by Olivia Hayle
“No.”
“It’s for you?”
He smiles at my surprise. “I wasn’t joking earlier, you know. I am literate.”
“I’m glad our school system didn’t fail you. But you don’t strike me as… ah.”
“The reading type?”
A blush creeps up my neck. “Well… yes, I suppose. I just wouldn’t think you have a lot of free time on your hands.”
“I don’t. But sometimes you have to make time, especially for the things that matter.”
It’s the first serious thing he’s said to me today, and I find myself nodding, unable to think of another witty comeback. What does he do for a living? He never mentioned that night at the hotel, and I never asked. We’d promised each other anonymity. “You’re right,” I say, my eyes dancing over his suit, his tie, the cuff links.
His voice is amused. “Are you trying to use your people-reading skills on me again?”
“It’s a force of habit.”
“Likewise,” he says, “although I think I got you all wrong that first night.”
“Oh?” My heart stutters in my chest at those final words. First night.
He leans against a bookshelf, too big for this store, for me, for this world. “Oh yes. I thought you did that sort of thing all the time.”
“That sort of thing?”
“Hot sex with a complete stranger,” he says. “Don’t pretend to have forgotten that part.”
My cheeks are on fire, but I force myself to keep his gaze. Please, Karli, stay in the storage room.
“I haven’t forgotten,” I say. “It would be difficult to, I admit.”
“You enjoyed yourself?”
Okay, now I have to break eye contact. “You know I did.”
“Good.” His eyes darken. “After I saw that offensive note you left me on the dresser, I wondered if I had underperformed.”
The idea that he could think what he did to me an underperformance feels ridiculous. There’s nothing remotely vulnerable in his voice, nor his face, his jaw set confidently. I narrow my eyes at him.
“You know, fishing for praise is very unbecoming.”
He laughs, and as he does, I catch a hint of a dimple in his left cheek. I hadn’t seen that in the darkness when we first met.
“All right. You might be less confident than you pretended that night in the hotel bar, but you’re just as quick to take me to task.”
“You think it was a pretense?”
He shakes his head at me, still smiling. “I think you wanted to try on a different woman’s clothing for the night. I’m glad I was available for your fantasy.”
My throat feels desert-dry. “Me too,” I say weakly. “And regarding the note…”
This is my chance. My chance to change things, to make amends, to maybe get another shot at seeing him. The things he could do… I haven’t stopped thinking about him for weeks.
There’s a smile on his lips. “Yes?”
“Maybe I was too quick in writing it.”
“Mmm. Maybe you were.” He ambles over to the counter, pushing the book and a twenty lazily over to the other side. “And if you’d had more time, what would you have added?”
Damn it, he’s going to make me say it. “A few digits, perhaps.”
“Ten, I hope.”
“Yes,” I breathe.
“Good.” He leans in over the counter, his face so close to mine, a ghost of his hot breath against my skin. My body tenses, remembering his scent, the nearness, how his lips feel on mine. “I want you to remember that.”
I blink my eyes open to see him smiling crookedly, standing straight once more. “What do you mean?”
“You’ll find out.” He steps back, toward the door, his book in hand. “And, Skye?”
“Yes?”
“I would have called you. I want you to remember that, too.”
And then he’s gone, as swiftly as he came, the handsome suit-clad stranger.
3
Skye
“Tell me again where you guys talked,” Karli demands.
I laugh. “All right, well, he came in through the front door. And then he walked down this aisle… before turning here. We stopped at this section for a bit—he took out The Search for Belle—and then we went to the counter, where he paid. Detailed enough?”
“Yes.” She gives a dramatic sigh. “I can’t believe I missed the chance to see Mystery Man.”
“Bad luck,” I say, though I’m secretly glad she was in the storage room, given our conversation.
“And I can’t even search him, because you still don’t know his last name. Honestly, Skye, do you know anything about getting a date?”
I hop up on the stool behind the counter. “You’ve been happily married to John for eleven years. The landscape has changed. The dating scene is a mess now.”
She gives me a pointed look. “Exchanging last names is still customary. I don’t need to keep up with the trends to know that.”
“I don’t know if I’ll see him again. And look at this—he’s already distracted us from our work! Again!” I pick up my pen and continue filling in the words on the little note. Closing in two months. Twenty percent off your purchase if you buy three books or more!
“Yes,” Karli says dryly. “God forbid you’re distracted while writing.”
“My penmanship could be what saves us.”
“God help us all if that’s what it takes,” she says, but her voice is amused. Since we got the news about demolition, Karli has handled it a lot better than me, despite the bookshop being hers. Growing up, I know it had it been as much her salvation as it had been mine. But Karli has a husband now, two kids, and an interest in baking she dreams of one day transforming into a business.
“I got an email today,” she says. “And before you go ballistic—don’t look at me like that, I know you will, Skye—I didn’t tell you right away because I wanted to think it through.”
I put down my black sharpie. “What did it say?”
“It was from Porter Development. They’ve requested a meeting directly with me.”
“A meeting?”
“Yes.” She pushes her glasses back. “I don’t know what they want. In the email, they only said they wanted to discuss ‘our mutual future.’”
“Our mutual future? But ours is being sacrificed for theirs.”
“It’s odd.” Karli leans against the register, a furrow in her brow. “I wanted to ask if you’ll come with me to the meeting.”
“Of course I will, if you’ll have me. You don’t even have to ask.”
Her smile turns wry. “But we’ll have to be civil.”
I know she’s saying we, but what she’s really saying is that I have to be civil. “I will be on my very best behavior, I promise.”
“Good. Now, these boxes won’t unpack themselves. Why don’t we get this done, and you can tell me what you did this past weekend. Did you babysit Timmy again? Eat dinner with Isla? Go out to a hotel bar and meet a handsome stranger? Tell me anything that’s not related to diapers or books, please. I need to live vicariously through you.”
I smile at her, my co-worker in name but so much more than that, and dive straight into the most entertaining re-telling of my boring weekend that I can manage.
I gloss over the fact that I spent nearly half a day on the internet, sorting through the search results of Cole and Seattle. He was like a needle in a haystack.
The day of the meeting with Porter Development, I put on my most professional blouse and a pencil skirt, hidden in the back of my closet. When I arrive at Between the Pages, she’s dressed in a mirrored version.
She snorts. “Our armor, huh?”
“Anything to look like we know how to run a business.” I reach for the closed sign and flip it in the window. It’s just the two of us, and no one to watch the shop while we’re out. Sadly, there’s never been enough money to hire anyone else. Even sadder is my sneaky suspicion that we won’t miss a single customer for the two
hours or so we’ll be gone. Business hasn’t exactly been booming lately.
Karli reaches for the books behind the register. I know what they contain—all our financial information, our numbers, our nonexistent profit margin. She shoves it into her bag and shoots me a smile that’s braver than I feel.
“Well, then. We’re heading into the belly of the whale, aren’t we?”
“We sure are,” I say. “But we’re a force to be reckoned with, too. I promised I would be civil—but I’ll fight, Karli.”
Her smile goes from brave to determined. “Why do you think I asked you to join?”
We drive in silence through Seattle, two-story buildings disappearing behind us in favor of brutal skyscrapers and harsh angles. Men in suits on the streets, women in heels, quaint coffee shops replaced by the big chains. Karli pulls into a parking garage close to Porter Development, at least according to the GPS on my phone, but we still have to hurry the two-block walk.
Porter Development is located inside a massive building—tall, imposing, all glass. Someone pushes past us with an irritated sigh as we stand mid-sidewalk and stare.
“Well,” Karli says faintly, “it’s not so much a whale as a…”
“A giant monument to corporate greed?”
“Yes. That.”
I thread my arm under hers and we head into the lobby. “We can do this. You’re a business owner, Karli. And small business owners are the backbone of the American economy.”
“Right.”
“They can’t intimidate us. We spend all our days surrounded by books! We’re infinitely better then whatever lawyer or developer we’re meeting with.”
“Bryan Hoffman,” she says. “And they spend their days surrounded by stacks of money. But you’re right.”
“Yes. Let’s kick some ass.”
“Civilly,” she says with a smile.
“Of course. It’ll be the politest of ass-kickings.”
We sign in with the lobbyist, and not five minutes later we’re escorted through security gates and a badge-required elevator.
Karli and I stand side-by-side as the elevator shoots up towards its fateful destination. An awful tune starts to play, and I make a show of shaking my head at Karli in disapproval behind the back of our escort. The elevator music is terrible.
She has to bite her lip to stop from chuckling. For a moment, at least, I’ve been silly enough to take her mind off our impending doom.
We’re shown into an all-white meeting room. Light floods through the floor-to-ceiling windows, a view of the opposite skyscraper too close for comfort.
“Mr. Hoffman will be with you soon,” the chirpy assistant tells us. “Would you like something to drink? A cup of tea or coffee?”
“Some water, please.”
“Coming right up!”
He closes the glass door behind him and Karli and I are left in tense, expectant silence. “Well,” she says. “At least they gave us a good tour of the building. Do you think the new hotel will look like this?”
I tap my pen against the notebook in agitation. “I hope not. Our area doesn’t need this kind of showboating.”
Voices sound in the corridor, steps approaching.
“Remember,” she murmurs. “Be civil.”
I nod. That’s the third reminder, and I don’t know if I should be offended that she thinks I can’t control myself or grateful that she knows I care so deeply about the bookshop.
The door opens and a middle-aged man steps through, a small mustache on his upper lip. “Hello, ladies. I hope we didn’t keep you waiting too long. I’m Bryan.” Behind him steps a woman in heels, a notepad clutched at her side. “This is Tyra, our in-house lawyer.”
“A pleasure,” she says, shaking both of our hands.
A man appears in the doorway behind her and the world drops out from beneath my feet. Tall. Brown hair. Familiar eyes, now fixed on me, relentless and unyielding.
“Cole Porter, owner and CEO of Porter Development,” Bryan says. “Now we’re a full house.”
My mouth is open. I don’t know how to close it—or what to say. For the second time in a week, I’ve lost my tongue.
Cole reaches out and shakes Karli’s hand. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me, Mrs. Stiller.”
“Thank you for inviting us,” Karli says, pleasant and professional. Of course, the man in front of her is a stranger. “I’ll admit that I’m more than a little curious as to the reason behind this meeting.”
“Fully understandable. And this is your co-worker?” He turns to me, extending a large hand. I stare from it to him before reaching out to shake it in a daze. His skin is warm and dry and my traitorous body responds by shivering. “Cole.”
“Skye,” I say faintly. “I work with Karli in the bookstore.”
“Of course.” Amusement is faint in his eyes, but it’s there. “Glad you could join us today.”
Asshole.
The word rings clear as a bell in my head. Rich, arrogant, prick of a man. He’d known, when he was in the bookstore. He’d known who I was, what the place was, that he was going to tear it down.
And he’d kept all of that to himself.
“Well, shall we?” Bryan’s voice is brisk, all business, a world away from the ire rising up through me. “As I’m sure we’re all aware, Between the Pages will be closing on the fourteenth, two months from now. That’s exactly two weeks before our building project goes into development. Now, the legal aspect is all settled. The land has been purchased and the city has approved the plans.”
Something clenches inside me to hear the bookstore’s fate discussed so cavalierly. A business deal like any other, just dollars and cents, but it isn’t, because it’s my life it concerns.
I glare at Cole across the table. It’s a professional glare—one might even call it civil—but I know he understands what I’m trying to say. It’s an accusation.
He’d known.
And worse than that is the knowledge that I’d slept with my worst enemy. The magical night in his hotel room, the one that occupied an almost mythical status in my mind, is now tainted.
Karli clears her throat. “I know all this already, Mr. Hoffman,” she says dryly. “I’ll admit that I’ve thought of little else since I received the news. It’s not a business deal to me; it’s the bookstore’s death sentence.”
Bryan has the tact to look contrite. Go Karli! “I’m sure. And we, uhh, that is, we’re sorry for putting you in that position.”
Cole leans forward, bracing his arms on the table and fixing his gaze on Karli. “Porter Development has never sought to push out small business owners or destroy people’s livelihoods. That is not how this business operates, and I consistently try my best to avoid it. In this case, it proved unavoidable. I’m personally sorry about that, Mrs. Stiller.”
Karli gives a stiff nod, staring at him. So am I. The hotel we’d met in must have been his. The hotel bar had been his. How had I missed just how much power he exuded? It’s sucking all the air out of this room.
Karli doesn’t back down, though her voice softens. “Thank you, sir. It’s nice to hear, but all the good intentions in the world won’t change the facts.”
I have to resist the triumphant smile I want to send his way.
“Right you are,” Cole says. “That’s why we’re proposing a compensation scheme. Tyra?”
The blonde opens her binder and pushes another binder across the table at us. “As the owner, Mrs. Stiller, we’ll compensate you for the loss of income for six solid months after the bookstore closes. If you’d like to continue your business elsewhere, our realty team is at your disposal for finding a different locale. The agency fee is waived for life.”
Karli reaches out to take a sip of her water, and I can tell it’s to buy herself some time. These offers are generous—and entirely unexpected.
Cole’s handsome features are straight-laced, impassive, professional. He’s certainly managing to be civil. If the fact that I’m here bothers
him, he’s not letting on. Maybe he’s used to having women stare at him with murder in their eyes.
“And I don’t have to provide anything in return?” Karli asks, and I want to tell her no, that she’s already giving up her business so they can build their multi-million-dollar project.
Tyra seems to agree, because she shakes her head. “No. This is part of Porter Development’s corporate policy to all of those negatively affected by our developments.”
Cole runs a hand over his square jaw. “As I understand it, the bookstore has been operating for decades. I’m sorry that it must come to an end.”
The bastard. I was the one who told him that—I did. He’d let me stand there and flirt with him about our one-night stand, all the while knowing he was responsible for my soon-to-be unemployed state.
I see red. “Must it, though?”
Four heads turn to me, all wearing various expressions of incredulity.
“Skye,” Karli whispers, her face letting me know that my tone was neither civil nor professional.
I cross my arms over my chest and ignore her, my eyes locked on Cole. He leans back in his chair, his gaze daring me to continue. “Miss Holland?”
“The bookstore is old, as you pointed out yourself. We have a small but loyal customer base. It has… old-world charm.” I use his own description and watch in satisfaction as his eyes narrow. “It could be incorporated into your hotel.”
Bryan lets out a small chuckle. “I’m sorry, miss, but that’s not possible. The plans for the new hotel are already drawn. We have apologized, but we—”
Cole raises a hand to cut him off. “We’ve looked over your financials,” he says with infuriating calmness. “The bookstore is not profitable, Miss Holland. It hasn’t been for a long while.”
I can feel a flush rising in my cheeks. It’s been a hard few months, that’s true. “It brings in enough,” I say. “It’s been a staple of the community for decades. Give us these two months to turn things around.”