The Library of Second Chances

by Molly Reid

Genres: Magical Realism; Contemporary Romance; Fantasy Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

'Utterly whimsical, this charming story is sure to warm your heart' A. T. QURESHI, bestselling author of The Baby Dragon Cafe

'Sweet, warm, and charming - with an excellent library cat - this book will make your heart smile!' SARAH BETH DURST, bestselling author of The Spellshop

How does a girl with her head permanently stuck in a book look beyond stories and start over? If only it were that simple . . .

Chloe's life feels like a book with a missing chapter. Stuck in a rut and back in her quiet hometown of Wellbridge, Chloe finds that she has traded big-city dreams for her childhood bedroom, working at the local library and hiding behind the pages of her favourite books. But one stormy night when she seeks refuge in the library after a disastrous date, everything changes.

Under the watchful eye of Mrs. Cook, the warm-hearted head librarian who seems to know more than she lets on, and Clementine, the library's whisker-twitching cat, Chloe discovers that the library seems to hold more than stories. Here, books glow with secrets, characters leap from pages, and the shelves hum with enchantment. More importantly, it has an ability to nudge people toward what they need most - whether it's healing, hope or a second chance. But is there more to the library's magic?

Chloe must accept that she needs to face her past and learn that sometimes, the right book - or the right person - can rewrite your entire story.

Release date: August 12, 2025

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 288

Sample

THERE WERE A lot of things Chloe had never thought would happen to her. One was ending up back in her hometown of Wellbridge, after years of living in the city. The other thing that she hadn’t expected was to find herself marching alone down a wet cobblestone street on a dark and rainy autumn evening, frustrated, thirty quid down and soaked to the bone.

‘Leave your umbrella at home, they said. It won’t rain, they said,’ she grumbled to herself, her heels clacking on the uneven street, threatening a twisted ankle. No one had actually said that, of course. It had been her own naïve assumption. Her wet hair stuck to her scalp, and it was another mile before she’d reach her house. Even in the rain, there were no taxis around.

Besides, she didn’t want to go home right now. The thought of stepping into a cold, empty house was depressing. But that was the problem with small, quaint towns like these. Even at nine o’clock on a Friday evening, barely anything was open. Except pubs. Pubs were always open.

She slowed as she reached the Pride & Pint, glancing through the window. Raucous laughter came from inside along with the clinking of glasses, shouts and cheers at what was probably a football match. It looked warm, but she didn’t much fancy stepping inside by herself, looking like a drowned rat.

Instead, Chloe walked up the hill towards her neighbourhood. She didn’t want to climb the hill in these ridiculous heels. She hesitated, then turned left instead, grimacing as more icy rain fell on her head and tightly crossed arms. Her teeth chattered. This wasn’t her idea of a fun night.

She could think of only one thing that comforted her at times like these. Books. There was one place of refuge for her troubled mind. The Wellbridge Library, which happened to be Chloe’s new workplace.

She had the keys in her bag because the library manager, Mrs Cook, had asked her to open the library in the morning. Though she wasn’t entirely sure she was allowed to use said keys outside the library opening times, Chloe didn’t much care at the moment. She wanted to escape the rain and find somewhere warm, to seek solace in a quiet, calm space among books and paper. Somewhere that wasn’t going to give her frostbite.

The streetlamps glowed yellow through the haze of the falling rain as Chloe strode across the empty car park, shivering now. After rummaging in her bag with icy hands for the keys, she finally pushed open the heavy doors of the Wellbridge Library.

She stepped into the dark silence and closed the door with a dull thud behind her, muffling the steady patter of rain. The lights were all off, the dim grey of the October night sky visible through the arched gothic windows. When Chloe had stepped into the grand library four weeks ago for her job interview, the rows and rows of shelves, the medieval windows, the enormous, stitched rug in front of the reception desk, and the wooden balconies that promised secrets had stolen her breath away. They had done a marvellous job of maintaining the old, sentimental charm of the place. It felt like stepping into Hogwarts library or the one in the castle in Beauty and the Beast. She’d never say it aloud, but there was something . . . otherworldly about this place. Like it was too good to belong here.

She didn’t know how long she stood there, the dripping rain from her dress and hair likely making a puddle on the floor, when a soft meow startled her. It was only Clementine, the library cat. He was fluffy and orange, the little bell on his collar jangling as he stalked along the lobby desk, regarding her with a curious, haughty look. Feeling a little silly, Chloe flicked on the lights. She petted the library cat as the reception area flooded with comforting light. Clementine’s amber eyes looked up at her, his tail swishing. The first time she had tried to pet him, he had scurried away and disappeared between the book cases. He must be in a good mood tonight.

The library’s lights were electric, but they were designed to look like lanterns, bright enough to light the way, but dim and comforting, a soft glow rather than the stark, artificial white of most public spaces. Chloe loved the scent of this place: paper, ink, and mahogany. It made her think of hidden knowledge, of limitless imagination. She shrugged off her jacket, then changed her mind with a shiver and kept it on.

She shouldn’t have been in the library so late, but ending such a terrible date by going back to her empty house to sit and ponder everything that had gone wrong was the last thing she wanted to do. Chloe kicked off her heels and strode through the reception area, the muffled sound of her feet on the carpeted floor familiar and comforting. She wished she could peel off her sodden tights, too. Maybe she shouldn’t be doing any of this at all, but it wasn’t like anybody was around. The only thing the library needed to make this moment even better was some fresh towels. Maybe a hairdryer.

According to Mrs Cook, this library had been here for over two hundred years; after going through various purposes – a courthouse, a hospital – it was finally made into a library in the fifties. The west wing was home to the non-fiction and the children’s books, but this . . . this was Chloe’s favourite section. Beyond the oak doors of the east wing were the archives, a large room on two levels separated by a spiral staircase of polished wood. Shelves stood on either side, the ground floor hosting educational texts, while the upper floor housed fiction books organised by genre and author name.

Simply being here made her feel better – who didn’t enjoy being in the presence of books? But Chloe still burned with humiliation at the thought of her date earlier tonight. Dean had seemed pleasant enough when they had chatted on the app. Their messages hadn’t made her heart skip a beat, exactly, but the red-headed, freckled mechanic from the next town over had seemed nice. And maybe that was enough for now. Chloe hadn’t had more than two consecutive dates with anyone in over a year, not since she had broken up with her boyfriend in Sheffield, and she thought a meal with someone who might be interested in her would be a good way to spend her free time.

The date, however, had not been nice.

Dean, who looked at least a decade older than his Bumble photo, had arrived twenty minutes late without so much as an apology. He had looked her up and down, shoved his way into the pub first, then when it was time to pay for their food, he had conveniently ‘forgotten’ his wallet. Who casually mentions this without even saying sorry? Who brought up their ex-girlfriend twice during their conversation? And who rang their mum in the middle of the date to boast that he was out with a ‘fit bird’?

Who the hell even does that?

Chloe stomped up the spiral staircase a little harder than necessary, the thumps echoing off the high-ceilinged room. Clementine followed her, his long tail brushing her calf before he scurried ahead, the little bell Mrs Cook had attached to his collar jangling as he went. He disappeared behind a bookshelf, maybe to find somewhere comfortable to snooze.

Up here, Chloe breathed in the scent of paper. This was what she craved. Shelves and shelves of various fiction genres. Contemporary romance, fantasy, science-fiction, historical, thrillers, literary, classics. Even just being in the books’ presence made her calmer. She rubbed her hands together, blowing into her freezing fingers. She would have to talk to Mrs Cook about investing in some blankets to match the armchairs that sat below each window. She loved those. Cosy little reading nooks. Why was she mad again?

Oh yeah. Dean. She scowled, thinking of all the witty comebacks she should have come up with instead of awkwardly sipping her gin and tonic, desperately trying to find a reason to escape.

She’d finally paid the tab and muttered some weak excuse about needing to get home before leaving him alone in the street. She hadn’t even wanted to share a taxi with Dean. She’d blocked him as soon as he was out of sight. Maybe that was mean, but she didn’t think she’d be able to face an awkward post-date exchange.

Cold rain ran down the window in rivulets, the outside world bleak and grey. It was a terrible evening to be wandering around and a perfect evening to be inside with books. It beat sitting at home and worrying about being single for ever, anyway.

Wandering about the library at night was a welcome distraction, and not only from worrying about her current lack of boyfriend. Chloe was going to sink onto one of the armchairs, then decided against it; she was still drenched. Instead, she leaned against the banister overlooking the lower floor, relishing the silence and at the same time hating the thoughts that crept into her mind when there wasn’t anything to distract her.

It had been just over a year since Mum and Dad had died in the car accident. Chloe had spent the one-year anniversary a few weeks ago getting drunk, watching her favourite comfort films, the box of tissues beside her, gradually emptying a bottle of wine. She had been too upset to even read, and had instead fallen asleep to Titanic, waking up to a disintegrated tissue clenched in her palm. Chloe’s younger sister, Gwen, had been on holiday that day, according to posts on her social media, which Chloe was definitely not stalking under a fake name. Gwen had been somewhere in the Caribbean, sunglasses on her face and looking stunning in a white bikini.

Chloe supposed people dealt with grief differently. Gwen hadn’t even come to their parents’ funeral. She had been in Fiji.

The hurt was still there, and she doubted it would ever fade. A year had brought her out of her cloud of grief where all she wanted to do was sleep, but it hadn’t been easy to come back to Wellbridge, to move into what used to be her parents’ home, and to try and piece her life back together. Already, she was regretting coming here.

She had decided, upon moving in and dealing with the legality of things, that this would only be temporary. She would save up some money and then move back to the city. Maybe back to her flat in Sheffield, where she had worked until recently. Back to chaos and strangers and bright lights and unfamiliar settings, where it was wonderfully loud and busy. It distracted from thoughts that got too deep or depressing.

It was almost a relief to fret over her non-existent love life instead. It was a much smaller problem, one she could focus on without wanting to cry until she threw up. Chloe had had a boyfriend or two in her time, though never anything serious. Not for a long time. She was twenty-six now, and it was hardly too late, but her failures at finding love had led her down a slippery slope of believing all the good ones were already taken. Or worse, that she was the problem.

She closed her eyes and let loose a slow, steady breath. No, Dean had definitely been the problem tonight.

‘Clementine, what even are men?’ she asked. A low meow answered her.

She wandered along a shelf of classics. There was nothing like strolling among shelves of books to calm the mind. Her love for literature wasn’t shared by her sister, who had declared, rather too proudly for Chloe’s taste, that she hadn’t read a book since her English Literature GCSE. It wasn’t only in their love for books, or lack of, where they differed. Gwen never struggled to find a date. As far as Chloe could tell from her social media, Gwen had been flitting from rich boyfriend to rich boyfriend since she’d moved out at eighteen, travelling to various sunny countries and going on spending sprees at their expense.

Good for her, Chloe supposed. But she didn’t want to think about her sister now. She caught up to the library cat, who looked up at her with his big, amber eyes. With the rain still drumming outside, it somehow felt like there was nobody left in the world except herself and this cute little feline before her.

‘Do you think I’ll ever find a boyfriend, Clem?’

He made a soft purring noise that sounded suspiciously like a ‘no’. Chloe couldn’t help laughing.

She wanted to grab a book, perhaps several, and find an armchair where she could bury her nose in a good story and forget her problems for a while, if only her dress would dry off first. Her house was within walking distance, but the drum of rain on the windows made her want to stay here a bit longer. And why not? Her shift didn’t start until ten o’clock the next morning, and nobody knew she was here. Mrs Cook hadn’t explicitly said she couldn’t come here outside her work hours. Chloe would leave everything as she had found it and switch off all the lights before leaving. No one would know, except Clementine.

It was peaceful here, alone with the books and the cat, and Chloe found herself wide awake. The rest of this boring town was asleep or holed up in their pubs. Chloe couldn’t wait to leave Wellbridge. She preferred cities. The noise, the distractions, the new faces every day. Here there wasn’t enough to do, and whenever she wasn’t in another world, either a new place or a new story, her thoughts liked to wander.

As she browsed the shelves of classics, Chloe’s heart ached. These mahogany shelves were home to some of the world’s greatest literary treasures, donated or sold over the decades and generations, all to find a place in this library. Chloe ran a finger along the spines, some bound in leather, others with gold embossing. A few were old and peeling, showing the many hands that had loved and thumbed through them. Dickens, Fitzgerald, Hardy, even a collection of Shakespeare’s plays, thick as a Bible, graced the shelf of classics. Chloe wandered the shelves, scanning the alphabetised authors until her eyes found her favourites: some of J. R. R. Tolkien, Terry Pratchett, collections of C. S. Lewis and a healthy number of Enid Blyton’s old adventure stories. Nostalgia and joy washed through Chloe. So many characters, adventures and lessons were hidden between the pages at her fingertips. How could anyone not love books? She felt sorry for people who couldn’t live through fictional characters, joining them in their adventures, their heartaches and triumphs. There was so much to learn and love, even from the simplest of stories.

She stopped at one shelf. Was it her imagination, or was there a faint glow around one of the books? Perhaps the gold lettering caught the light overhead, although it didn’t seem that way.

Curious, she slowly slid it out.

A noise at the end of the shelves made her jump like a child caught with their hand in the biscuit tin. But it was only Clementine, slinking around with his tail in the air. She was so jumpy tonight.

Chloe opened the book, pinching the corner of the page with her fingertips as though afraid rougher handling might damage it. Dad had given her a copy of this classic romance as a congratulatory present before she went to university. She flicked through the pages, lost in reminiscence. She had read it all in her first semester and eagerly discussed the novel with her parents as they’d carved the Christmas turkey. Gwen, who had actually shown up for Christmas that year, had rolled her eyes and loudly declared the classics were boring, much to Chloe’s chagrin. When Chloe had pointed out that she couldn’t know they were boring if she had never read them, Gwen had just gone back to filing her nails.

Chloe swallowed at the memory. That had been an awkward Christmas. Gwen had left first thing on Boxing Day morning, declaring she had ‘better stuff to do’. Gwen hadn’t come back the year after that. Or the next.

Stop thinking about her, Chloe silently chastised herself. In this edition of the book, the edges were sprayed gold. What an excellent find. Mrs Cook’s diligent cleaning showed here; there wasn’t a speck of dust on the shelves, and this tome was almost like new. Chloe wondered how many people had read this story, had gotten lost in the pages of this charming tale that had kept her enraptured through the toughest of times. She leaned against the opposite shelf, turning to the final page. A happy ending. Enemies to lovers was one of Chloe’s favourite tropes in literature. Funny to think it existed even in the nineteenth century.

‘I bet it was easier to date back then,’ she said to Clementine, who was licking his paws. ‘I should’ve been born in that era, with flowing dresses and gentlemen and horse-drawn carriages.’ She grinned at her own musings. Were men easier to bag back then, or would she still have been hopelessly single even in a dress and corset? She supposed people were married off two hundred years ago, but it was still fun to imagine being swept away by a handsome nobleman.

She read out some of her favourite lines to Clementine, comforted by the words that filled the space around them. To his credit, the cat stuck around, cocking his head as Chloe’s voice echoed around the upper archives.

A shuffle in the next aisle made her head jerk up. Was Mrs Cook here, working late? Had she forgotten something and come to retrieve it? It would be mortifying to be caught like this late at night, her wet hair still clinging to her neck, reading out loud to a cat. Chloe didn’t want to have to explain to her new boss that her first date in ages had been so terrible she had found solace by breaking into her new workplace.

She slowly slid the book back onto its shelf, ignoring the way she thought it glowed. Maybe she could sneak out of here before she was caught. Chloe made her way towards the spiral staircase.

And crashed straight into someone.

‘SORRY!’ SHE GASPED as she stepped away from the person she had just collided with. He was a young man wearing a regency tailcoat of deep blue, his white collar high and ruffled. Her gaze travelled up to a curious look on the clean-shaven face of a man who held a look haughty enough to rival Clementine’s. She blinked in shock. She could have sworn she was alone up here. She hadn’t heard him climb the stairs.

The newcomer gave a stiff bow. ‘Good evening, madam.’ He did not smile as he stared up and down her sodden clothes, giving Chloe the urge to cover herself.

She took in his polished shoes, his curly dark hair, the slightly arrogant look he gave her as he stood among the library shelves. He looked like he had just stepped out of the nineteenth century.

‘Madam,’ he said, sounding affronted. ‘What are you wearing? And what are you doing in my library?’

Chloe was lost for words, her mind struggling to grasp why he was here. Halloween was in a couple of weeks. Was he wearing a costume, perhaps? If it was, a costume that is, she had to admit he seemed really committed to the part. He had even grown out some sideburns. But what was he doing so late in the library when it was clearly closed? Had she forgotten to lock the front door? She couldn’t remember.

‘Erm,’ was all she could say. ‘Are you all right? Can I help you with something?’ Then his words caught up to her. ‘Wait. What’s wrong with my dress? And what do you mean, your library?’

‘Perhaps I have had too much to drink. Forgive me. I’m afraid I am rather lost. I am not sure how I got here.’ The man held a certain sadness in his eyes, and for a moment, it was like Chloe could see her grief reflected in them. She quickly shook away the strange thought.

‘Lost?’ she repeated. How lost could you get in a library in the middle of the night?

‘Yes, although, it is refreshingly quiet in here.’ He glanced at her, taking her presence in as much as she had his, his eyes roaming over her damp chestnut hair to her black dress and stockinged feet. ‘I am wondering how to get back. I was at a party, you see. Frightful things, with far too many people I’m forced to entertain. I’m told I have the charm of a shoe.’

Chloe’s senses were catching up with her. She was alone with a stranger in the middle of the night. She took a step back, swallowing, unsure whether to try to point him towards the exit. Clementine saved her from the awkward silence by appearing behind her with a soft purr. The man started slightly, then favoured the feline with a small smile.

‘What a charming creature. Though I really must be getting back. This doesn’t look like my library, after all.’ He didn’t meet Chloe’s gaze, but glanced somewhere over her shoulder, as though someone from his party would be hiding in a shadowy corner. He gave a soft sigh. ‘Though as I was just so vehemently rejected, there doesn’t seem to be much point.’

Was he playing a character? If he had come from outside, how was he not wet from the rain? Perhaps he had brought an umbrella with him.

‘You must help me,’ said the stranger.

Chloe didn’t think she must do anything, but she didn’t want someone making a complaint about her when she hadn’t even been working here a week. She didn’t think the man was here to steal anything. A tailcoat wasn’t the typical outfit for a break-in. He didn’t look particularly surprised to see Chloe; it seemed like he had simply wandered inside by accident.

‘Neither of us should be in here,’ Chloe pointed out as she headed for the spiral staircase. ‘We need to leave. Where is this party of yours?’

Maybe they were celebrating Halloween early and he’d somehow accidentally wandered into the library, seeing the light on upstairs.

‘At my estate, of course,’ said the man, sounding surprised. ‘I had thought at first that this was my library, but that seems to be a mistake.’

How drunk was he?

The man was becoming stranger by the second. The best thing would be to get them both out of here, and hopefully this guy wouldn’t think to come back tomorrow and mention she was here.

‘I’m sure you’ll find your way back to your party in no time,’ she called behind her.

The man had stopped at the top of the spiral staircase that would lead them to the lower floor. ‘Where are you going?’

‘To the exit.’ She pointed towards the door that led to the reception area.

‘No, I am quite sure it’s this way.’ He turned on his heel and headed back in the direction from which they’d come, his shoes clopping on the floorboards. ‘That is how I got here.’

Irritated now, Chloe scooped up Clementine to avoid him getting trampled. The cat stayed quiet in her arms, then looked up at her. It may have been her imagination, but he held the same annoyed look as she felt.

‘Sir?’ She followed the man back to the shelves, wondering what on earth was happening. He half-trotted ahead of her, the ends of his tailcoat disappearing around the corner of an enormous shelf of Young Adult fiction.

‘I need to get back.’ He sounded upset now, moving aside books on shelves as though hoping to somehow find a door among the tomes. He straightened near a light, his height casting a shadow on Chloe. He was a marvellous actor, she thought. If she was being pranked, he was doing a decent job of convincing her he was really worried.

The man swallowed. He pulled on his ruffled collar as if he were trying to get more air. ‘Madam.’

‘Chloe.’ She patted her chest with her free hand.

The man shifted for a moment as though trying to find the right words. ‘Do you think first impressions are important?’

The question took her aback. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘First impressions, Miss Chloe.’ He took a step towards her. ‘Me, I am frightfully unskilled at socialising. I recently met a marvellous woman, and did I behave like a gentleman? I did not!’ He threw an arm into the air. ‘I was rude, uncouth, arrogant. She hated me for a long time. Perhaps she still does.’ The corners of his mouth turned down like he was fighting to swallow his emotions. ‘She has to know how I feel!’

Chloe couldn’t imagine this strange man would get to confessing his feelings anytime soon, not when he was still standing around talking to her. Then something occurred to her. The glowing book she had picked from the shelf just a moment ago . . . . .