Chapter One

Everly

The Texas sky unleashes its fury the moment I step out of the rideshare. Because, of course, it does. My carefully styled hair—which took forty minutes and half a can of humidity-resistant spray this morning—doesn’t stand a chance. I make a mad dash toward the nearest awning, designer leather tote clutched to my chest like it contains national secrets rather than fabric swatches and my iPad.

Austin wasn’t supposed to be like this. The weather app on my phone promised sunshine and mild temperatures, not this biblical deluge that has me pinned under the flimsy protection of a coffee shop’s striped awning. Water streams from its edges in silver curtains, forming miniature rapids along the curb. My reflection in the darkened windows shows a woman who looks like she’s just been tossed into the deep end of a pool—designer clothes and all.

I check the time on my watch—a vintage Cartier tank that once belonged to my grandmother and now serves as my lucky charm. Two hours until my first meeting with the boutique owners who’ve invited me to collaborate on their fall collection. Two hours to somehow transform myself from drowned rat back to Everly James, up-and-coming fashion designer who’s supposed to exude effortless sophistication.

Right. Effortless.

Nothing in my life has been effortless lately. Not the red-eye flight from New York that left me with a crick in my neck. Not the constant pressure to prove I deserve my recent success. And definitely not the hollow ache that’s been my constant companion since Trey and I called it quits three months ago.

The rain shows no signs of letting up. If anything, it’s coming down harder, thundering against the pavement with enough force to create a misty haze that blurs the storefronts across the street. A streak of lightning fractures the charcoal sky, followed almost instantly by a crack of thunder that I feel in my bones.

That decides it. I need shelter—real shelter, not just this awning—and time to regroup.

I scan my surroundings and spot it: a bookstore nestled between a vintage record shop and an artisanal soap boutique. Its windows glow with warm, golden light that feels like an invitation. A hand-painted sign swinging gently in the wind reads “Foxed Pages: New, Used & Rare Books.”

Perfect.

Taking a deep breath, I clutch my tote tighter and make another desperate sprint through the downpour. By the time I yank open the heavy wooden door of the bookstore, my silk blouse is plastered to my skin, and my designer pants feel like I’ve gone swimming in them. Water drips from my eyelashes, and I’m pretty sure my carefully applied mascara is halfway down my cheeks.

But I’m inside. The door closes behind me with a gentle thud and the soft tinkle of a bell, sealing out the storm’s fury.

The scent hits me first—that incomparable mixture of paper, leather bindings, and wooden shelves that all good bookstores seem to have. It’s instantly calming, like a warm embrace. The space is larger than it appeared from outside, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves creating a labyrinth of literary treasures. Edison bulbs in vintage fixtures cast pools of honeyed light throughout the store, and mismatched armchairs are tucked into cozy corners.

A few other rain refugees are scattered throughout—a college-aged couple sharing a massive art book in one corner, an elderly man with thick glasses examining a shelf of history texts, a woman about my age tapping away on her laptop with a cup of something steaming beside her.

“You look like you could use a towel.”

The voice startles me. I turn to find a smiling woman in her sixties behind a wooden counter. Silver streaks run through her dark hair, which is pulled back in a messy bun secured with what appears to be a pencil. Her eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiles, and there’s something instantly maternal about her presence.

“That obvious, huh?” I laugh, attempting to blot my face with the sleeve of my already soaked blouse.

“Texas thunderstorms don’t mess around,” she says, reaching beneath the counter. She produces a clean, if slightly worn, towel and holds it out to me. “Here you go, honey. We keep these on hand for days like today.”

“Thank you. That’s incredibly kind.” I accept the towel gratefully and dab at my face and hair. “I wasn’t expecting a Noah’s Ark situation when I landed this morning.”

“First time in Austin?” she asks, leaning her elbows on the counter.

“Not exactly.” I hesitate, unsure how much to share. “I grew up a few hours from here. But it’s been… a while since I’ve been back to Texas.”

Twelve years, to be exact. Twelve years of deliberately building a life as far away from here as possible. New York might as well be another planet compared to the small Texas town where I grew up. That was the point.

The woman nods, not pressing for more information. Another reason to like her. “Well, you’re welcome to stay as long as you need. We’ve got coffee and tea in the back corner if you want something warm. And plenty of good books to keep you company until the storm passes.”

“That sounds perfect, actually. Thank you.”

She waves away my thanks. “I’m Martha, by the way. This is my place.”

“Everly,” I respond, offering my hand. “Everly James.”

“Nice to meet you, Everly. Make yourself at home.”

I return her smile, feeling the tension in my shoulders ease slightly. This unexpected detour might be exactly what I need—a moment to breathe before diving into the whirlwind week ahead.

I wander deeper into the store, trailing my fingers along the spines of books as I pass. The shelves are organized in a way that seems both methodical and whimsical—sections labeled with hand-painted signs bearing titles like “Journeys Both Real & Imagined” and “Words That Might Change Your Life.” It’s nothing like the sterile efficiency of the chain bookstores in Manhattan.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to find a text from Zoe, my assistant back in New York.

How’s Austin? Boutique owners still gushing over having THE Everly James design for them? Don’t forget their social media reach when negotiating final terms.

I smile and shake my head. Zoe is relentlessly focused on business growth, always thinking three steps ahead. It’s why I hired her, but sometimes her intensity makes me question what I’ve become. When did fashion stop being about the joy of creation and start being about follower counts and strategic partnerships?

Just arrived. Meeting in a couple hours. Got caught in biblical rain. Taking shelter and will report back. I add a rain cloud emoji and hit send.

Another buzz, almost instantaneous: Charm them like you always do. I’ve scheduled calls with the other two potential collaborations for Friday. The Vogue feature comes out tomorrow morning—I’ll send press highlights as they come in.

I slide the phone back into my pocket without responding. Right now, I need this small bubble of peace, this moment outside the constant churn of my career.

The travel section catches my eye, and I find myself drawn to a shelf of glossy photography books showcasing destinations I’ve yet to visit. I pull out a heavy tome about the Italian coast and sink into a nearby armchair, its worn leather creaking softly beneath me. My damp clothes are beginning to feel uncomfortable, but the beauty captured in these pages provides a welcome distraction.

I lose myself in sun-drenched images of Positano and Cinque Terre, in narrow streets and azure waters. The fantasies begin to form unbidden—what it would be like to disappear for a while, to walk those streets with no deadlines, no expectations. Just me, anonymous and free, with the Mediterranean sun warming my skin.

“They don’t quite capture it, you know.”

The deep voice breaks into my reverie, startling me. It’s rich and textured, with the faintest hint of a drawl that wraps around the words like honey. There’s something in that voice—something that sends a jolt of recognition through me before I even look up.

When I do, the world tilts on its axis.

He stands a few feet away, a book of his own held loosely in one hand. Taller than I remember. Broader through the shoulders. His dark hair is shorter now, with threads of silver at the temples that weren’t there before. His face is more angular, with faint lines around his eyes that speak of years of laughter and squinting into the sun. He’s dressed in dark jeans and a simple button-down with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms corded with lean muscle.

But his eyes—those are exactly the same. That impossible shade of green that always reminded me of summer leaves with sunlight streaming through them.

Chase Camden.

My first love. My greatest heartbreak. The reason I fled Texas and never looked back.

And he’s staring at me like he’s seen a ghost.

“Everly?” My name comes out as a question, as if he can’t quite believe I’m real.

I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t process the fact that he’s standing here, in this bookstore, on this rainy afternoon, looking at me with those eyes that still feature in my dreams sometimes.

“Chase.” I manage his name, though it comes out as barely more than a whisper.

Twelve years dissolve in an instant. I’m eighteen again, standing in his arms on a night scented with jasmine and heartbreak, promising we’d find our way back to each other someday. Making promises neither of us kept.

“I thought that was you,” he says, recovering more quickly than I have. He gestures vaguely at the book in my lap. “And yes, the Amalfi Coast. The photos never quite capture how the light hits the water at sunset. It’s… something else entirely.”

“You’ve been?” I ask, latching onto the neutral topic like a lifeline.

He nods, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “A few years back. Work trip that I extended into a vacation.”

Of course he’s traveled. Of course he’s seen beautiful places. His life didn’t stop when mine veered away from his. He’s had twelve years of experiences that I know nothing about. The thought makes me dizzy.

“It’s on my list,” I say, and immediately want to cringe at how banal that sounds. Everly James, fashion designer and supposedly sophisticated New Yorker, reduced to small talk with the man who once knew every inch of her heart.

“You always did want to see the world.” Something flickering in his eyes suggests he remembers exactly when and how I told him that—whispered dreams shared under a blanket of stars, my head on his chest, his fingers tracing patterns on my bare shoulder.

The memory burns through me like wildfire.

I close the book and set it aside, suddenly needing to occupy my hands. “So, you live in Austin now?” I ask, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.

“For about six years.” He shifts his weight, and I realize he’s as unsettled by this encounter as I am. There’s a tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there before. “You’re still in New York?”

“Yes.” I nod, wondering how he knows that. Has he followed my career? The thought sends a strange thrill through me. “Just here for a week. Work thing.”

“Right. The fashion line.” There’s no mistaking it now—he definitely knows what I’ve been up to. “Congratulations. That’s… really something, Everly.”

The genuine pride in his voice catches me off guard. I expect resentment, perhaps. Indifference, maybe. But not this warm approval that makes something long dormant flutter in my chest.

“Thank you.” I tuck a strand of damp hair behind my ear, suddenly and acutely aware of how disheveled I must look. “And you? What are you doing these days?”

“Architecture. I have my own firm now, specializing in sustainable design.” A hint of boyish enthusiasm enters his voice. “Mainly residential, but we’re branching into commercial spaces too.”

It fits him perfectly—this creative profession that combines his artistic eye with his pragmatic nature. I remember how he used to sketch buildings in the margins of his notebooks, how he could look at a space and immediately see its potential.

“That’s wonderful,” I say, and mean it. “I always knew you’d—”

I stop myself. I have no right to claim any knowledge of the man he’s become, no right to any assumptions about the path he’s taken. We’re strangers now, connected only by memories that should have faded long ago.

An awkward silence descends, heavy with all the things we’re not saying. The years between us. The way we ended. The people we’ve become in the absence of each other.

“You look good, Everly,” he says finally, his voice softer than before. “New York clearly agrees with you.”

I want to tell him that I’ve worked myself to exhaustion building my brand. That success tastes different than I imagined—sweeter in some ways, more bitter in others. That some nights I still wake up reaching for something I can’t name.

Instead, I say, “It’s been a good fit. And you… you look happy.”

It’s true. Despite the shock of seeing me, there’s a settled quality to him now, a confidence that comes from knowing exactly who you are and being comfortable in that knowledge. The Chase I knew was brilliant and passionate but still searching. This man has found whatever he was looking for.

He smiles, and there’s a flash of the boy I used to know. “Most days,” he says. “Can’t complain.”

The bell above the door chimes as a new customer enters, bringing with them the sound of rain still pouring outside. We both glance over, and I use the momentary distraction to gather myself.

“I should probably get going soon,” I say, though the storm continues unabated beyond the windows. “Meeting to prepare for.”

He nods, understanding. “Of course.”

I stand, smoothing my still-damp clothes and reaching for my tote bag. When I look up, he’s watching me with an intensity that steals my breath.

“It’s really good to see you, Everly,” he says, and there’s a weight to his words that suggests he means them.

“You too.” The words come out steadier than I feel.

I’m poised to walk away, to put this unexpected encounter behind me and focus on the week ahead. But something holds me in place—some invisible thread that has always connected us, apparently immune to time and distance.

Chase takes a step closer, closing the gap between us. He’s near enough now that I can smell his cologne—something woodsy and clean that suits him. Near enough that I can see the faint scar above his right eyebrow from a climbing accident the summer we were seventeen. Near enough that if I wanted to, I could reach out and touch him.

I don’t.

“Evie,” he says, using the nickname that only he ever called me, and the sound of it nearly breaks me. “I—”

“Ms. James?” Martha’s voice cuts through whatever Chase was about to say. She approaches with a cordial smile. “Sorry to interrupt, but your driver just called the store. Said he’s been trying to reach you. Something about your meeting being moved up?”

Confusion washes over me. “My driver?”

“The car service,” Martha clarifies. “For your appointment at Stella & Faye’s Boutique? The gentleman said his name was Tony.”

I didn’t schedule a car service. And my meeting is with Wilde & Woven, not whatever boutique she just mentioned. But before I can correct her, understanding dawns. Chase must see it in my face, because his expression shifts, those green eyes narrowing slightly.

“Thank you, Martha,” I say smoothly. “I’ll call him right back.”

She nods and retreats, leaving Chase and me in our bubble of tension once more.

“You didn’t schedule a car service, did you?” he asks quietly.

I shake my head. “Martha’s giving me an out. She must have sensed…” I gesture vaguely between us, at a loss for how to describe whatever this charged moment is.

A small, rueful smile curves his lips. “Smart woman.”

“Yes.” I hesitate, then add, “I should probably take the hint and go anyway. I do have that meeting to prepare for.”

He nods, taking a step back, and I feel both relief and disappointment at the restored distance between us.

“It really was good seeing you, Chase,” I say, meaning it more than I care to admit.

He studies me for a long moment, as if committing my face to memory. Then, softly, he says my name again—”Everly”—and something in the way he says it, like a caress, like a memory, like a question and an answer all at once, makes my breath catch.

Because in that single word, I hear the truth that neither of us has spoken aloud: he remembers everything. Every promise, every touch, every dream we shared. Every reason we couldn’t make it work. Every moment that led us to become the strangers we are now, standing in a bookstore while rain lashes the windows and the past swirls around us like a current threatening to pull us under.

My heart hammers against my ribs as I realize that this week in Austin just became infinitely more complicated than I ever imagined it could be.