Page 82 of Holy Hearts
Stepping into my shoes, I grab my bag and rush for the door.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE CONFESSION
Sophie
My phone rings as I click out of one of my many research tabs. I’ve been crunching numbers and trying to decide if this dream is just a dream or possible to turn a profit. I know I have Julian’s money to fall back on, but I want to do this right. Ever since I saw the empty storefront in Crestwood a couple of weeks ago, I’ve been dreaming about what a place like that could look like—and how it would feel to spend my mornings with Snickers and my days at the bookshop. I hadn’t heard back, of course, but I could find another space that worked.
Aside from market research, I’ve been trying to come up with a realistic number for the monthly running cost, which would entail inventory and merchandise, something I’ve never dealt with on this scale.
I want people to walk in and feel at home. I want it to be colorful and inclusive. I want people to stop and stare from the street, curious about what kinds of love stories await them inside. It’s more complicated than simply launching a business—I want people tofeelhow I feel when I’m lost in an amazingbook. I intend to create a sanctuary where peoplecanexperience this, with vibrant, inviting displays and overflowing shelves full of colorful spines. I envision fresh flowers all around the store, as well as curated playlists and a cozy reading nook…
I glance at the unknown number flashing on my screen, and at the last minute, I answer.
“Hello?”
“Am I speaking to Sophie Ashford?”
I clear my throat. “This is she.”
“Hello, Sophie. You inquired a couple of weeks ago about the available retail space on Main Street, and I was wondering if you’re still interested in a viewing?”
My heart speeds up, and before I can think, I respond. “Hi! Yes! I’d love to view it.”
“Great! My name is Elisa Jacobs from Elmwood Properties. Before we schedule a viewing, I wanted to go over a few requirements for renting the space. First, we’ll need a copy of your business license or proof that it’s in process. Is that something you can provide?”
“Oh, yes,” I say quickly, making a mental note to look into it tonight.
“Perfect,” she continues. “We’ll also need proof of funds, typically your most recent bank statement or a letter of credit from your bank, so we can confirm you’re able to cover rent and any associated costs. Speaking of which, are you familiar with the lease terms, or would you like us to email them over to you? This is just protocol, of course.”
“I’d love an email,” I tell her, feeling shaky with adrenaline and excitement so potent that I almost want to stand up and jump around.
“No problem. Make sure you review them fully before the meeting. You’ll want to note the security deposit, which is equalto two months’ rent, and the liability insurance requirement—you’ll need that before signing.”
“Got it,” I say, scribbling notes furiously.
“Lastly, if you plan on making any modifications to the space, you’ll need to provide a detailed proposal for approval. We’ll go over those details after the viewing. Does that all sound manageable?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
“Great. I’ll send you a follow-up email confirming our meeting time, but does this Friday work for you?”
I do the math in my head. Friday is five days away. It’s not enough time, but I’ll have to make it work.
“Yes, that works!”
“Great! Looking forward to seeing you then.”
“Thank you so much!” I say, hanging up and staring at my to-do list, which has just tripled in size.
When I set my phone down, I squeal and spin around in my office chair as I try to contain my excitement. I press my palms against the desk, steadying the rush of excitement flooding through me. It feels like the first time in years I’m chasing something that’s entirely mine. Not inherited. Not expected.
Just… mine.
Growing up, I was always meant to inherit something—a legacy, a title, a noble husband. But I never wanted any of it. I wanted to build something from scratch, to shape something with my hands and make it grow.
The bookstore feels like that. It’s fragile, yes, but it’s alive. A seed I’m plantingby myself.
