We're winning. That's what Eli said.
But no one tells you that winning can feel exactly like falling—hard, fast, and right into something terrifying. Like, say… your maybe-fake boyfriend brushing your hand in public and you nearly short-circuiting because oh no, I have actual feelings.
It's the day after the will reading, and Eli's mom has officially promoted me from "random coffee girl" to "assistant bookstore manager." Which is basically a fancy way of saying, "Congratulations, you're now responsible for the shop's overgrown romance section and a haunted espresso machine that keeps hissing like it's possessed."
I'm alphabetizing books when Eli walks in with a bag of donuts and That Look. The smirky one that says he knows exactly what he did last night and is 72% sure I liked it.
Spoiler: I did.
"Morning, manager," he says.
"Morning, donut mule," I shoot back, snatching a cruller from the bag. "You here to distract me again?"
"That depends. How distracted is too distracted?"
I choke on the donut.
He smirks. "Joking. Mostly."
He leans on the counter, eyes scanning me like I'm a particularly confusing crossword puzzle. And not for the first time, I wonder what he really sees when he looks at me.
"You okay?" he asks. "You've been quiet."
"Processing," I say.
"Last night?"
"All of it. Your mom. The will. Miles trying to spontaneously combust. You kissing me like you meant it."
He goes quiet. That kind of quiet that makes the space between two people feel suddenly very loud.
"I did mean it."
Oh.
Cool.
Heart? Shutting down.
Brain? Not responding.
Lungs? Possibly on strike.
Before I can self-destruct, the bell on the door jingles.
Miles.
In a suit that screams "lawsuit incoming" and a sneer sharp enough to slice through optimism.
"Isn't this cozy," he says. "The heiress and the hustler."
Eli straightens. "Leave."
Miles smirks. "Not until I hand-deliver this."
He tosses an envelope on the counter like it's a bomb and not, in fact, a formal notice of contesting the will.
I grab it before Eli can. "You really want to drag this through court?"
"I want what I'm owed."
"You mean the house you never visited and the bookstore you openly mocked?" I snap. "Touching."
His eyes narrow. "Don't act like you belong here. You're a con."
"Better a con than a leech."
He lunges forward, and for one second I actually think he might explode—but then Eli steps between us.
"You do this," Eli says coldly, "and I'll make sure everyone sees the video of you drunk at the charity gala pretending to be a goat."
Miles freezes.
I blink. "Wait, that was you?"
"I was stressed!" Miles snaps. "And you weren't supposed to film that!"
Eli smiles sweetly. "I film everything."
And just like that, Miles storms out, muttering something about lawsuits and defamation and something that sounded suspiciously like "I hate goats."
---
Later, we're in the back room, sharing what's left of the donut bag like two people surviving a tiny war.
"That was…" I trail off.
"Intense?" Eli offers.
"Scarily hot, actually."
He chuckles, but then his eyes drift to mine. "You handled him like a pro."
"Yeah," I murmur. "I used to be the kind of girl who froze when people yelled. Now I'm snapping back and threatening goat footage."
He goes quiet again.
"You've changed," he says. "Since you got here."
I nod. "I know. And I don't know if that's a good thing or if I'm just pretending so hard I'm forgetting who I really am."
"You're not pretending," he says. "I see you."
And boom.
There it is again.
That feeling like I'm standing on the edge of something big, dangerous, and very, very real.
"Eli," I whisper. "What are we doing?"
He leans closer. "I think we're losing the plot."
"I think we're rewriting it."
And then—right before we can kiss again—the espresso machine lets out a death shriek that sounds like Satan blowing a raspberry.
We jump a foot.
"Oh my god," I gasp. "It's possessed."
Eli nods gravely. "That or it's extremely jealous."
I laugh. Too loud. Because I need to. Because if I don't laugh, I might cry, or confess, or ask him to make this real.
And we're not ready for that.
Not yet.
So instead, we laugh. We tease. We flirt and dance around what we both really want.
Because the bookstore might be haunted, and Miles might be gunning for war, but the scariest thing?
We're starting to fall for each other—and there's no legal clause for that.