Other Titles by Hannah Bonam-Young

  Next of Kin

  Next to You

  Set the Record Straight

  Out on a Limb

  Out of the Woods

  People Watching

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Otherwise, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2026 by Hannah Bonam-Young

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Amazon Original Stories, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Amazon Original Stories are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

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  ISBN-13: 9781662537967 (digital)

  Cover design by Caroline Teagle Johnson

  Cover image: © jointstar, © MM_photos / Shutterstock; © mjrodafotografia / Getty

  For every Martha and Bonnie. Your love deserved to be seen.

  Contents

  The Improbable Meet-Cute: Second Chances

  Chapter One: Georgia

  I hope this . . .

  Chapter Two: Georgia

  What an exciting . . .

  I’m relieved to . . .

  You are correct . . .

  I’m extremely glad . . .

  I don’t mean . . .

  Chapter Three: Georgia

  I don’t know . . .

  This is a surprise . . .

  It is now . . .

  My apologies for . . .

  That is the . . .

  I’m in between . . .

  Yes, it’s a . . .

  Very glad to . . .

  Thank you for . . .

  Chapter Four: Callum

  Chapter Five: Callum

  Time Capsule Discovery . . .

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  From USA Today Bestselling Author Hannah Bonam-Young

  The Improbable Meet-Cute: Second Chances

  Fate works in mysterious ways—and on Valentine’s Day, it’s feeling particularly mischievous. From accidental Zoom crashes to graveyard resurrections, six beloved romance authors bring you a collection of increasingly steamy second chances.

  Accidentally Yours by Christina Lauren

  When marketing consultant Veronica accidentally crashes the wrong Zoom meeting, she’s shocked to receive a job offer from the company’s intriguing CEO. Their professional email exchanges quickly turn flirty, but Veronica’s mind keeps drifting to her reserved but gorgeous new neighbor. As Valentine’s Day approaches, she’ll discover that sometimes the most improbable meet-cute can lead to the perfect match.

  Time Will Tell by Hannah Bonam-Young

  When a history teacher receives a letter from her deceased grandmother revealing a secret love affair in the 1950s, it leads her to a time capsule hidden decades ago. But it’s the charming grandson of her grandmother’s lost love who changes everything, proving that sometimes the heart knows exactly where—and when—it belongs.

  Second Act Romance by Julie Soto

  When food poisoning takes out the lead in their Valentine’s Day production of Oklahoma!, TV sensation Colby J. Turner swoops in to save the show. But for leading lady Bex Hardgrave, this last-minute casting is more drama than she bargained for. Eight years ago, their onstage chemistry sparked real-life fireworks—until a misunderstanding brought down the curtain. As showtime approaches, Bex and Colby must decide if their second-chance romance deserves its own standing ovation.

  A Play for Love by Trilina Pucci

  Years ago, during a college production of Romeo and Juliet, Rory and Oliver shared one unforgettable stage kiss before fate pulled them apart. Now, while drowning her Valentine’s Day sorrows at brunch, she spots her former Romeo, wearing nothing but gold shorts and wings, playing Cupid for the lovelorn masses. Their chemistry still sizzles, but these former leads will need more than Shakespeare’s guidance to turn their second chance into a true romance.

  Death to Valentine’s Day by Catherine Cowles

  After her boyfriend’s betrayal, the last thing Maia St. James wants is Valentine’s Day. But when friends drag her to a Death to Valentine’s Day masquerade ball at a mountain lodge, she ends up kissing a masked stranger— only to discover he’s her ex’s older brother. And when a guest is found murdered, the party becomes a deadly mystery. Now Maia must unmask a killer before her second chance at romance is cut short.

  Valentine’s Slay by Navessa Allen

  Louisiana gravedigger Noah Evans’s Valentine’s night shift takes an unexpected turn when his high school crush, Emma, starts screaming from her freshly dug grave. As they unearth a deadly family conspiracy, Noah and Emma discover that old flames burn even hotter the second time around—especially when someone’s trying to kill them.

  Chapter One: Georgia

  Some emails require you to crack your knuckles before you begin typing them. This is definitely one of those emails.

  “All right,” I say to my class of seniors, stretching my neck side to side as I sit up at my desk and lower my fingers to my keyboard, “here goes nothing!”

  Dr Lewis, I type. I hope this—

  “Wait! Miss Anderson, you forgot to write a subject line!” Zoe, my third favourite student, points to the smartboard my laptop is projecting onto. “You told us every email needs one.” Zoe may be moving up in the ranks. Ornell, who is usually in second place, has been throwing a lot of shade my way that is typically reserved for my older colleagues who can’t keep up with his chronically online references or quippy tongue.

  “Especially because this guy has, like, zero clue who you are,” the student next to her, Drake, drawls, before scoffing. “He’s not going to open a spammy-ass email from some random chick.” Drake has made it abundantly clear that he’s only taking this elective because Zoe, his girlfriend, is. But he, like the fifteen other students in this class, has been participating more since I brought in my grandmother’s time capsule last week.

  “Valid point. Still, we should probably not use words like chick to refer to women,” I say, lifting a brow at him. “Especially not your teacher.” I move my cursor to the empty subject box. “Okay, how about . . .” I watch the text cursor blink, taunting me as seconds drift by without a single worthwhile thought.

  How the hell would I summarise this? I click my tongue, leaning farther back in my chair as I allow my eyes to scan the room, finding several expectant stares. “Any suggestions?” I ask.

  “I’ve got one,” Ornell says, his tone verging on mocking as he raises his hand.

  “Okay . . .” I narrow my eyes on him ever so slightly, bracing for impact. “What have you got?”

  Ornell’s eyes light up with a subtle excitement that turns up the corner of his lip. “Happy Valentine’s Day! Did you know your grandma was a vagitarian?”

  I drop my chin, delivering him a withering stare, as a few of Ornell’s classmates grant him the snickering sort of laughter he clearly wanted. He smiles, smug, irreverent, and completely unfazed by my glare.

  “Maybe something a touch more subtle?” I suggest pointedly.

  Phaedra raises her hand before she speaks, which is one of the many reasons she’s currently sitting at the top of the leaderboard. Another reason is the essay she handed in last week. While most of her classmates submitted half-baked assignments, covering subjects I’ve already taught them this semester, Phaedra chose to write her paper about the arrival of the Vikings in Newfoundland during the eleventh century. I’m really hoping that she’ll take my not-so-subtle suggestions and consider studying history after her graduation this spring. She’s got a knack for research, and her reference pages are simply divine. I’ve never had a student practise such flawless MLA formatting—she nearly brings tears to my eyes with every assignment.

  If she did choose to study history, Phaedra would be the first in my five years of teaching to do so. I’m not intending to keep track, per se, it’s just a fact I’m growing eerily aware of. My coworkers often talk about their past students who have gone on to study in their fields, and return to thank them years later. English teachers share stories about finding their names in the acknowledgements section of novels. Science and math teachers receive invitations to graduation ceremonies and donated classroom supplies. Drama teachers get shout-outs in playbills and sent free tickets to shows. As for history teachers? I’m not sure what we “get” just yet. I’d settle for my students showing up on time, honestly. Actually, if we’re making requests, having them not giggle when I say that the moon landing happened in 1969 would be great.

  I’m beginning to worry that I lack the inspirational qualities my fellow teachers seem to have.

  Every year, fewer senior students take this elective. So much so that I’ve had to quite literally beg my principal to continue letting me teach it with the ever-dwindling class size. I narrowly saved the class thi
s year by agreeing to oversee the yearbook committee on Tuesdays after school, unpaid.

  I can’t blame the kids for their lack of interest in the past. After all, how many generations have had to witness this many “once in a lifetime” events unfold from a screen that fits inside their pocket?

  It’s hard to get them to care about history when their futures seem to be constantly hanging in the balance. Most of my students have constant unfiltered access to the internet and its infinite well of doom, gloom, and opinions that often get misconstrued as fact. It’s a terrifying reality, but they’re growing numb to what led to their moment in time because so many of them are already overwhelmed by the times they’ve had to grow up in. Hell, my very first year of teaching was online because of the pandemic.

  But every worthwhile professor I had in university taught me that studying history is really about gaining critical-thinking skills. It’s learning how to cut through the bullshit and research for yourself by using sources to gather evidence, recognise their individual bias, and identify why it’s there. So, whether they decide to go on to study history or not, I’ll be sure to teach them that. It’s a skill they’ll need to navigate this world that inundates them with information day in and day out.

  “Great, Phaedra! What are you thinking?”

  “How about, our grandmothers’ special bond?”

  “Special bond,” Ornell repeats incredulously, rolling his eyes towards the panelled ceiling that I’ve decorated for the holiday. He glares at the red and pink paper chains and strung-up glitter hearts with such concentrated disgust that I wouldn’t be surprised if they began to shrivel up under his stare. Eventually, after a pouted lip signalling his repulsion, he turns his focus towards his classmate. “They were lovers, Phae, not—”

  “Ornell, that’s a warning,” I say, bringing my hands back to my laptop’s keyboard. “That was a great suggestion, Phaedra, thank you . . . but maybe something a little more specific?”

  Ornell raises his hand while lifting his leg, crossing one knee over the other.

  I sigh, silently pleading with him to be kind as I soften my gaze. “Yes, Ornell?”

  “How about . . . the G in LGBTQ stands for Grandma.”

  I resist my laughter, running my tongue across my teeth. “I think we’re getting a bit carried away and—” I break off, my lip twitching into a grin. Damn, Ornell’s got me now. He knows it, too, I see it all over his face. His proud expression reads: Permission granted.

  “Or . . .” he says, practically giddy, “you can’t spell Granny without g-a-y?”

  I shake my head as I lose the battle, letting out a breathy laugh. He’s a pain in the ass, sure, but he is clever, I’ll give him that. “Thank you, everyone, for your suggestions . . . I’m going to go with Time Capsule Belonging to Martha Bennett,” I say, typing for all of them to see.

  I look over to the silver metal box at the edge of my desk. It is rusted and the lid is slightly warped from being weighed down by soil for so many years. But the lock, annoyingly, is firmly in place.

  My grandmother Bonnie was a gentle, soft soul. Despite my sister, Phoebe, and I spending our summers with her and Grandpa at their lake house every year growing up, I never knew much about her. I understand now, with everything I’ve learned in the last few weeks, that she was habitually a private person. Not shy, as I’d previously thought her to be.

  I’ve been making a list of all of the things I did know about her before now, to offset my guilt. For example, I know that Grandma Bonnie made fantastic shortbread. She loved puzzles, enjoyed a long walk every morning at sunrise, proudly hung all of our terrible drawings on the fridge, kept the neighbourhood birds well fed, and could make one hell of a quilt.

  Most of all, I know she loved me and I loved her. She was a steady, welcoming presence. Throughout childhood tantrums and teenage drama, she was there. Always calm, cool, and collected with a tin of cookies on the counter and a blanket to wrap me up in when I needed it most.

  My grandpa Henry, on the other hand, was a live wire and an open book. As a proud Canadian Air Force veteran of the Second World War, he told me story after story about his time stationed in Yorkshire. When he realised I’d taken a liking to history, he started recording documentaries on VHS tapes for us to watch together on rainy summer days. When it wasn’t raining, he’d take us fishing on the lake or let us drive his truck around the property. He was electric. I used to wonder if Bonnie didn’t talk as much because Henry never seemed to stop.

  When I was eighteen, Grandpa Henry passed away from a heart attack in his sleep. It was devastating, of course, but we all knew it was coming. Mom had been trying to get him to eat better and take his heart medication for years to no avail. According to him, life was “too damn short and hard” to die without enjoying cheese and red meat—the two main staples of his diet.

  Grandma Bonnie sold the lake house that following year, took the three of us grandkids on a trip to Nova Scotia with some of the money from the sale, and moved into a retirement community walking distance from my mom and dad shortly thereafter.

  Admittedly, I was not the best granddaughter during my college years—only visiting and calling when my mother reminded me to. It wasn’t until Bonnie got sick that I realised I was taking her for granted. I began visiting her every Sunday afternoon. We’d go for walks on the days when she felt comfortable using her wheelchair. Most visits, I’d read to her, sneak her treats from the bakery next door, and vent about work and my lack of love life as she drifted in and out of sleep.

  But even in the last few years, when we spent so much time together, she didn’t talk much. The nurses all loved her and her soothing nature—they’d tell me so every time I picked up my visitors pass at the front desk. They took good care of her until the very end.

  Three weeks ago, on January 24, Grandma Bonnie passed away at ninety-three years old. We had her funeral a week later—family and friends gathered at the local funeral home, each of us wearing one of her beloved brooches. My parents, sister, and I collected her things the next day—most of which has since been divided between my sister’s storage unit in Montreal and my parents’ garage nearby. I spent the next two Sunday mornings in bed, curled up with the book she and I never got to finish together.

  Then, ten days ago, I got a phone call from her estate lawyer, asking me to come into his office.

  At first I was sceptical, because my mom had told me about the ludicrous amount of paperwork involved in divvying up Grandma’s assets between her, my uncle Simon, and the three of us granddaughters. I’d thought that Mom, as the executor of Grandma’s will, had it all under control and I shouldn’t overstep by communicating with the lawyer directly. But Bonnie’s lawyer insisted that he was under specific instructions to hand-deliver an envelope to one Georgia Anderson.

  So, I went to meet with him. It was a quick visit. An exchange of niceties, an envelope handed over, and a paper slid across a desk for me to sign confirming that he’d done his duty. I opened it in the lawyer’s parking lot, unable to wait. Inside the envelope was a handwritten letter from my grandmother, dated April 19, 2017.

  My dearest Georgia,

  As I’m writing this, you are eighteen years old and your grandfather Henry, God rest his soul, has just passed away. Because of that, I’ve had to meet with our lawyer to discuss what I will leave you all when it is my turn to go. I know. . . very cheerful stuff. I hope we have more time together, my sweet girl, but, regardless of that, I suspect I will still have some things left unsaid when my time does come.

  You see, I have lived somewhat of a double life.

  When I was your age, I fell in love. Her name was Martha Bennett and she was a year older than me. We became friends while we were both attending the University of Toronto. I was studying English literature, and Martha was studying physiology and chemistry.

  I know that may come as a shock to you, Georgia, and for that I am sorry. But I have seen you grow up to become a progressive young lady, and I have heard you speak with fondness and kind regard for people like me. Women who fall in love with other women, I mean. I also know of your appreciation for history, so you will understand that, in 1949, folks were far less understanding than they are now.