Episode 2
1386 Words
STORMS AND STANDOFFS
The rain started just as Eloise stepped out of The Book Nook, which felt like a cosmic joke.
She hadn’t planned on her first day back in Ashmoor involving running into Rowan Hale or dodging sideways glances from curious townsfolk who no doubt had opinions about the city girl returning to the scene of her old heartbreak. She especially hadn’t planned to be soaking wet in a parking lot while her pride did laps around her ribcage.
She shoved her keys into the lock of her rental car, muttering curses under her breath, when a familiar voice behind her said, “You always did run away when it started to rain.”
She turned, slowly. Rowan stood there beneath the overhang, arms crossed, his gray button-down shirt slightly damp but still somehow infuriatingly perfect. His smirk was casual, but his eyes watched her like she might disappear again if he blinked.
Eloise raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware Ashmoor had appointed a local historian of my weather habits.”
He shrugged. “Just stating facts.”
“Well, here’s one for you: people change.”
“Do they?”
She hated how his voice could still rattle something in her, hated it even more when she realized he knew it.
She clutched her coffee tighter. “Good talk, Hale. As riveting as ever.”
“Wait.” He stepped forward, not touching her, just close enough to make the air crackle. “You’re doing the writing workshops here?”
“Obviously.”
“And you didn’t know I’d be the co-owner of this place?”
“Obviously not.”
He laughed under his breath, low and bitter. “Of course. Because why communicate when we can just… crash into each other ten years later and pretend it’s all no big deal?”
Eloise’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t come here to rekindle anything. I came to work. To write. And to stay out of everyone’s business. Including yours.”
His eyes flicked down to the workshop flyer sticking out of her tote. “Good luck with that.”
Later that night, Eloise stared at the blinking cursor on her laptop and wished it would write the damn novel for her.
Instead, it mocked her. Flash. Flash. Flash.
She’d written three chapters of her new book, only to delete them all in a flurry of panic and perfectionism. Now, with Rowan’s voice echoing in her mind, she couldn’t even string together a sentence without mentally rewriting it five times. Her characters were flat. Her dialogue? Stiff. Her heroine? Apparently allergic to vulnerability.
A knock at the door startled her.
She peered through the peephole.
Great. Small-town hospitality.
She opened the door to reveal Aunt Thea—the town’s unofficial queen of gossip and baked goods—carrying a basket of scones and smiling like she already knew Eloise’s entire life story.
“I heard you were back,” Thea said, brushing past her and entering the cottage like she owned it. “And I figured you’d be too proud to come say hello, so I brought sugar and butter as bribes.”
Eloise couldn’t help smiling. “You bribed me in high school too.”
“Worked then, works now.”
Thea placed the basket on the kitchen table and turned, hands on hips. “Now tell me. How long until you and Rowan start screaming at each other in the middle of Main Street again? I need to clear my schedule.”
Eloise groaned. “It was one argument. And we were nineteen.”
Thea snorted. “Sweetheart, that was a spectacle. You threw a latte at him. He threw poetry at you. People still talk about it.”
Eloise pressed her palms to her cheeks. “Please say you’re joking.”
“Sadly, no.” Thea sat on the arm of the couch, her smile softening. “We all thought you two were going to take on the world.”
“Yeah, well. The world had other plans.”
There was a pause. A shift in the air.
Thea said gently, “He was gutted when you left.”
Eloise looked away. “He didn’t come after me.”
“Did you want him to?”
She didn’t answer.
Because the truth? Yes. A million times yes. She had waited—nights, weeks—for a call, a letter, something. But instead, she’d packed up her heart and built a career on other people’s happy endings.
The next morning, Eloise arrived at The Book Nook with caffeine, caution, and a carefully chosen outfit that said: Yes, I’m hot. No, it’s not for you.
Inside, a group of seven eager workshop attendees sat in a semicircle near the romance section—college students, retirees, a local librarian, and a baker named June who smelled like vanilla and looked like she kept secrets.
Eloise smiled warmly. “Welcome to the first day of ‘Write the Romance You Crave.’ I’m Eloise, and I’m here to help you fall in love with your words.”
Soft laughter followed. Not bad. She could do this.
Until Rowan appeared behind the counter, setting out a tray of pastries and pretending not to listen. Except he was. Every twitch of his brow told her so.
She ignored him.
The session began. Eloise walked them through character dynamics, emotional stakes, and the art of a good meet-cute. She even told the story of how two of her characters fell in love over spilled soup—leaving out the part where the inspiration had been the soup she and Rowan once ruined while slow dancing in his old dorm room kitchen.
Then June raised her hand. “What’s your favorite romance trope, Eloise?”
Before she could answer, Rowan called from the counter, “Probably ‘the one that got away.’”
Everyone laughed.
Eloise did not.
She turned, cool as ice. “Actually, it’s ‘second chances.’ Because sometimes, the best love stories begin after everything goes wrong.”
Touché.
Later that afternoon, she found herself behind the bookstore in the tiny garden patio, scribbling notes for the next session when Rowan wandered out with two mugs of tea.
He set one beside her. “It’s chamomile. You used to drink it when you couldn’t sleep.”
She stared at the cup, then at him. “Do you do this for all your workshop leaders?”
“No. Just the ones who once accused me of emotional sabotage and then left town without saying goodbye.”
“Ah,” she said, sipping. “So just me, then.”
A long pause stretched between them.
Rowan sat on the edge of the bench across from her, elbows on knees, head tilted. “Why did you come back, Eloise?”
She could lie. Say it was for the peace. The writing. The escape.
But somehow, staring at him, she said, “I don’t know.”
He nodded like he understood too well.
“You said you didn’t get my letter,” he said suddenly. “Back then. The one I left in your dorm mailbox.”
Her heart stuttered. “What letter?”
“I wrote you after everything… after the fight. I poured it all out. Every apology, every explanation. I waited for you to respond. I thought maybe we could fix it.”
Eloise frowned. “I never got any letter.”
His eyes narrowed. “You’re serious.”
“Rowan, if I’d gotten something like that—God. Everything would’ve been different.”
They stared at each other. The air buzzed between them.
“Maybe someone didn’t want it to be different,” he said softly.
A chill moved through her.
“Like who?”
But he didn’t answer. Instead, he stood, the moment lost.
“I’ve got inventory to finish. See you tomorrow, Granger.”
And just like that, he vanished into the shelves.
That night, she dreamed of the letter. Of ink-stained hands and dorm mailboxes and missed chances. She woke with her pulse racing, her sheets tangled, her heart full of things she hadn’t felt in a decade.
It wasn’t just about Rowan anymore.
It was about what had kept them apart—and why.
And that? That felt like a story worth writing.
- Writer
