Page 3 of Billionaire's Bookworm

Uh-oh. Rein it in, Emma girl.

“Find everything you need?” I bagged their books with short, jerky movements, chewing the inside of my lip as a distraction, my blood boiling just beneath the surface of my attempts to remain polite. Attempts that flew right out the window at the couple’s next comment.

“Yes, we did, though your little shop is rather... eclectic,” the man observed, wrinkling his nose at the line of gently used classics that lined the wall behind me. I ripped the receipt from the machine so fast, it barely finished printing.

“Well, we do aim to disappoint the pretentious snobs that come through,” I chirped, slapping the slip of paper onto their bag and stapling it in place with a sickly, saccharine smile. “Do come back and slum it again soon, yeah? Have a lovely day.” I shoved the bag across the counter.

The couple’s eyes widened like saucers when they realized they were being insulted, and the woman’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, two spots in her cheeks turning a bright, angry red. The man looked like he swallowed a lemon.

The woman snatched up her purchases, and as a unit, they turned and flounced toward the exit with haughty glares and obnoxiously loud huffs of indignation, the man shepherding the woman like a sheep.

As the door slammed closed behind them, I shouted, “Careful! Don’t let our quirky door hit ya on the ass on the way out!”

I could hear a faint squawk of indignation from the woman through the glass, while the man attempted to calm her as she waved her arms furiously. They both stormed down the street.

Well, the man stormed.

The woman more like wobbled.

Silvy collapsed into a mess of giggles behind her little armchair fortress of semi-sorted books. I shot her a dirty look, my lips twitching despite the disappointment with myself for letting those condescending snoots get under my skin.

She gave me an innocent look. “What? You know that was funny! You just can’t help yourself!”

I threw up my hands with a half laugh, half groan. Silvy was right. It was a character flaw, this temper of mine. Momma always said it would be my downfall. Maybe it was true, though I hated to admit my mother was right about anything, ever.

Perhaps it was my flaming red hair. Wasn’t there some cliché about redheads being more temperamental than the rest of the population?

Maybe there was some substance to that one.

Still, mild regret seeped in. Losing my cool might feel satisfying in the moment, but it never serves me well in the long run. I probably just drove away two new customers for good.

I sighed.

Better tame that fiery temper, Emma. Otherwise, it’s gonna drive you right outta business.

My temper was one of the reasons I fled city life and escaped to this tiny town. Sure, I could hobnob like a wealthy elitist with the best of them—I used to be one. But that whole scene grew so tiresome and draining.

Pasting on a smile, rubbing shoulders with disingenuous people only out for themselves, pretending interest in the parade of prestigious bachelors my family trotted past me every week in hopes I would settle down and marry. And every time some old geezer acquaintance of my parents got handsy, I had to fight not to erupt in rage.

One day, I decided I no longer wanted any part of it. Of course, dear Momma cut off my inheritance in a fit of rage and retribution, which is why I couldn’t exactly afford to turn away customers, no matter how many elitist jokers came through my doors.

And there was no way I’d go begging my parents to reinstate my financial privileges, even though I knew Grammy would turn over in her grave if she knew what Momma did. I’d eat dirt before I begged my parents for anything.

I huffed another sigh and glowered through the window at the bustling street outside my shop. My mood had darkened despite my best efforts to brush off the negativity.

I crossed my arms and rubbed them briskly, the chill from the door opening creeping through my sweater. Though the town of Seashell Cove was small, it was a popular getaway for rich and poor alike who wanted a slower pace than Miami.

Which meant there were still quite a few brave souls meandering up and down the sidewalks, chilly or not. Which also meant the chances for more snooty customers to show up and judge my beloved misfit of a sanctuary were high.

Wee. Just let it go, Emma,I coached myself.

I was working on my inner self-talk. And honestly, it didn’t matter, really. If any of my customers—past, present, or future—expected me to change my store to suit them, they had another think coming. My whimsical bookshop had survived the last five years just fine catering to outcasts and oddballs, and that was exactly how I liked it.

Wealthy upstarts be damned!

ChapterTwo

Wade

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