From the publishers’ preview collection under the counter, she selected a novel with an intriguing premise—a woman discovers that she has the uncanny ability to know the outcome of every decision she makes.

Now, that, Natalie thought, opening to the first page, is a superpower. Within moments, she had sunk into the story and was happily lost in a different world, with people facing troubles that made her own seem like child’s play.

A book was a powerful thing. It could take her away from all her incessant worries for whole minutes at a time.

Then she made the mistake of setting the novel aside to go through the latest mail. Bills and notices. On the spreadsheet under Daily Till, she wrote the word pathetic. If she was going to make this crazy enterprise work, she needed a small miracle. Maybe a big one.

On a corkboard above her desk, she looked at the checklist Dorothy and Grandy had made the day of the basement flood. Though written in a childish scrawl, the ideas for making the store more profitable showed a wisdom beyond Dorothy’s years. Add yummy snacks to the café menu. Make an advertising poster. Have a book party for kids on read-aloud day. Go on the radio and tell people about the store. Give out punch cards to keep track of purchases. Host book signings. Send emails to customers and offer them a coupon.

Just looking at the list bolstered Natalie’s determination. She knew she could make this work. Bookstores were important. People loved them. They added a special vibrancy to any community. The very idea had sustained her mother for decades, and now it was up to Natalie to carry on.

Glancing at the clock, she saw with some relief that it was closing time. She could finally pour herself a glass of wine and escape into the book she was reading, leaving the depressing spreadsheet for tomorrow. Then, as she went to turn the Closed sign around and lock up, a sleek Tesla sedan pulled up to the curb, insinuating itself into a prime parking spot that was almost never vacant.

A man got out and hurried to the door, his shadow blocking out the last light of the day. He let himself in before she could flip the sign.

“Oh, good,” he said. “I was afraid I’d miss you.”

“Um, I was just about to close for the day, and—” Natalie stopped in midsentence. The man looked familiar, though she didn’t know him.

And then—dear Lord in heaven—she did.

He wiped his feet on the mat. “Yeah, sorry. Traffic, you know.” He stuck out his hand. “You’re Natalie Harper, right? My name is Trevor. Trevor—”