Page 54 of Holy Hearts
Blush Books
The Story Nest
The Romance Nook
Romance in Bloom…
Someone honks at me, and I realize I’m standing in the street. Jumping back onto the pavement, I laugh as I shake my head. I pick the bucket up and carry on down the street toward my car. I only glance over my shoulder once or twice, and even when I start the car, I don’t immediately pull out of my parking spot. A quick Google search brings the listing up, and my eyes scour the details, including square footage—which I then have to convert to meters—as well as the price. There are no pictures, and the window was dusty, so I wasn’t able to see inside very clearly.
I pull out the small notepad in my glove compartment, jotting down really loose numbers to see what kind of investment this would be. Perhaps,maybe…it’s possible.
I place the pad of paper back in the glove compartment and begin my drive home.
Ever since the housewarming party, I’ve been tossing around ideas for my own business. I even went to that psychic in Laurel Canyon, half joking, hoping she’d justknow. Her answer? “Books.”
Hardly a revelation—I’ve loved reading since I was a little girl, and Ashford Palace were filled to the brim with books I’d acquired as an adult.
Some people spent a fortune on jewelry… I spend a fortune on books. Paperbacks, hardbacks, special editions, first editions… you name it.
As I drive down the main street, I think back to the tiny bookshop in London I used to frequent when I was at boarding school. My love of romance books started young—too young, probably—and I’d been reading love stories since before I knew what half of it meant.
Opening a romance bookstore would certainly make my mother furious, and that thought makes me smile even wider when I think of a certain instance of her catching me reading romance books when I was sixteen.
“What’s that?” she asks, walking over to where I’m relaxing on the couch. I’m home for the weekend, and I’m too engrossed in the novel to pay much attention to her. “Sophia Grace, is that another one of your trashy books?”
She snatches the book from my hands, and I glare up at her. “The author won a Booker Prize, Mother. It’s hardly trash.”
My mother closes the worn paperback and in one swift motion, she tosses it into the nearby fire.
I jump up. “Hey! I paid for that!”
My mother snorts, which is very unbecoming of her. Her blonde hair is perfectly smooth, and she places her manicured hands in front of the white linen dress she’s wearing. Her lips press together in a placating smile, but the glint in her eyesbetrays amusement—like she’s indulging a child who just said something foolish.
“Oh? And how much did you spend on such filth?”
I grind my jaw as I cross my arms. “It’s not filth! It’s a love story.”
One of my mother’s eyebrows arches up. “Love? Darling, life will get a lot easier once you realize that the kind of love in those books isn’t real.” Her lips curl back as she assesses me. “It’s just a fantasy. Get your head out of the clouds and finish studying for your exams next week.”
With that, she turns on her heel and walks away.
I stare at the pile of ashes that used to be my book, watching the pages curl and disappear one by one.
I close my eyes at the next light when I remember how angry my mother was that day—how angry she was when she realized I was never going to stay in the London socialite scene, pop out a few kids, and settle down in Julian’s family estate in Brookshire.
Reading was my escape. It was the only place I didn’t have to be prim and proper. The only time I remember being happy as a child was riding horses or between the pages of a good book. My parents never really tried to show me love—I had to learn from books, and later, Julian.
Maybe a shop like this could bring that feeling to others, too.
I smile when I remember all the nights I spent reading with a torch in hand—the different genres and tropes that swept me up more than exams, or school, or my duties as their daughter. I remember buying a book about aliens at uni, and my roommate accompanying me to buy an alien dildo.
The memory makes me laugh.
I was brought up so naive, but I found ways to rebel.
And I didn’t stop reading—if anything, my mother’s judgmental tone about romance books only spurred me on.
The store comes back to the forefront of my mind, and I envision the big front window with “The Story Nest” in delicate, gold letters, framed by lush sprays of flowers and maybe a fresh coat of light pink paint. I could display monthly themes—holiday romance, summer romance, LGBTQIA+ books for Pride month…
