by Jane Porter
Atticus loved making deals, and nothing was more rewarding than closing a very challenging deal. After a stint as a litigation attorney, he’d switched to real estate law and had found his niche because he wasn’t afraid of hard conversations and tough negotiations. Where others might shrink from conflict, he felt encouraged, even empowered. Through experience he’d learned to rely on reason, not emotion, and so far, reason had never let him down.
His mother—who’d named him Atticus because To Kill a Mockingbird was her favorite novel—had said that her Atticus was pragmatic from the start, refusing to put in an appearance for nine days after his due date, choosing to stay put until the torrential rains flooding Houston had ended, and the streets had dried. No, Atticus Bowen was nothing but practical, and he exhausted his parents and teachers with his logic, as well as his ability to withstand stress and uncomfortable situations, virtually guaranteeing that, in the end, he got what he wanted. As a boy, it was winning chess tournaments and baseball games. As an adult, he acquired buildings, businesses, opportunities.
There was an opportunity before him now, and he was determined to seize it.
“Lesley, you know I want that building,” he said calmly, shifting the cell phone to his other ear. “We’ve been doing this for over a year. Tell me what you want. I want to make this happen, and I’ll be more than fair.”
“Atticus, it’s out of my hands now—”
“Do you want me to fly to Australia? Would you feel better if you met me in person? I’ll get on the next flight, if that’s the issue.”
“Of course I’d love to meet you, Atticus, but that’s not the issue. You see, I don’t own Paradise Books anymore. I’ve given the bookstore to my goddaughter. Rachel is the owner now. It’s up to Rachel to decide what she’d like to do with the place.”
Atticus had to hold his breath and count to five. “When did this happen?” he asked when he was certain he could speak calmly.
“Rather recently. It was a belated birthday gift.” Her tone turned apologetic. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I just wasn’t ready to see my beloved bookstore become a barbecue joint.”
“Galveston doesn’t serve barbecue. It’s a steak house. An upscale steak house.”
“But it still meant the books would go, wouldn’t it? And that would be such a shame.”
He counted to five again. “Your goddaughter, Rachel. She lives in Marietta?”
“No. She’s from Southern California. She’s an accountant and very clever, very successful. I’m terribly proud of her.”
Atticus was glad the older woman couldn’t see him roll his eyes. “What is Rachel going to do with a bookstore if she lives in California?”
“I don’t know. That’s up to her.”
“I’d like to reach out to her.”
“I’m sure you would,” Lesley said primly.
He smashed his sigh of exasperation. “Would you mind sharing her contact details with me?”
“Actually, I’m not sure I should, not without her permission. However, I understand she’ll be spending the next week in Marietta, so you might be able to catch her at Paradise Books.” She hesitated before adding lightly, “If you are willing to jump on a plane.”
So, to Montana he went, even though it was Thanksgiving weekend.
He flew in Saturday night, checked in to the Graff Hotel, and then walked the three blocks to have a look at Paradise Books on Main Street.
The wind gusted and howled as he stood on the corner, looking up at the two-story, corner building he’d admired ever since he first visited the charming Paradise Valley town two and a half years ago. This building would be the perfect location for his first Galveston Steak House in Montana.
Atticus had started Galveston ten years ago with friends. He hadn’t put a lot of money into the first restaurant, but he’d handled all the paperwork and contracts, and proved his value when the new restaurant was hit with its first lawsuit filed by a disgruntled former chef. Atticus handled the lawsuit quickly and quietly and, before long, one location became two, and then four, and then seven. But as the Galveston brand grew, so did the problems, and maybe they were just little things to other people, but little things added up to big things, and when a huge financial setback threatened to close the seven restaurants dotting Texas, Nevada, California and Colorado, he stepped in, bought his partners out, and became the sole owner.
He liked being the sole owner, too, and as sole owner he’d made changes to the restaurants, improving the menu, improving the service, and bumping up prices, because when people went to a good steak house, they expected great steaks and expensive wine. People never minded paying for excellent cocktails and the best wine, and liquor was where the profits were anyway. Now he was ready to add an eighth location, the first in Montana, right here in Marietta, right in the old bookstore.
“Excuse me, I think I’m turned around,” a young woman said, approaching him on the street. Her purple knit cap was pulled down low on her forehead, and her arms bundled across her chest. Her coat didn’t look quite adequate for a Montana winter, and her cheeks were blotchy from the cold. “I was told there are several places serving dinner on Main. Grey’s was mentioned, and then a diner.”
Atticus pointed to a corner building across the street. “You’re not far. Grey’s is down one block, opposite side of the street, and the diner is down one more block, same side of the road.”
“Grey’s it is. Thank you,” she answered, teeth chattering, before dashing across the street.
He watched her go, wondering idly if that was the Rachel Mills he was looking for, and then thought it unlikely that the one person he came to see, would be the one person asking him for directions. But he would see Rachel tomorrow, and all he had to do was convince her to sell, and he’d be on his way back to Houston. He wasn’t worried about getting her to sell, either. Everyone had their price. Soon he’d know hers.
*
It had taken Rachel two flights to reach Bozeman from Orange County, and then a forty-minute drive in a rental car on a windy, snow-dusted road with hidden icy patches that caught her by surprise, making the drive a bit more white knuckled than she’d anticipated.
Admittedly, her knowledge of Montana was pretty much zilch, and she’d expected some mountains, but the freezing wind that tugged at her coat and blew her hair around her head as she stepped out of the car at the Bramble House caught her by surprise.
She was greeted warmly by the bed and breakfast’s staff, and after a quick check-in was given an equally efficient tour before being shown upstairs to her room, and suggesting a few spots nearby for dinner, an easy walk to downtown if Rachel dressed warmly.
Bundled up, Rachel left Bramble House and walked two blocks to Second Street, crossing Crawford, and then Church Street, before coming to Main, and that was when she got confused. The street was quiet and dark, despite the pretty Christmas decorations festooned to the old-fashioned streetlamps. Nearly all of the buildings were two stories tall, and most were brick, or a mixture of brick and wood, with a Western façade.
She’d looked right and left, and then back toward the courthouse in the distant park, the dome of the courthouse bathed in light, the same light that made the peak of a big mountain standing sentry behind the town gleam. Which way was she supposed to go?
That was when she spotted the man on the corner, and thankfully he sorted her out and now she was stepping into Grey’s Saloon, grateful to be out of the cold. A rugged-looking man in his thirties was working the bar and he nodded at her and told her to sit wherever she liked.
Rachel chose one of the empty tables as far from the jukebox as possible, and after peeling her coat and mittens and hat off, plucked the laminated menu from the condiment holder. She spotted the cobb salad and closed the menu. Done. White wine, a salad, and then tomorrow she’d find the bookstore, unlock the front door, and see what lay inside.
And then what?
What was she doing here? What was she thinking?
/>
“That’s a heavy sigh,” the bartender said, now at her side.
She grimaced. “It’s been a long day.”
“What can I get you then?”
“The cobb salad and a glass of white wine. I’m not picky. Whatever you think is good works for me.”
He nodded. “Make sure yourself comfortable and I’ll be right back with the wine.”
Her phone rang as the bartender walked away, and Rachel tugged off her scarf as she took the call. “Hello, Dad.”
“You’ve arrived safely?” he asked.
“I have. Just sat down to dinner, too. There really is no need to worry about me.”
“I still think you’re making a terrible mistake.”
“I’m not allowed to come see where Mom was from?”
“Of course you are, but this gift from Lesley. It’s not practical. She has never been practical—”
“And yet Mom adored her.”
“Just don’t lose your head.”
She refused to be provoked. “When have I ever done that?”
“I predict it’s a crumbling building, overrun with silverfish,” he said darkly.
“Haven’t seen the bookstore yet, but happy to send a report tomorrow. Now, good night, Dad, and don’t worry so much. Everything is going to be fine.” Hanging up, Rachel peeled the rest of her layers off, piling them onto the bench seat next to her.
The woman at the booth in front of her turned around and flashed a friendly smile. “I’m sorry for eavesdropping,” she said, tucking a long dark strand of hair behind her ear, “but I heard the word bookstore and my ears perked up. You’re not Lesley’s goddaughter, Rachel from Southern California, are you?”
Rachel blinked, surprised. “I am.”
The woman reached over the top of the booth and extended her hand. “I’m Taylor Sheenan, the head librarian at Marietta’s library, and a fellow book lover. So pleased to meet you.”
Rachel shook hands thinking this wasn’t the time to announce that she wasn’t actually a book lover. If anything, she tended to tolerate books rather than embrace them. “Rachel Mills,” she answered. “How did you hear about me?”
“Lesley and I have stayed in touch and she emailed me last week to say that she’d gifted the store to her goddaughter Rachel from Southern California. And now here you are.”
“Here I am,” Rachel echoed uncomfortably.
“It will be wonderful to have the store open for Christmas.”
“I’m not sure the store will be open for Christmas. I’m only here for a week or two.”
“Oh.” Taylor looked surprised, and then disappointed, and then she masked the disappointment with a polite smile. “Welcome to Marietta. Hope you enjoy your visit.”
The bartender arrived with Rachel’s salad and wine, but Rachel’s appetite had faded, and she half-heartedly stabbed her fork into the salad.
She wasn’t sure she was prepared for Marietta after all.
Fortunately dinner, and a good night’s sleep, helped restore Rachel’s equilibrium and she set off the next morning for Main Street again, stopping at Java Café for a coffee and scone before going to the bookstore.
She stood outside the store for a minute just taking it in. She’d stood on this very corner last night, getting directions from the man, and last night in the dark, she hadn’t realized this was her store, and there was the painted wooden sign, hunter green with a pale gold outline. Paradise Books.
Even though the big Plateglass windows were shuttered on the inside, she felt a little thrill. This store was hers now. How crazy was that?
Eager now to see just what Lesley had given her, Rachel unlocked the front door and turned on lights, delighted to discover her father was wrong. The brick building wasn’t crumbling in any way, nor was it terribly musty after being closed for the past three plus years. Rachel set to work opening the wooden shutters, exposing the large expanse of glass and inviting the sun in. Outside it was a bright blue winter sky, and the streaming sun made the dust spirals look like swirling flecks of gold.
Thanks to the sun, Rachel could finally make out the window display, an ode to Valentine’s Day, with red foil hearts and ivory cupid statues posed between popular romances from the nineteenth century—Jane Austen, Charlotte Bronte, Leo Tolstoy, Thomas Hardy. She wasn’t sure War and Peace, or Jude the Obscure, would make anyone’s list of top romance novels, but she’d give her godmother points for trying.
Rachel turned to face the interior of the store. So many leather-bound books. Such beautiful crown molding. Even the scattered upholstered armchairs looked elegant with their jeweled brocades and velvets. It was all so very different from her normal life. It was like being swept into a fairy tale, only this wasn’t her fairy tale. This fairy tale was meant for someone else, someone more like Lesley, someone who’d treasure the books and history of the place.
Rachel was far too practical. She knew the value of a steady paycheck and a solid 401K plan. Small business owners didn’t have that security, or retirement benefits.
Owning a used bookstore would provide even less security. No one wanted real books anymore. Everyone was decluttering and dumping their books, never mind books that were a half century old.
But what about those who actually lived here? Did anyone besides the librarian miss their old store? Or had everyone who read books gone digital? It made sense in a place like Marietta that was buried with snow months out of the year. Buying the newest bestseller from an online retailer would be the easy thing to do. Technology had changed the world and there was no going back.
But as Rachel stood in in the middle of this lovely light-filled space with the enormous windows and rich, dark shelves, she wished she was someone a little less practical. Someone who didn’t live her life by numbers. Because the numbers were stacked against Paradise Books. The numbers, once added up, labeled this lovely old store a money pit.
The small bell on the front door jingled as it opened. Rachel wiped her dusty hands on the back of her jeans and turned to watch a tall, good-looking man in a sophisticated gray suit cross the threshold, his narrowed gaze skimming the interior before resting on her.
“Hello,” she said. “Can I help you?”
“The lights were on. Wondered if you were open.”
He was familiar, she thought, especially his voice, with that hint of drawl. She’d asked him for directions last night, hadn’t she? “Not exactly,” she answered, wondering if he recognized her. “I think you were the nice person who got me to Grey’s for dinner last night.”
His lips quirked. “I wondered,” he said, his voice deep and firm.
Last night he’d merely been information. Today he was pure fascination. The man was tall and seriously good-looking—thick, wavy brown-black hair, straight brows, chiseled jaw—this kind of handsome didn’t just walk through the door every day. At least, not her door.
Of course, she was wearing an old sweater and her favorite Levi’s while he looked as if he’d just stepped from the pages of a men’s magazine, his light gray dress shirt partially unbuttoned, exposing the column of his throat, hinting at a muscular chest. An unbuttoned collar wouldn’t look out of place in California, but this was Montana and there was dirty snow piled up on the street corners and his bronzed throat and chest made it appear as if he’d just returned from the Maldives.
“So you’re not open,” he said.
“I’m just doing an inspection,” she answered, “figuring out what’s what.”
“The store’s been closed a long time.”
“Almost three years,” she said.
He nodded absently, as if he’d expected her to say that, and glanced around once more, his gaze studying the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, shelves that filled up most of the downstairs. “You’re the one I’ve come to see,” he said after a moment, focusing on her again, his voice filling her with warmth.
“Me?”
“You’re Rachel Mills.”
He’d caught her off
guard. How did he know her name? “Yes, I’m Rachel.”
“The new owner of the bookstore.”
He didn’t say it as a question, but a statement, which made her wonder if everyone in Marietta knew about Lesley’s gift to her. “Yes.”
He extended his hand. “Atticus Bowen.”
“Atticus?”
“My mother loved To Kill a Mockingbird.”
She smiled reluctantly. “You’re Southern, too.”
“Texan. Houston.”
“South Texas.”
He laughed, and his teeth were very white, and his eyes very blue. “Lesley told me I’d find you here this week, so I flew in to meet you.”
“You flew in to meet me?”
“Just arrived last night.”
“So you haven’t been impatiently waiting to purchase a book.”
He gave her a lazy smile. “I’ve been impatiently waiting to make you an offer for all the books.”
“You want all the books?”
“As well as the building.”
“You want to own Paradise Books.”
“I do.”
If there was a category in one’s yearbook for Least Likely to Own a Used Bookstore, this man would win it. “You love books?” she said in disbelief.
“That’s probably an exaggeration. Books are fine, but I don’t take them to bed with me.”
She didn’t know how it happened, but she heard him say, “take them to bed” and then mentally added the word, “naked,” and then blushed, distracted, because Rachel didn’t meet men and picture them naked, or in bed. But Atticus Bowen wasn’t like any man she’d ever met.
“My mother always read in bed,” he added helpfully. “Every night. She’s the reader in the family.”
Rachel really wished he’d stop mentioning beds. “And she wants the bookstore?”
“No.”
Her confusion deepened. “If you don’t love books, why this bookstore?”
“It’s special,” he said with a faint shrug.
She stared at him, fascinated. Everything about him exuded confidence, but it was that slight, mocking lift of his lips that held her attention. His mouth was sexy and confident. Dangerous. She’d heard men like this existed but had never met one in real life.