By the Book

Chapter Two: First Impressions

The drive to The Tattered Tome wasn't long—just seventeen blocks from my apartment—but it might as well have been another world. I rarely ventured into this part of Portland, a pedestrian-friendly area brimming with boutique shops, cafés, and cobblestone streets that felt plucked from a travel magazine. Even in late September, with the lingering summer warmth finally beginning to give way to cooler evenings, the streets were bustling with people walking dogs, browsing storefronts, or sipping iced lattes at outdoor tables.

I parked a few blocks away, muttering under my breath about the lack of parking. After double-checking that my car wasn't in a tow zone, I grabbed my bag and set off toward the shop. My flats clicked softly against the cobblestones, the light breeze tugging at the hem of my black blazer. I'd opted for a more casual look than usual—a plain white t-shirt tucked into dark jeans rolled at the ankles, and the blazer to keep things professional. It wasn't my typical uniform of tailored trousers and crisp blouses, but it was Portland. Business casual was almost overdressed here.

When I reached the corner where the café was located, I spotted it immediately. The Tattered Tome was impossible to miss, its hand-painted wooden sign swinging gently in the breeze above a bright red door. The window displays were as whimsical as the name suggested: stacks of books paired with antique teacups, a small chalkboard propped up with today's specials, and a sign that read, 'Step inside, where books meet brews!'

I paused just outside, adjusting the strap of my bag and taking a steadying breath. It's just a shop, I reminded myself. A job like any other. But as I pushed the door open, the small bell overhead chiming softly, I realized how wrong I was.

The smell hit me first: coffee, vanilla, and cinnamon, with a faint hint of something floral I couldn't quite place. It was warm and inviting, almost nostalgic. The space was a riot of color and texture, with shelves bursting with books of every size and hue lining the walls. The tables were mismatched, some small and round, others long and communal, with an assortment of chairs that seemed to have no rhyme or reason. Fairy lights crisscrossed the ceiling, and a large chalkboard menu above the counter advertised drinks like Rose Cardamom Latte and Matcha Mocha, alongside pastries like Lemon-Lavender Scones and Salted Honey Tarts.

It was charming, I'd give it that. But it was also chaotic.

"Hi there!" a warm voice called out from behind the counter. I turned to see a man leaning casually against an espresso machine, his expression open and friendly. "You must be Kara."

I blinked, momentarily thrown by the sight of him. Miles Lockwood was not what I'd expected. His auburn hair, faintly wavy and tousled, framed a sharp, freckled face that looked like it belonged on a movie poster rather than behind a coffee counter. He was tall—over six feet, easily—with broad shoulders that were accentuated by the fitted navy henley he wore under a flour-dusted apron. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms spattered with faint freckles, as though he spent more time in the sun than someone in a café should.

But it wasn't just his appearance that threw me. It was the energy he exuded—an easy confidence, paired with a warmth that felt disarming. He straightened as I approached, wiping his hands on the apron, and offered a smile that crinkled the corners of his hazel eyes.

"Welcome to The Tattered Tome," he said, spreading his arms in a mock gesture of grandeur.

Of course, he's British, I thought dryly, resisting the urge to groan out loud. Why wouldn't the charming book café owner have a British accent? It probably added to the whole vibe, like he'd stepped out of some romantic comedy set in Notting Hill. His accent was just the final nail in the coffin.