Page 2 of Billionaire's Bookworm

Silvy snorted and made a face at me. “Yeah, well, Mr. Darcy also doesn’t snore or hog the blankets.”

I threw a crumpled-up receipt at her, which she deftly caught. “Ha-ha, very funny.” I paused, tapping my chin thoughtfully. “My last real relationship was... hmm... I think it was with that pepperoni pizza I devoured last Friday night.”

A slow grin spread across Silvy’s face. “Ooh, spicy. Was it a passionate affair?”

I pretended to ponder this for a moment. “Let’s just say things got pretty heated in the oven.”

We both burst into laughter. This was one of the things I adored about Silvy. She got me and my humor. Though it was true—my love life was about as quiet as Beachy Keen Reads on our slowest day.

Couldn’t say I was sad about it, though.

I’d had my fair share of relationships, and truth be told, some men were just more work than they were worth. I liked my independence. Besides, Porky was plenty man enough for me. I cast a fond glance over at the dog in question, lying on his back with his paws and junk in the air, soaking up a puddle of sunshine through the window.

The cheery ding of the door chime made me turn with a dazzling, professional smile that dimmed when I saw the polished, grandiose duo that entered. I instantly recognized them as snowbirds from the wealthy enclaves further down the coast, here to grace us with their presence for the winter. They weren’t the first that week. Apparently, this particular winter was snob season.

The older couple wore distinct grimaces as they glanced around at the worn wood floors and comfy chairs strategically placed for readers to sit a spell and enjoy a brief respite in the day with a good book, if they so chose. Both of which, admittedly, had seen better days.

Or decades.

I’d had well-meaning people mention maybe I should consider some upgrades, but I refused to even entertain the idea. I preferred to think of my little slice of heaven as shabby chic instead of old and in need of refurbishment.

Perspective was everything, or so Grammy used to say.

Sure, I wasn’t rolling in dough, and yes, some days were hard. But I had my bookstore, my freedom, and the knowledge that I was living life on my own terms. No one could take that from me.

Though the older couple that just entered obviously didn’t share my views, if their wrinkled noses and haughty expressions were anything to go by. It was clear they found my pride and joy sorely lacking.

I shrugged off the tiny chip to my confidence, refusing to let two strangers’ vibes or potential opinions mess with my day. Beachy Keen Reads might not look slick and shiny like bigger bookstores, but it had character and style in spades, and books a-plenty. In fact, in the five years since I’d taken a leap and chosen to chase my secret dream, it had done better than I ever could have hoped. I just knew Grammy was watching over me, proud as a peacock, and that was enough.

The woman and gentleman perused the books available as they crept along the first shelves, and I tried not to stare in fascination at the lady’s spindly heels. They looked ready to snap at any moment. She must have spotted me looking their way, because she waved a hand in my direction and trilled in an imperious tone, “Excuse me. Do you have the new Jack Macintyre thriller, darling?”

I fought not to visibly cringe at the condescending term of endearment. Biting back a snide “darling” of my own, I replied, “Under M, if we do.” I nodded toward the aisle with the large “M” hanging above it. The woman released a hoity-toity sniff as she dragged the man along in her wake, tottering precariously on her impossibly high heels.

As soon as they turned away, I mimicked the woman’s nasal tone and mouthed “darling” to Silvy behind their backs. She covered her mouth, stifling a laugh.

Childish? Yes. Satisfying? Most definitely.

As the couple picked their way among the shelves, an obvious look of stank face coloring their features, I couldn’t help but overhear them. My shop wasn’t large, after all. Snatches of their hushed commentary floated over to me: “Quirky.” “Smells musty.” “Needs an upgrade.” “My girls would never set foot here.”

My smile dimmed another watt. I sucked in a sharp breath, resisting the urge to suggest that maybe a big-box store might be more their speed. Or kick them out altogether. They didn’t deserve one of my precious books. I took a few deep inhales, trying to calm my hair-trigger nervous system. I couldn’t afford to refuse any more business this year.

Porky must have sensed my agitation, because he woke up from his nap, ears perked as he let out a low growl. I quickly hushed him. “Hush, Porky,” I whispered sternly. The doodle dropped his head back to his paws and cast me a grumpy look. “Oh, don’t give me that face. You’re all bark anyway, and you know it.” Porky slid his eyes to the left, clearly ignoring me now.

Shaking my head with an indulgent smile, I sighed, turning my attention back to tallying receipts. I refused to dwell on my financial woes. I knew that somehow, my little shop would squeak by just fine this month, as it had every month since I hung my “Open for Business” sign. Even in my leanest year, with some tears and a hefty dose of prayer, I’d managed to make this place turn a tiny profit.

Enough so that I could pay Silvy, cover my own living and business expenses, and even have a small sum left over for the occasional fancy coffee or dinner with friends. And of course, a never-ending supply of food and toys for my beloved Porky.

I didn’t need much. I enjoyed my simple life. Silvy asked sometimes if I mourned the loss of my inheritance, but I didn’t—not in the way she probably meant. Sure, I missed the sense of comfort and security the money lent me.

More so, I mourned the fact that my Grammy wouldn’t be happy that I didn’t have access to what was rightfully mine. But if it meant I could escape the meddling interference of my parents trying to control my decisions, I was glad to give up every last red cent.

As the snooty couple perused my shelves—noses so high they might scrape the ceiling—I felt the prickling tug of memories I’d long since packed away. Memories of that other life. The one with endless society events where I had to smile until my cheeks ached, where conformity was mandatory, and every move was dissected under a microscope.

A distant nightmare now, thank God.

Shaking off the lingering ghosts, I refocused on the present—my little bookstore, my haven, the life I’d built with my own two hands. It might not be everyone’s idea of paradise, but it was real, it was mine, and that was more than enough.

When the distasteful couple finally made their way to the front of the store and dumped their selections on the scarred but gleaming wooden countertop, I rang them up, irritation seeping into my chipper tone.

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