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67


Claire  peered through the curtains of her apartment window for the third time in fifteen minutes. The email had said the package would arrive between 1:00 and 3:00 PM, and it was already 2:45. She sighed and dropped the curtain, turning back to her laptop where her half-finished manuscript glared accusingly at her. The blinking cursor seemed to mock her writer's block.

At thirty-two, Claire had published two moderately successful romance novels, but her third was proving elusive. Her editor wanted the draft in six weeks, and she'd barely written twenty thousand words. The package she was expecting  a vintage typewriter from the 1950s  was a desperate attempt to spark inspiration. Maybe old-school technology would help her overcome the digital distraction that was partly responsible for her creative drought.

A knock at the door sent her heart racing, and she quickly smoothed her auburn hair, suddenly conscious of the fact that she was wearing her oldest pair of sweatpants and a faded university t-shirt. It's just a delivery person, she reminded herself, not a date.

Claire pulled open the door and found herself face-to-face with a tall man in a navy delivery uniform. His name tag read "Ethan," and he balanced a large, carefully wrapped package in his arms.

"Delivery for Claire ?" he asked, his voice deep and pleasant.

"That's me," Claire replied, trying not to stare. He had kind brown eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled, which he was doing now.

"I need you to sign for this," Ethan said, shifting the package to one arm with surprising ease and offering her a digital tablet. "It's marked fragile, so I figured I'd bring it up personally instead of leaving it downstairs."

Claire took the stylus, acutely aware of how close they were standing in her narrow doorway. As she signed, she noticed a small book peeking out of his uniform pocket.

"Is that 'The Road' by Cormac McCarthy?" she asked, surprised.

Ethan looked down, a slight flush coloring his cheeks. "Yeah, I try to get some reading in during my lunch breaks. Not exactly light material, I know."

"No, it's brilliant," Claire said. "Devastating, but brilliant."

Something flickered in his eyes  interest, perhaps  before he handed over her package. "Well, enjoy your..." He glanced at the shipping label. "Typewriter?"

"Thanks," Claire said, taking the box. "It's for work. I'm a writer, or at least I'm trying to be."

"Published anything I might have read?"

Claire hesitated. Her romance novels were published under a pen name, C.D. Rose, and she always felt a little embarrassed revealing her genre to strangers. "Probably not," she said finally. "Just a couple of romance novels."

"I don't judge books by their covers," Ethan said with another smile. "Or their genres. What's the pen name? I'll look you up."

Claire found herself returning his smile. "C.D. Rose."

His eyes widened. "Wait, you wrote 'Midnight in Montreal'? My sister wouldn't stop talking about that book. She said it was the perfect mix of smart and swoony."

Claire laughed, both flattered and mortified. "That's very kind. Tell her thanks for reading."

Ethan stepped back into the hallway. "I should get going  more packages to deliver. But it was nice meeting you, Claire."

"You too, Ethan."

After he left, Claire placed the typewriter box on her coffee table and found herself smiling. There had been something about Ethan  a quiet intelligence, a gentle confidence  that intrigued her. But she quickly shook her head at her own foolishness. He was just being friendly; it was part of customer service. Besides, she had a deadline to meet and a typewriter to set up.

For the next few days, Claire found herself thinking about Ethan at odd moments. Once, while waiting for her coffee to brew, she caught herself wondering what kind of coffee he liked. Another time, while struggling with a particularly difficult scene in her novel, she found herself imagining how he might react to the dialogue she was writing.

It was silly, she knew. She'd met the man once, for all of three minutes. But there had been a connection there  she was sure of it. The way his eyes had lit up when they discussed literature, the easy smile that had made her stomach flutter just a little. As a romance novelist, Claire was all too familiar with the concept of instant attraction, but experiencing it herself was entirely different.

Five days after their first meeting, Claire's doorbell rang. She wasn't expecting any packages, so she was surprised to find Ethan standing there once again, this time with a small padded envelope.

"We meet again," he said, his smile widening when he recognized her.

Claire was suddenly grateful that she'd put on actual clothes today  jeans and a simple blue blouse that brought out her eyes. "Hi, Ethan," she said, embarrassed by the slight breathlessness in her voice. "Another delivery?"

"Another signature required," he confirmed, holding out his tablet. As Claire signed, he added, "I finished 'Midnight in Montreal' last night."

Claire's head snapped up. "You read it?"

"Couldn't put it down," he admitted. "I was up until two in the morning. Your characters feel so real. Especially the way you wrote about how Marc couldn't stop thinking about Isabelle after just one meeting."

Claire felt warmth creep into her cheeks. Was he implying what she thought he was implying? "That's  thank you. That's really nice to hear," she managed.

There was a moment of silence, neither of them quite meeting the other's eyes.

"Listen," Ethan said finally, "this is probably unprofessional, and feel free to say no, but would you maybe want to grab coffee sometime? When I'm not wearing this uniform?"

Claire's heart skipped. "I'd like that," she said, surprised by her own boldness.

"Great," Ethan said, looking genuinely pleased. "I'm off on Sundays. Would this Sunday work?"

They exchanged phone numbers, and Claire closed the door after he left, leaning against it with a smile she couldn't suppress. Her phone buzzed almost immediately with a text.

Ethan: Just to be clear, this is a date. Unless you don't want it to be, in which case it's just two book lovers having coffee.

Claire laughed and typed back: It's a date.

When Sunday arrived, Claire spent far too long deciding what to wear. She finally settled on a casual dress with a cardigan  comfortable but still put-together. The coffee shop they'd agreed on was a small independent place called Brewed Awakening, known for its literary themes and bookshelves lining the walls.

Claire arrived a few minutes early and snagged a cozy corner table. She was alternating between checking her phone and the door when Ethan walked in, looking different but just as appealing in jeans and a simple button-down shirt. He spotted her immediately and headed over with that now-familiar smile.

"Hi," he said, sitting down across from her. "You look nice."

"So do you," Claire replied. "It's weird seeing you without the uniform."

"Good weird or bad weird?"

"Definitely good."