His hand covered mine. “I don’t think.
I know. And I’ll be here, every step of the way.”
He smirked. “Good.
That’s my job.”
Over the next few weeks, I began to work my dream plan.
I quit the desk job I’d never loved and lived rent-free in my head for years: a bookstore café.
“Do you think people will actually come here?” I asked him one night as we painted the walls of the shop.
He leaned on the ladder, smirking. “You’re kidding, right? A bookstore with coffee?
You’ll have people lining up just to smell the place.”
He wasn’t wrong. By the time we opened, it wasn’t just a business—it was a part of the community.
