?

So, helping Harriet with her books had been a welcome distraction.

It was a task that didn’t demand much from me—just a steady rhythm of sorting, stacking, and occasionally leafing through something interesting.

She’d been working through boxes of donations for weeks, and while she claimed she could manage fine on her own, I’d seen the relief in her eyes when I’d offered to help.

For me, it was a chance to lose myself in something simple.

No coding, investment reports, or endless spirals of what-ifs and why-did-I-bother.

Just books.

I loved books.

Most boxes were filled with old novels, dog-eared and faded, or encyclopedias so outdated they still listed Pluto as a planet.

Not that I disagreed—I felt sorry for poor old Pluto.

I’d spent half an hour flipping through one from the seventies, marveling at its retro designs and the fashions that time forgot, and imagined the rest of the boxes would be the same.

I did some hasty research on where we might be able to sell these old books to seventies enthusiasts, but in my heart, I knew Harriet would never let them go, and the library would be stacking them in a far corner in some display complete with a glitter ball and a pair of flares.

I opened another box, but it wasn’t another seventies deposit—it was full of much older books, magazines, and handwritten reports.

The reports used words like spile and sugarbush and a meticulous list of daily temperatures for 1921 through 1927.

At the bottom, buried under the final set of cracked leather-bound journals, I found something exciting—a small bundle of letters tied with a faded blue ribbon.

The top one was addressed to SC , written in ink faded with time.

The ribbon was brittle in my fingers as I untied it, my curiosity sparked.

The paper was aged, the edges frayed, and the ink was smudged as though someone had read these letters a hundred times.

I carefully unfolded the first one, the handwriting elegant and precise, like something from a bygone era.

Dearest Samuel,

My heart is yours, now and forever.

The Grove will always be ours.

Your Clara.

The words struck me as so simple yet full of longing.

Samuel. SC? The name tugged at something in my memory: Samuel P.

Caldwell, the founder of Caldwell Crossing.

Harriet had mentioned him before, and not only was his name was on the library, but his life was also woven into the stories of the town’s history.

As I stared at the letter, my pulse quickened.

The writing had been scrawled with a passion that felt almost too personal to read.

I hesitated, unsure if I should read more.

These weren’t just letters—they were glimpses into someone’s life, someone’s love.

But the curiosity was too much to ignore.

I unfolded another, the delicate paper threatening to tear at the crease.

Dearest Samuel,

This afternoon, I glimpsed a butterfly, its wings painted in gold and red, and it made me think of you.

How could it not, when you are always on my mind, and I only want to fly away with you from all those who stop us?

I love you more than words can ever tell.

Nothing in this world could ever stop my love for you.

Meet me under the moonlight in our place.

Forever yours,

Clara

The words painted a picture—two people meeting secretly, their love hidden from a world that didn’t understand what they felt about each other.

And the grove under the moonlight?

I didn’t know where that was, but I bet it was in town.

This was exciting.

I read another letter, then another, each revealing more of their story.

Clara’s words were full of poetry, longing, and hope.

She wrote about Samuel as though he was her entire world, describing where they should meet—by the barn, the grove, or the old stone wall.

When I sat back, the letters gathered in my lap, my mind buzzed, then I tracked down Harriet, who was sorting books on shelves.

“I found these letters,” I announced, offering them to her.

She turned her attention to me.

“In the boxes,” I added and waggled them, so she’d take them, which she did.

Her eyes widened as she examined the fragile sheets.

“Oh my,” she murmured.

“These are incredible.” She adjusted her glasses to read the text.

“I’ve never seen these before.”

“They were in a box,” I repeated.

She nodded. “So, you said.”

“In with some farming journals and some magazines. Is this the Samuel P. Caldwell from this library?”

“I believe so. He married a Clara for sure.”

Puzzle solved.

And that was a shame because I loved a good mystery.

“Does the town have a historical society?”

Her eyes lit up.

“We do.”

I watched her trace the faded handwriting with her finger.

“They’d probably love to have something like these on display.”

“I’ll let them take a look, but you know who should really see these?” she asked, smiling at me.

I frowned. “Who?”

“Sam,” she said as though that meant something.

“You know, the man who pulled you out of the ditch?”

“Sam?”

“Yes. Sam. You know, Samuel P. Caldwell’s great-great-grandson. I told you the first time you visited the library.

I blinked, completely thrown. “What about him?

”

She laughed, shaking her head.

“It would be best if you took these to him and his parents. I’m sure he’d be fascinated, and they can decide if they want to donate to the historical society.”

I stared at the letters, my mind spinning.

Of course, it had to be Sam.

The guy who’d pulled me out of the ditch helped me when I didn’t even ask for it, then caught me on steps and stared at me as though I was a puzzle he wanted to solve.

“Okay.”

“Here.” She handed me two books—both thrillers I hadn’t read yet, and both still in plastic wrap.

“These need to go to Stonebridge Farm, reserved by Sam’s dad. You can take them over now. Kill two birds and all that.”

“I can what now?” I asked.

Was this a thing? Hand-delivering reserved books to readers?

She rooted in her voluminous purse and pulled out keys.

“Take my car. It has snow tires. Head back out of town, and on the road that you slid off from, carry on down there. That is where the Caldwell family farm is. Stonebridge, it’s called. You have to go over the covered bridge, which isn’t stone but wood, so why they call it Stonebridge, I don’t know.” All the time she talked, she was collecting the letters, putting them into a Caldwell Crossing library bag, and adding the two wrapped books, and somehow I was outside the door, with my coat on, holding the bag and keys, and I genuinely had no idea how she did all that.

“Oh well, guess I’m delivering books,” I muttered, walking the short distance to Harriet’s place and opening her solid-looking Toyota, noting its snow tires as I did.

“Go, Harriet,” I said to the car, then closed the door, belted up, adjusted the seat, and headed away from town.

“Let’s hope I don’t end up in another ditch.”