Emily Whitmore was in a hurry.
She was always in a hurry.
That November afternoon, she dashed down Silver Street, her coat half-open and a folder of documents threatening to spill with every step. The drizzle had started as a whisper, but within seconds, it thickened into a downpour, blurring the pavements. She cursed under her breath. Her plan was to get home, shower, and finish her presentation for the next day. But the rain left no choiceshe needed shelter.
She pushed open the door of a tiny bookshop-café, the kind that seemed frozen in time, with worn wooden furniture and the rich scent of fresh coffee. Shaking water from her hair, she approached the counter.
“A black tea, please,” she said, still avoiding eye contact.
“Not a coffee drinker?” A mans voice, amused and curious, made her glance up. Behind the counter stood a tall man in his thirties, with dark brown hair and stubble, watching her with a smile that felt oddly familiar.
“Not when I need to think,” Emily replied, slightly defensive. “Coffee makes me jittery.”
“Black tea it is, then. Though I should warn youmost people at this table lose the battle to coffee,” he said, gesturing to the nearly empty shop.
For the first time that day, she smiled. “And you are?”
“James Carter,” he said, extending a hand across the counter. “Owner, barista, and hopeless bookworm.”
Emily introduced herself, took her tea, and settled by the window. Rain lashed against the glass as if begging to come inside. As she tried to focus on her notes, James approached with a book in hand.
“Thought you might like this,” he said.
It was an old novel, with blue covers and gold lettering.
“How do you know what Id like?” she asked.
“I dont. But when someone rushes in from the rain, orders tea, and wears that dont-talk-to-me expression they usually need a good story more than anything.”
Surprised, she accepted it. The sound of rain and the aroma of coffee from nearby tables blended into something warm and comforting.
“Do you always work here?” she asked after a while.
“Whenever it rains,” he answered, cryptic.
She laughed, assuming it was a joke. It wasnt.
The following days brought clear skies, and Emily returned to her hectic routine. But one Tuesday, another storm drove her back to the bookshop. James was there, as if waiting.
“Back again,” he said, pouring her tea before she asked.
“Back to the rain,” she replied.
That day, they talked more. Emily learned James had inherited the shop from his grandfatherit had been just a bookshop until he added the café, “to give people excuses to stay longer.” James, in turn, discovered Emily worked as an architect at a demanding firm where twelve-hour days were standard.
“Sounds exhausting,” he remarked.
“It is,” she admitted. “But I dont know how to do anything but rush.”
James looked at her with a calm that disarmed her. “Sometimes you have to let life catch up with you,” he said.
After that, rain became their ally. Whenever the first drops fell, Emily found a reason to walk down Silver Street. Sometimes she read in silence while James served customers; other times, they talked about books, films, or trips neither had taken yet.
One December evening, James made an offer: “Were closing early this Saturday. Some musicians are coming to play jazz here. Fancy joining?”
Emily hesitated. Spontaneous invitations werent her style. But she said yes.
That night, the shop glowed with candlelight, shelves casting long shadows. James saved her a seat in the front row. During the concert, their knees brushedaccidentally, or maybe not.
Afterwards, he poured her a glass of wine and sat beside her.
“Ive seen you rush in so many times to escape the rain,” he said. “But I think you were running from something else.”
Emily fell silent, startled by how right he was.
“Maybe,” she admitted. “And maybe here, I forget what.”
Outside, rain had returned. James walked her to the door.
“I dont have an umbrella,” she said.
“Neither do I. But if we run, well reach the corner before were soaked.”
They didnt run. They crossed the street slowly, laughing as water soaked their hair and clothes. At the corner, before parting, James said, “Dont wait for the rain to come back.”
Emily smiled. “Ill try.”
She didnt return the next day, or the one after. But on Sunday, under clear skies, she walked into the bookshop.
James feigned surprise. “Wheres the rain?”
“Today I brought it with me.”
There was no tea, no coffee that day. Just a long, quiet conversationcomfortable silences, glances that spoke louder than words.
As evening fell, James showed her a corner of the shop he never shared with customers: a small room with a window overlooking the river.
“My grandfather used to read here when it rained,” he explained. “Said the sound of water reminded him everything keeps flowing.”
Emily pressed her forehead to the glass. “Maybe thats what I love about this place it reminds me I can stop.”
James stepped closer, so slowly she felt his breath before she saw him beside her.
“You can stop and stay.”
She turned to face him. At that moment, rain began tapping the window, as if waiting for a cue.
“Seems the skys on our side,” he murmured.
“Seems so,” she whispered, before kissing himsoft, warm, tasting of coffee and black tea. A kiss in no hurry at all.
From then on, every rain brought them back together. But it didnt matter if storms raged or sun shonethe bookshop on Silver Street became their place. In that riverside nook, between books and steaming cups, Emily Whitmore and James Carter learned that sometimes, love doesnt arrive with the sun
But when the rain makes you stay a little longer.
