3. Josie

THREE

Josie

The soft tinkle of the doorbell announced another visitor, but my eyes remained glued to the chapter in Seattle’s bylaws entitled “Tenant Rights Regarding Pets.” Nestled under my hand, Gatsby purred with leisurely contentment. He was a fluffy white Persian and one of the three unofficial residents of the Bookish Cat.

He was also wholly undisturbed by the prospect of eviction.

“There’s got to be a loophole here somewhere, Gatsby.” I traced over the legalese with a slightly smudged fingertip. My nose scrunched up as I squinted at the paragraphs of unfamiliar terms and subclauses. “I mean, it’s not like I invited you in. You heard the name of the shop and took it literally. You’re part of the store’s charm now.”

Gatsby simply purred louder, his jade eyes half-closed as he pushed his head into my palm. He didn’t seem concerned in the least about the consequences of his unauthorized tenancy.

Above us, nestled in a second-story nook with a clear view of the street outside, Matilda lazily stretched out a paw. A playful calico, her claws briefly glinted in the dappled afternoon sunlight streaming through the book-lined windows.

The third trespasser, Heathcliff, a sleek black cat, was mysteriously absent from his usual perch atop the tallest bookshelf. I’d only discovered his hiding spot last week when a customer squealed with delight, pointing upward and exclaiming, “Look, it’s like he’s the king of books!”

Indeed, the Bookish Cat was a haven for bibliophiles and feline enthusiasts alike, our shared love of quiet corners and cozy atmospheres bringing us all together. The idea of disrupting this peace with cease-and-desist notices was a damn disaster, and yet the landlord’s decree was clear—the cats had to go.

But these four-legged interlopers were more than mere strays. They’d swiftly become part of the Bookish Cat’s soul, its identity. And I was determined to keep it that way.

It didn’t hurt that they were freaking cute. I was instantly attached.

Damn landlord.

I felt the new patron hovering in the entry of the shop, so I cleared my throat and closed the spiral-bound book of bylaws.

“Welcome to the Bookish Cat, can I…”

My heart abruptly caught in my throat, the words dying on my lips as my breath hitched. There he stood, like a ghost from the past.

Caleb.

The same Caleb who, with his devastatingly handsome features, was my first real love. The same Caleb who had vanished from my life seven years ago, leaving nothing but a mysterious blank book and a cavernous void in my heart.

How utterly strange and surreal to see him standing there in the doorway of my bookstore, like a character from a well-worn page had suddenly stepped into reality.

“What the?—”

I didn’t know what to do, so I covered my face with the bylaws, fake reading while I tried to figure out what was going on.

As Caleb strolled toward the counter, each step echoing against the worn hardwood floors, my mind was tugged into the past, to the whirlwind that was our romance. The rows of books blurred into a kaleidoscope of color as I traveled seven years back, finding myself in the middle of laughter and stolen kisses in the forests of Federal Way, Washington. Our whispered promises and shared dreams. The warmth of his palms as he cupped my breasts like he never wanted to let go. It had been intoxicating and intense, but it had also been fleeting. Painfully so.

He had said he couldn’t have a “normal” relationship—words that tumbled out of his mouth in a rush, as if they were well-rehearsed lines from a script. He had spun me tales of a life too complicated, too involved. He tried to hide behind clichés, hollow excuses that couldn’t possibly encapsulate the true depth of his reasons.

The thought had made me bristle then the way it still did now. How could anything as profound and complex as love ever be “normal”? I’d pleaded for him to share the real reasons, but I never got a real answer before he left me for good.

Until today.

“‘Time, which sees all things, has found you out,’” I quoted to the bylaws I hid behind.

“You always did love Tess of the D’Urbervilles ,” he replied, as if it was entirely normal that he’d appear out of nowhere after breaking my poor, na?ve heart all those years ago .

Stealing a glance over the top of the bylaws book, I studied Caleb. It was as if the last seven years had barely grazed him. His hair, still that unique shade of sandy chestnut, was longer and slightly tousled, giving him an irresistibly boyish charm. His firm jawline was shadowed with a day’s worth of stubble, adding a rugged touch to his features, and reminding me he was all man. I had to hold myself back from caressing his cheek.

His striking blue eyes, though, were the same as I remembered—deep and intense, mirroring the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean that lapped the shores of my hometown. They twinkled with a warmth that made my heart flutter like it used to. But that warm exterior lit a spark of hunger in me, a craving from deep within that wouldn’t be satisfied until he held me in his arms.

His attire had remained unaltered as well, a mix of casual and professional—a well-fitted charcoal-gray blazer over a simple white T-shirt, paired with dark jeans that sat perfectly on his hips. In spite of myself, I felt a rush of familiarity, a jolt of attraction that was just as potent now as it had been then. It was a testament to the kind of man Caleb was—irresistible, frustrating, and yet wholly unforgettable.

Damn it.

A sigh escaped my lips before I could contain it. There he was, Caleb, unchanged and somehow hotter than any man had any right to be.

If he could even be called a “man,” given his particular status on Earth.

“Can I help you find anything in particular?” I asked, feigning ignorance, my tone as casual as I could manage, given my racing heart.

“It’s been a while,” he said, his voice as smooth as velvet and equally disarming .

I stubbornly stuck to my role. “In that case, welcome back to the world of books.” I gestured toward the towering shelves, lined with everything from modern prose to ancient poetry. “Our fiction section is quite extensive, if that’s what you’re after.”

He chuckled, the sound resonating in the quiet store, bouncing off the stacks of books and knick-knacks. “Josie…”

My heart somersaulted at the sound of his voice so close. His unwavering gaze broke my resolve. With a small laugh that didn’t quite reach my eyes, I put down my pretense. “Caleb. Wow, it’s been a long time. Welcome to my bookstore, the Bookish Cat.”

He just walked in—obviously he knows its name. Why am I such a mess at the sight of him?

He looked around, his eyes reflecting genuine pleasure. “Your store?”

“Yes, all mine,” I said, my voice echoing with a hint of pride in spite of myself.

“That’s wonderful. Really.” His tone was laced with sincerity.

“So…” I struggled to keep my voice steady. “What brings you here, Caleb?”

“Just a little bit of detective work,” he replied casually, as if he hadn’t just dropped a bombshell.

“A detective? You?” The word slipped from my lips, wrapped in surprise and a touch of disbelief. “Like, a private eye?”

Since when are angels private eyes?

Caleb nodded, a smug smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “Yes. Just like the ones in your mystery novels. Some things have changed since the last time we saw each other.”

It was hard not to let my curiosity get the better of me, but I fought it, tamping it down. It wasn’t my right to know anymore. I left Caleb behind when he walked out on me. Or so I told myself.

“And what’s your case today, detective ?”

“As a matter of fact, there are two people in here,” he began, nodding toward a man browsing the contemporary fiction section and a woman engrossed in a book of sonnets, “who need to discover each other.”

The statement was as perplexing as it was unexpected. I stole a glance at the pair he was referring to, the wheels in my head beginning to spin. They were as different as night and day— one a casual browser, the other lost in the rhythm of verses.

“So, you’re playing matchmaker in a bookstore? What’s next? A game of Clue in the self-help section?”

He shot me a million-dollar smile and said, “I’m serious. Any ideas on what might help them out?” He remained sincere, perhaps remembering my passion for all things story.

Subconsciously, my hand reached under the counter, fingertips brushing against the worn leather of Caleb’s journal, now my tool, my secret source of wisdom and intuition. The pages fluttered under my touch, whispering ideas and insights.

I felt a shiver of energy, a familiar tingling sensation that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I knew. I knew just what these two needed. I knew the books that would bridge the gap between two souls unknown to each other.

I went to the shelves and pulled a copy of Murakami’s Norwegian Wood for the man, Anais Nin’s Delta of Venus for the woman. I couldn’t explain how I knew, but the ink on the pages was insistent. I glanced at Caleb, my smile wry. “Trust me, they’ll thank us later.”

The look on Caleb’s face was a priceless blend of skepticism and intrigue. “Those books for those two?” His brow furrowed in disbelief. I merely shrugged. Guilt niggled at me for not mentioning his book, but now was hardly the time to talk about what he’d left behind.

“Do you trust me?”

He tilted his head in reluctant agreement.

I approached the first member of the unsuspecting couple, my hands carefully cradling the books as if they were fragile birds. “You’ll love this,” I assured the man. “It’ll take you on an adventure you didn’t even know you were looking for.” Then I strutted to the woman. “You really need to give this a try. If I’m wrong, you can bring it back.”

Her smile widened. “That sounds like an excellent deal.” She cocked her head. “Do you do this for all your customers?”

“You’d be surprised,” I said with a wink.

The two approached the counter to pay at the same time, speaking low about the recommendations. They handed each other their book, both eliciting initial surprise that was soon replaced by intrigue as they looked over the covers. As they chatted at the counter, purchases in hand, I couldn’t help but send a triumphant glance toward Caleb.

One point for Josie and the Bookish Cat.

“Miss Ray! I have told you a hundred times already, these cats are a scourge on my property!”

There, framed in the doorway like some gloom-bringing thundercloud, stood Mr. Anderson, my asshole landlord. His watery, squinted eyes immediately fell on Matilda, now lounging nonchalantly on top of a stack of romance novels. “This will not do!” His voice echoed through the store, punctuated by a thunderous sneeze.

Before I could think of a response, Caleb twisted his hand in the air, his fingers tapping out an inaudible rhythm. Almost immediately, Mr. Anderson’s gruff exterior softened, a puzzled look stealing over his features.

“Actually, I think I forgot something. I need to attend to it.” His words trailed off as he hurried out the door, leaving me staring after him in a wake of bewilderment.

I gawked at Caleb, who lifted an eyebrow in return.

“I tried to explain this to you years ago.”