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“Fine,” I say as I pat her. “Her name is Ellise. And yes, she is… beautiful. And yes, I am going to bring her to meet you in the New Year. Just promise me you won’t be a diva about it. You’re still my number one. But she is—”

I stop. The word catches in my throat with a terrifying weight.

She is…

She is perfect.

She is everything.

Mystery lets out a loud neigh at me, stamping two times firmly on the ground, which I am choosing to interpret as encouragement.

Slowly, I think we are becoming friends again.

“Yeah, yeah. Smug horse.”

34

Ellise

The shop smells exactly the same as it always has.

I know every creaking floorboard, every slightly warped shelf, every shadowed corner of this place.

I sigh as I wrap the last of our ‘blind date with a book’ choices. I smooth down the thick brown kraft paper, folding the corners into crisp, sharp lines. On the front, I carefully write three bullet points in black marker, describing the plot, the tropes, and the emotional atmosphere without ever revealing the title.

This was Dad’s idea a few years ago. He said people in the modern world were too terrified to commit to something they had not already decided on, and that the whole point of a bookshop was to let yourself be surprised.

He was right about most things.

“Mom.”

“I haven’t said a word, Ellise.”

“You’re about to. I can hear you thinking from all the way across the room.”

“I was going to ask how the semester went,” she continues, unpacking a box of new romance novels onto the display table by the window. “And the duet. How is that coming along?”

“Fine.” I straighten a crooked ribbon on the nearest package, desperately trying to keep my voice casual. “Better than expected.”

“Better than expected,” she repeats the words slowly, lingering over them. “And the boy you’re playing with? The difficult one?”

I told her about Julian weeks ago during a frantic, late-night phone call when my stress levels were through the roof. At the time, I described him as the most infuriating, big-headed, insufferable asshole that I had ever shared a practice room with. All of that was entirely true at the time, but everything has changed since then.

The vivid memory of the library at the Thorne estate surfaces, making my skin feel instantly hot and flushed.

“He’s—” I swallow hard, trying to work out how to phrase it without giving everything away. “He’s not as difficult as I initially thought.”

“No?”

“He’s actually—” I stop again, my fingers tightening on the ribbon.

My mom says absolutely nothing, just pauses her unpacking to look at me. Her warm eyes are patient and knowing.

“He is actually the most talented musician I have ever heard play,” I admit, the raw truth slipping out before I can stop it. “And he is surprisingly kind. When he wants to be. Which isn’t always.”

“But sometimes he is?” she pushes.

“Yes. More than I expected him to be,” I admit.