1. Josie

ONE

Josie

“Not a chance in hell. Definitely not him.”

Online dating turned me into a horrible person.

I’d always prided myself on never judging a book by its cover—all the more important as yours truly opened her own bookstore. But when it came to men? I was about the worst cover-judge out there.

If it had been up to me, I’d sooner dive into a Dickens novel or dance with Dumas. Instead, I sat hunched over my counter, bathed in the glow from my tablet, scrolling through a dating app, hunting for some poor soul to escort me to my great-grandmother’s upcoming hundredth-birthday bash. If you thought it was because I wanted a knight in shining armor to whisk me away from my bookish bliss, you’d be as wrong as Mr. Darcy was about Elizabeth Bennet at their first meeting.

I needed a human shield.

With a date by my side, my family would be more likely to behave—fewer biting remarks, less prying, and maybe even a few congratulations on grabbing a man. None of my family has ever said a word about me opening the Bookish Cat just a month ago in the heart of Seattle.

It was the realization of a dream born when I was a little girl. A dream I never thought possible until someone whispered words in my ear that gave me the courage I needed to quit my course in accounting and just go for it.

As far as Saturdays go, it seemed as typical as could be expected at the shop, my sanctuary for bibliophiles. The ambient noise of radio jazz humming softly behind me made for a soothing backdrop. The scent of fresh ink and crisp paper was more comforting to me than any fireplace. This was my refuge and a long figurative distance away from the men of FindYourGuy.com.

The app was a veritable carnival of humanity, including the muscle-bound gym fanatic, whose profile was a sea of sweaty six-pack selfies.

“More brawn than Bronte,” I mused, moving on to the next.

The fisherman, all waders and wide smiles, with a bio that read like the collected works of every fishing joke in the world.

“Not exactly my catch of the day.”

And then there was the seemingly nice guy who just happened to have a disturbing enthusiasm for taxidermy.

“Norman Bates meets Dr. Doolittle. No, thank you.”

How was it possible, I wondered, that in the vast sea of online dating, no one seemed to even remotely resemble the elusive man who had been everything I ever wanted?

But I knew why.

None of them are Caleb.

I found my fingers grazing over the worn, leather-bound journal I kept under the glass counter, the one thing in this shop that would never be for sale. It was empty, not a single line written on its many blank pages. Its emptiness mocked me, just like Caleb’s sudden departure from my life seven years ago.

He’d been there, and then he wasn’t. Vanished as if there hadn’t been something incredible growing between us.

It was raining the day he left, which wasn’t even poetic—just a daily reality in the Pacific Northwest. We were standing in front of a bookstore I was admiring, just moments after he’d said the words that I’ve carried with me ever since. I could have sworn he was going to continue on to say something dramatic, something life changing…

And then he was running. Away from me.

Not another word, only a half glance over his shoulder to where I stood, drenched and alone. That was the end of every kiss, every embrace, every moment of true sensual bliss in my life. The journal fell as he went, a piece of him that was now etched into my life, blank pages and all, as I’d never dared to write a word in it.

My heart pinched as I traced my thumb over the cover. The raised leather drew a design that was invisible to the eye, but my fingertips knew it well from the many years of following along its edges. Even though nothing was written in it, the journal was far from new, the pages frayed and bent, the cover no longer the unblemished, rich color of coffee, but scratched and nicked.

I’d tried to pen him out of my life, tried to replace him with chapter after chapter of new men. But each one was less remarkable than the last, and none could compare to the plot twist that had been Caleb. Each passing day only made it more and more obvious.

I sighed and tucked the journal under a receipt book, out of sight and out of mind—or so I hoped. It seemed no matter how many years passed, that book, that man, would always leave me with a bittersweet taste of longing.

I missed him, the human cliffhanger who left me aching for every unwritten word of our story.

The soft jingling of the bell above the door brought me back from the edge of my daydreaming. I looked up to see a man shuffle in, the wind outside hustling him through the door with a cold slap of rain on his coat. The sudden change from the muted blues of jazz and the rustling of pages to the fresh smell of damp wool was jarring.

The man seemed entirely out of place, his posture rigid, his eyes darting around the room as if the books were about to stage a coup. His hands were clamped around a wet baseball cap, twisting it in an anxious rhythm that matched the drumming of rain on the windows.

“Can I help you find something?” I asked, offering what I hoped was a reassuring smile.

He started, as if startled to find someone else in the room. “Yes, uh… I need a book. For my wife,” he said, his voice rough, as if he wasn’t used to speaking much. It was akin to a timid whisper trying to masquerade as a roar.

“Oh? What kind of books does she like?” I inquired, expecting the usual vague descriptions like “romance,” “thrillers,” or “those murder mysteries.”

He seemed to shrink a little, the cap bearing the brunt of his tight grip. “I, uh, don’t rightly know. I thought she’d like the birthday gift I got her. It was a mixer, a very fancy one, but she tossed it out the window.” His cheeks flushed a deep shade of crimson.

I stifled a laugh, as this woman sounded just like me. Offering a mixer as a birthday gift to a paramour was like offering Anna Karenina a subscription to a fashion magazine. And I’d bet he’d run straight out of the lion’s den to find her something else. So, here he was, a hapless husband in the wilderness of the written word, trying to make amends through literature. It was romantic—and desperate—in a distinctly Seattle, rain-soaked sort of way.

Yep, this man would likely have been sleeping on the sofa for a month without my help.

And he clearly needed my help. “Describe her to me.”

I nodded, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear as I listened to the man’s account of his wife—a woman who loved gardening, who had a soft spot for animals, who valued memories over material things. He seemed sincere, truly wanting to understand her, to reach out to her.

All the while, I let my fingers wander beneath the counter, ghosting over the familiar, comforting leather of Caleb’s journal. It was as if I was trying to draw upon some arcane knowledge that would provide some divine understanding of the man in front of me, the woman he loved, and the unseen strings that connected their hearts.

And I knew I could do it, because of the journal—the one that kept me connected to the man who’d stolen my heart without even trying.

As my skin brushed the raised leather, a small jolt of electricity sparked. It was a sensation I’d felt many times before, a mysterious intuition guiding me, always to the right recommendation. This time was no different. The answer arrived like the final piece of a jigsaw puzzle falling into place, clear as day.

“ Black Beauty ,” I announced, with a certainty that startled even me. “She needs Black Beauty .”

The man looked taken aback, perhaps expecting a more adult title or at least something less… equine. But I was sure of it .

I fetched a copy from the classics section, its glossy black cover reflecting the soft lights of the bookstore. “It’s more than a horse’s tale, it’s a journey back to her childhood. A reminder of simpler times, of purity and innocence. It’s about understanding, resilience, and the bond between humans and animals.” I cleared my throat to recount my favorite passage. “‘ My troubles are all over, and I am at home; and often before I am quite awake, I fancy I am still in the orchard at Birtwick, standing with my friends under the apple trees .’”

He blinked at me, his lips slightly parted. “That sounds like just the thing.”

“Imagine,” I continued, my eyes filled with conviction, “her holding this book, these words… It’s an apology, an acknowledgment, and an olive branch, all rolled into one.”

I held the book out to him, hoping he’d trust my somewhat unorthodox prescription. The way his eyes lingered on the cover told me he was willing to take that leap of faith.

No sooner had the jingling bell heralded the man’s exit than a sudden commotion erupted from the adjacent aisle.

“You are uncanny!”

Barb, my part-time employee and full-time agent of chaos, burst from behind a towering box of books, startling me enough to send me stumbling backward.

“Barb!” I yelped, my heart playing a rapid beatnik rhythm as I tried to regain my footing. My glasses skidded down my nose, hanging precariously on the tip. The world was a dizzying blur of colors until I managed to shove the glasses back up into place. As I adjusted them, my multicolored shawl slipped from my shoulder.

My surprise turned into a laugh when I saw Barb standing there, her hair standing on end like she’d been static-shocked, and her apron covered in dust from her hiding place. Her surprise attack had quite literally blown the dust off a box of forgotten ’90s thrillers I’d picked up at a trade show.

“Man, Barb, you nearly gave me a heart attack!” I chided, holding a hand over my pounding heart for dramatic effect.

Unperturbed, Barb shot me a mischievous grin. “How do you do that, Josie?” she asked, her eyebrows arched in genuine curiosity. “It’s like you’ve got some literary superpower.”

My cheeks warmed at the compliment, and my fingers instinctively touched the cover of Caleb’s journal under the counter. “Oh, it’s nothing really,” I said, attempting nonchalance. “Just a wild guess based on what he told me about his wife.”

But even as I tried to brush off my uncanny ability, a secret smile tugged at my lips. I might have a touch of a superpower , I thought. But I could never say that out loud, or people might think I’d lost my damn mind.

Like what I thought about Caleb when he told me he was an angel.