There’s a bell above the door—a sweet, old-fashioned one like what Meg Ryan had in You’ve Got Mail—and it jingles when we enter, announcing our arrival. There are Christmas carols playing softly over the store speakers.

“Be right with you,” a voice comes from the back.

“It’s just me, Mama,” Gabe says.

Mama. He calls his mother Mama.

It smells of apples and cinnamon, warming me along with the well-heated store. There’s a little cart by the door with a carafe, mugs, and a sign that reads HELP YOURSELF.

“Want some?” Gabe asks.

He pours before I can answer—apple cider—and passes me a cup. On the bottom shelf there’s a bin for dirty mugs.

It all feels strangely familiar, even though I’ve never been here before.

“The store is beautiful,” I say.

Gabe grins.

“It is pretty nice, isn’t it?” He looks around, one hand on his hip, the other holding a mug, looking very much like a man who likes what he sees. “I think we’re going to use the same contractors to renovate the theatre.”

“Do you help out when you’re in town?”

He nods. “I like the store at night the best. When I’m here, I’m usually the person fulfilling the online orders—I’ll put on some music or a podcast and really go to town. If you think I’m good on the screen, you should see me assemble a shipping box in under a minute.”

“You’re in charge of sending out the online orders?”

He gives me a knowing smile. “I am. I always know who’s ordering from us.”

Which means that he probably knows how many times I’ve ordered books from here. Which is often.

Thankfully, I don’t have a chance to respond because a woman with Gabe’s green eyes, and his dimple, emerges from the back of the store. Her expression lights up when she sees us.

“Is this her?” she asks.

“Mama, this is Chani,” he says.

His arm is around my shoulders, almost as if he’s presenting me. Which, I suppose, to an extent, he is. The moment feels significant and it scares me.

I know Gabe is thinking about what will happen beyond this weekend. I know he wants to ask.

I’m grateful that he hasn’t because I don’t have an answer. Not yet.

“This is my mother, Elizabeth.”

“It’s so nice to meet you,” I say, holding out a hand.

A hand which she ignores, wrapping me up in a hug instead. I hold the hand with the mug of apple cider awkwardly out behind her.

“We’re so glad you’re here,” she says. “Gabe talks about you all the time.”

Gabe makes an awkward coughing sound behind me.

“Not all the time,” he says.

I look back at him.

“A lot, though,” he says, and gives me that grin.