Elise Moore didn't believe in fate. She believed in blueprints, schedules, and double-shot Americanos. Her world was built on clean lines and deadlines, her thoughts compartmentalized like the city skyline she helped shape one steel beam at a time.
She didn't have time for detours. Which is why, when her heel snapped clean off outside a dusty little bookstore tucked between a laundromat and a bakery on 53rd Street, she cursed under her breath and prepared to limp past it without a second thought.
But then it started raining.
Hard.
And not the polite drizzle she could brave with a tilted umbrella and a hasty stride—but a sudden, unrelenting downpour that drenched her in seconds. With a groan, she ducked into the bookstore, hoping it wasn't one of those overly quaint places that smelled like old socks and sold more incense than novels.
She was wrong.
It smelled like ink and cedarwood, like warmth and pages that had lived a hundred lives. The doorbell above the frame jingled with a soft chime, and the rain behind her muted into background noise.
"Need a towel, or are you trying to bring the storm in with you?" a voice asked.
Elise turned, tucking a damp strand of auburn hair behind her ear. A man stood behind the counter—tall, dark-haired, with sleeves rolled to his elbows and a look that suggested he found her both amusing and mildly annoying.
"I wasn't planning on getting caught in it," she said, brushing water from her blazer. "But if you happen to sell umbrellas with your poetry collections, I'm listening."
The man cracked a smile. "We sell stories, not salvation. But I might have an extra towel in the back—if you promise not to drip on the classics."
She quirked a brow. "Deal."
As he disappeared behind a curtain, Elise wandered between narrow aisles. Books lined every wall, their spines worn and familiar, titles whispering stories of lives she rarely had time to consider. Her gaze landed on a journal tucked between two thick hardcovers—out of place, bound in deep green leather with a golden clasp.
Curious, she pulled it free.
It wasn't for sale.
It had a name on the first page.
Liam Hart.
She looked up just as the man returned with a towel in one hand and a puzzled expression.
"You found it," he said slowly.
"Yours?" she asked, handing it over.
His eyes lingered on the journal, but he didn't take it. "It was. A long time ago."
Something about the way he said it made her pause.
"I'm Elise," she offered, extending her hand.
He looked at it for a beat too long, then shook it.
"Liam," he said. "Welcome to Chapter One."