Love Bound Pages

Harper Adams hadn’t stepped inside The Unwritten Tale since her father’s funeral. The bell above the door chimed softly as she pushed it open, the familiar sound slicing through the stillness like a whispered memory. Dust danced in the late afternoon sunlight pouring through the tall front windows, illuminating the narrow aisles and towering shelves that had once felt like home. Now, they felt like ghosts. The scent of old paper, leather bindings, and faded ink wrapped around her like an ache she hadn’t braced herself for. Every creak of the wooden floor beneath her boots echoed too loudly. Every book seemed to watch her as she moved deeper inside. This place had raised her as much as her father had. After years away—trying to build a life that didn’t revolve around this shop—she was back. Not by choice. By loss. Her fingers brushed the spines of books she had once dusted as a little girl. Fantasy. Romance. History. Poetry. Her father had claimed every story deserved a home, no matter how forgotten it became. “Still smells the same,” she whispered. Her voice cracked. She swallowed hard and stepped behind the old counter. The place where her father had stood every day of his life. Where he’d brewed terrible coffee, recommended impossible books, and believed—truly believed—that words could save people. Now he was gone. And the bookstore was drowning. A stack of unopened mail sat beside the register. Bills. Notices. Final warnings. Harper didn’t need to open them to know what they said. She was already behind. Already losing ground. She exhaled slowly, her chest tight. “I’ll fix this,” she said quietly to the empty shop. “I promise.” The front bell rang again. Harper froze. She hadn’t expected anyone. Footsteps crossed the threshold with confidence—slow, deliberate, unbothered by the grief hanging heavy in the air. She turned just as a man stepped fully inside. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair slightly tousled like he didn’t bother taming it. A tailored jacket that didn’t belong in a place like this. Sharp eyes that took in every inch of the shop in one calculated sweep. He looked… out of place. Dangerously so. “You must be Harper Adams.” His voice was smooth. Controlled. The kind of voice that didn’t ask questions—it delivered statements. Her posture stiffened. “Yes. And you are?” A corner of his mouth lifted in something between a smirk and a challenge. “Leo Fitzgerald.” The name meant nothing to her. He stepped closer to the counter. “Your father hired me.” Her stomach dropped. “For what?” “To save this place.” Something sharp flashed behind her eyes. “This place doesn’t need saving.” Leo glanced around again. The leaning shelves. The dim lights. The outdated register. His expression stayed unreadable. “With all due respect,” he said calmly, “it absolutely does.” Her hands curled at her sides. “My father built this bookstore with his own hands. It’s survived wars, recessions, and generations of readers. It doesn’t need to be ‘revamped’ into something unrecognizable.” “So he didn’t tell you.” Leo studied her carefully now, something quieter settling behind his confidence. “About the renovation contract.” Her pulse stuttered. “What contract?” “The one he signed three weeks before he passed.” The words landed like a punch to the chest. “No,” she said immediately. “He wouldn’t have done that without telling me.” Leo slid a folded document from his inner pocket and laid it gently on the counter between them. Harper stared at it. Then she unfolded it. Her father’s signature stared back at her in unmistakable ink. Her knees went weak. “He planned a full restoration,” Leo said softly. “Structural updates. Community events. Digital integration. A complete reopening.” Harper looked up, stunned. “He never said a word to me.” Leo hesitated. “He said he wanted it to be a surprise.” Her chest tightened painfully. A surprise. Of course he had. Her father had always believed in her quietly—never announcing his faith, only proving it when it mattered most. And now he was gone. “So what,” she said shakily, folding the paper. “You’re here to bulldoze everything he loved?” Leo’s jaw tightened. “I’m here to do what he asked me to do. What he hired me to do. And what will keep this place from closing permanently.” Silence stretched between them, thick and fraught. Harper met his gaze head-on. “You don’t understand this place.” “No,” Leo admitted quietly. “But I understand survival.” Their eyes locked. The air shifted. It wasn’t just tension. It was something sharper. Heavier. Charged. “Then we’re going to have a problem,” Harper said. Leo’s lips curved slowly. “I suspected we might.” She turned away, breathing hard. “Come back tomorrow,” she said tightly. “We’ll discuss it then.” Leo hesitated—but nodded. “Tomorrow.” He paused at the door. “One more thing,” he added. She didn’t turn. “When your father hired me,” Leo said gently, “he told me this place held more than stories on its shelves.” Her breath caught. “He said the most important one hadn’t been found yet.” The bell chimed as he left. Harper stood frozen. Slowly, she turned toward the back of the shop. Toward the locked room her father had always kept private. Her heart began to race.