Page 5 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf

EVIE

I don’t want to be at the damn bookstore.

Which, naturally, is why Rowan ropes me into helping first thing the next morning.

“You owe me,” she says, all sing-song over the phone. “Besides, it’ll keep your mind occupied.”

Yeah. Because alphabetizing local history volumes and slinging free bookmarks is exactly what’s going to scrub Aeron Thalen’s stupid too-broad shoulders and sharper-than-necessary jaw out of my brain.

Still. I show up.

Because if I stay at the beach house one more hour staring at that photo of us wedged in The Odyssey , I’ll start throwing plates.

The Gilded Page smells like cinnamon and old paper and the faintest trace of jasmine from Rowan’s ridiculous tea blends.

I used to love this place—back before the world turned sharp around the edges.

Now I eye the leaning towers of books like a soldier scouting enemy lines.

Rowan waves me toward the front counter, Jamie curled up on a beanbag behind her, nose buried in a pop-up atlas.

“You,” she says, grinning. “Reshelve these, keep me company, and distract me from the fact that I’ve got a council budget meeting at noon.”

I eye the stack. “You just love exploiting my weaknesses.”

“Only the harmless ones.” She winks.

I snort, grab the books, and weave my way into the maze of shelves.

It’s strangely soothing.

The rhythm of it—pull, place, adjust—like piecing together some forgotten language.

I’m halfway through the mythology section when the front door chimes.

A low voice drifts through the air.

“Morning, Rowan.”

Every muscle in my body locks tight.

Of course it’s him.

Because this town is small and cruel and clearly conspiring against me.

I duck lower behind the endcap, heart thudding like a war drum.

But fate, the smug bastard, isn’t done.

As I slide a hefty sea myths volume onto the top shelf, my elbow catches the neighboring stack—hard.

Books cascade like dominos, the last few tumbling straight into the open aisle.

I lunge to catch one—just as a larger shadow steps into view.

Too late.

My shoulder smacks square into solid, immovable muscle. Books scatter across the floor with a dramatic whump .

“Shit,” I mutter, scrambling to gather them. “Sorry?—”

I look up.

And there he is.

Aeron.

Kneeling opposite me, broad hands already scooping up spines and pages.

Close enough that I can see the faint stubble on his jaw, the silver threads in his hair, ears as pointy as ever, the way his sea-glass eyes narrow with something unreadable.

For a second, neither of us breathes.

“It’s... fine,” he says, voice low. “No harm done.”

I force a brittle laugh. “Your reflexes are better than mine, clearly.”

He smirks—just barely. “Occupational hazard.”

I reach for the last book at the same time he does—our fingers brushing.

Heat zings up my arm like a shock.

I snatch my hand back too fast, almost dropping the damn thing again.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

“No need.” His gaze lingers on me a beat too long. “Good to see you... not behind a lens this time.”

I swear my pulse skips.

Professional, Evie. Detached. You know how to do this.

“It’s just a gig,” I say, straightening and dusting off my jeans. “Don’t read into it.”

His smile turns crooked—like he hears the lie.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

I hate the way my skin flushes under his gaze. Hate the way his voice sinks low, like a tide pulling me off balance.

I open my mouth—probably to say something cutting—when Rowan rounds the corner.

“Well, aren’t you two just the picture of efficiency.”

Her tone’s light, but her eyes are sharp. Watching. Measuring.

I clear my throat. “Dropped the stack. Aeron caught the fallout.”

“Impressive.” She grins at him. “Here for your ship manifest books?”

“Among other things.” His gaze flicks back to me. “I’ll let you get back to it.”

Then he’s gone, boots soft against the worn wood.

I stare after him like a fool.

“Evie.” Rowan’s voice is sly. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

“You sure?”

I shoot her a look. “Don’t start.”

She just smiles. “You keep saying that.”

I gather the books with fingers that aren’t quite steady.

I manage to finish the damn shelving without further incident, though my pulse doesn’t fully settle until I’m back at the counter.

Rowan watches me over her mug of whatever herbal concoction she’s brewed this time.

“You could talk to him, you know.”

“Why?”

“Because this dance you’re doing? It’s exhausting to watch.”

“Not my problem,” I mutter, digging through the register drawer.

“Sure,” she says, drawling. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Jamie looks up from his atlas then, eyes wide. “Mama, is Miss Evie fighting a sad love story?”

Rowan chokes on her tea. I groan.

“Kid, where do you get this stuff?” I ask.

He beams. “Old Man Cass. He says all good sea stories need monsters and sad love.”

“Well.” I manage a weak smile. “He’s not wrong.”

Rowan arches a brow. “You’re not as bulletproof as you pretend, Bright.”

“Never claimed to be.”

But as I gather my bag to leave, her words stick.

And damn it, so does Aeron’s gaze.

That night, I toss and turn beneath the faded quilt in my mother’s old bed.

The house creaks with the shifting tide. The scent of cedar and salt clings to every surface.

Sleep comes slow. Restless.

And when it does, I dream of him.

Of sea-damp skin and rough hands, of breathless kisses pressed against sun-warmed wood. Fingers tangled in silver hair, of mouths moving slow and deep and desperate. Being held —not like something fragile, but like something claimed.

I wake with a gasp, sheets twisted tight around my legs, heart racing like I’ve run the coastline twice over.

“Shit,” I whisper into the dark.

Just nostalgia, I tell myself. Just the mind playing tricks.

But as dawn seeps pale through the salt-streaked window, I know it’s a lie.

And my body, traitorous thing, knows it too.