Lena Carter hated rain.
Not the gentle, misty kind that made bookshop windows fog up in a dreamy haze—no, she could tolerate that. It was the angry, pounding rain, the kind that soaked through coats and ruined leather-bound books left too close to an open door. The kind that had just sent a harried, dripping-wet man crashing into her bookstore like a disoriented hurricane.
The bell above the door jingled violently as he stumbled inside, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, his expensive-looking coat now a soggy mess. He blinked rainwater from his lashes, his gaze locking onto hers with an almost comical look of desperation.
"Please tell me you sell umbrellas," he said, voice rough with embarrassment.
Lena arched a brow, clutching the first edition of Wuthering Heights she’d been shelving a little tighter. "This is a bookstore, not a weather supply shop."
The man—tall, broad-shouldered, and currently leaving a puddle on her antique oak floors—sighed. "Right. Of course." He dragged a hand through his wet hair, sending droplets flying. "Do you mind if I just… wait it out?"
Lena should’ve said no. She had a strict policy against strangers lingering past closing time, especially ones who tracked in half the Atlantic. But something in his expression—the faint crease between his brows, the way his shoulders slumped just slightly—made her hesitate.
"Fine," she relented. "But if you ruin any books, you’re buying them."
A slow, crooked grin spread across his face, and Lena’s stomach did an odd little flip. "Deal."
He shrugged out of his ruined coat, hanging it on the rack by the door before venturing further inside. His eyes scanned the shelves with genuine interest, fingers brushing over spines like he was greeting old friends.
"You’re a reader," she observed, unable to hide her surprise.
"Guilty." He shot her a sideways glance. "Ryan Bennett."
"Lena." She didn’t offer her last name.
Ryan chuckled, plucking a worn copy of Pride and Prejudice from a nearby shelf. "Let me guess—your favorite?"
"Too predictable." She nodded at the book in his hands. "And that’s a first printing. Be careful."
He froze, suddenly holding the book like it was made of glass. "You’re kidding."
Lena smirked. "I don’t kid about books."
The quiet hum of the rain outside, the scent of old paper and damp wool between them—they just looked at each other for a brief moment. Then, disaster struck.
Ryan’s elbow bumped a precarious stack of poetry collections, sending them cascading to the floor in a flurry of pages. One landed squarely in the puddle he’d brought in.
Lena’s jaw tightened. "You’re buying that."
Ryan winced. "How much?"
"Two thousand." He looked up. "Dollars?"
Additionally, you are reorganizing the entire section. She bowed her head. "Unless you’d rather leave."
A beat passed. Then, to her shock, Ryan rolled up his sleeves, revealing forearms dusted with faint scars and ink—blueprints, she realized. An architect.
"Where do you keep your ladder?" He was looking around the shop when he asked. Lena stared at him. "You’re serious."
"Deadly." His grin was back, brighter now. "Consider it my raincheck apology."
And just like that, Lena’s carefully structured world tilted—ever so slightly—off its axis.
