It was on one such afternoon on a sunny Saturday in August that Grace found herself with a moment’s respite. With the customers all occupied, she made her way to the sunlit window with a copy of Forever Amber, leaned against the wall and opened the book.

The familiar scent of paper and ink drew her in as she fell head over heels into a new story. She was so lost in the literary world being spun within her mind, she missed the bell chime at the front door.

“I never thought reading could be more beautiful,” a familiar, rich voice said. “Until this moment.”

Grace’s head snapped up and the book fell from her hands. “George.”

He stood several paces away from her, handsome as ever in his neatly pressed RAF uniform, holding a head of purple cabbage. “It appears cabbages are still all the rage in place of flowers.”

“Only because you’re not the Ritz.” She ran to him and threw herself into his arms as the cabbage head tumbled to the floor with a soft thump.

They’d grown far closer in the years of war, with letters unveiling deep parts of their souls and all the time they could squeeze in together on the rare moments of leave he was afforded.

“Are you home for good now?” she asked, gazing into his eyes, never able to get enough of him. She enfolded a hand into the warmth of his in an attempt to convince herself he was real. Truly standing before her.

“I am.” He stroked a finger down her cheek. “For good.”

She closed her eyes and leaned her head against his chest, breathing in his clean, wonderful smell and savoring the rasp of his wool uniform against her cheek that had grown so familiar.

“Do you really not plan to ask if I brought you anything at all?” His voice rumbled under her cheek.

She looked up in surprise. “I couldn’t possibly think of anything more that I’d want.”

“Couldn’t you?” He grinned and reached into the pocket of his jacket. “Not even a book?” His hand hovered, his brows lifted with expectation.

She straightened and clapped in delight. It had become tradition, after all, for them to exchange books with one another. His often were battered, well-read copies that had been shared between countless soldiers, but the stories within were always captivating.

“I couldn’t possibly return to you empty handed.” He withdrew a rectangular green book.

It was an oddly shaped thing, scarcely bigger than her hand.

“They’re made in America, specifically for soldiers to carry about in their uniform pockets,” he said, answering her question before she could even ask it. “It’s quite brilliant, actually.”