Billionaires Dollar Series

“No, it could have been the start of something.”

“A man like that? No, he wouldn’t have been interested in me long term. I basically just nipped it in the bud.” I snap my chopsticks together to illustrate, defending my decision for the hundred-millionth time. It doesn’t matter that I still wonder, at night, if I’d made the right call.

“You don’t know that.”

“No, but it’s a pretty good wager. What if I gave him my number and he never called?” I can’t explain it to Karli, but I know it would have crushed me. To spend a night like that with someone and then have them reject you, to say thanks, but no thanks.Content is property of NôvelDrama.Org.

“Remind me what you wrote on the napkin again?”

“Karli, you don’t need reminding. You know.”

She laughs, in that high-pitched way of hers, and pushes her glasses back into place. “Yes, but I want to hear you say it. I’m living vicariously through you here. Would you deny me that? After eight long years of friendship?”

I roll my eyes at her extra-ness, but I oblige. “I wrote, Thanks for last night, stud. God, even just saying that makes me cringe!”

She chuckles. “It’s such a cliché.”

“Yes, well, that’s me, a walking, talking cliché.”

“And you left while he was still asleep. I wonder what he thought. Having someone wham-bam-and-thank-you-ma’am him.”

“He’s probably used to it. Trust me, with skills like his, he has a lot of sex.”

She hands me her spare wasabi, knowing I love it. “Maybe. Or you could’ve had the hottest friends-with-benefits situation ever known to man. Imagine how much inspiration that would give to your book.”

I grin at her. “It would be more like a distraction.”

“What’s your word count now?”

“Thirty-two thousand. But I think I’ll have to rewrite the entire chapter I just finished. My main character’s actions just don’t make sense to me.”

Karli picks up another piece of sushi, eyes expectant. “Tell me why. Let’s brainstorm it out.”

I love that she’s so invested in my stories, that she always has been, ever since I started working here. Our love of books is one of many things we share in common. With only ten years between us, Karli and I are more like friends than co-workers. She inherited the bookstore after Eleanor died, and employed me full-time after I finished college. For that alone, I owe her everything.

I jump into my description and she listens, interjecting with comments and jokes. It’s in moments like this that it’s easy to forget this bookstore-with its nooks and crannies and dusty attic, with the mismatched bookshelves and little reading lights-won’t be here in two months’ time.

My life changes again after lunch. In one moment I’m sorting through modern American poetry, minding my own business, and in the next I’m a quivering mess of nerves.

Five minutes before it all goes down, I pick up a small book of short poems. “You’re a brilliant little book,” I tell it. “But you’re very difficult to sell.”

It doesn’t say anything back, and I put it down with a sigh. We have over fifty of these. There’s so much inventory to go through before we have to close.

The bell by the door jingles. A customer!

“Skye, I’m in the back!” Karli calls.

“I’m on it!” I call, already putting back the poetry book.

I love customers. I love guessing what book they might like, what they’re here for, judging by their clothes, their accent, their reading preferences. Sometimes I’m spot-on, and sometimes they surprise me-a dignified old lady who wants to buy the latest horror novel. A man in a suit asking for a self-help book on happiness. Those are my favorite customers, the ones who teach me about the perils of jumping to conclusions.

I weave through the fantasy section and cut between the recipe shelves. A man is standing with his back to me, looking at the titles on our Bookstore Recommends shelf. Karli and I curate it monthly, often over a bottle of wine, and we have a lot of fun doing it.

He’s tall. That’s my first impression, swiftly followed by the fact that he’s in a suit. Thick brown hair curls at the nape of his neck, just over his shirt collar. My instinct says that he’s here to buy a book for someone else. A birthday gift, or to celebrate an anniversary.

“Hello,” I say. “Are you looking for anything in particular? I’d be happy to help.”

He turns.

And the ground feels like it’s giving out beneath me.

Four weeks might have passed, and we’re in a well-lit store and not a swanky hotel bar, but he’s no less striking in daylight. The chiseled jaw, the same five-o’clock shadow. Thick hair and piercing eyes that don’t look the least bit surprised.

“Skye,” he says.

I open my mouth but close it again, my mind running empty. The ability to speak has left me altogether. He waits, eyes imploring, probably wondering if I’ve become mute.

“Umm. Hi,” I finally manage.

Brilliant. Four years of studying English Literature, and that’s my winning take.

“Do you work here?”

Can I play it off as if I don’t? I’m supposed to be an award-winning writer in his mind, who sits at expensive hotel bars and writes clichéd goodbyes on napkins.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” I say stupidly. I’m in the same jeans as always, wearing a T-shirt with “Between the Pages” blazoned on the front. In comparison, he looks magnificent, the cut of his suit highlighting the width of his shoulders.

His voice is dry. “No, clearly, since you snuck out during the night.”

“Yes. Erm, no hard feelings?”

He shakes his head, but it’s more in resignation than negation. “I knew you were too good to be true.”

Standing there in my shabby outfit and my low ponytail, I know I’m definitely confirming that fact. “Yes. Sorry.”

He starts to walk down the aisle, glancing at shelves as we pass them. I follow him in a daze. The night we spent together was magical, and this is mundane. It’s my place of work. The two don’t mix, and my brain is trying and failing to handle this surprise visit.

“Tell me about this bookstore. Between the Pages, right?”

Of all the things to ask… “Yes. We cover all the major genres and stock newer releases. We stock all the major classics, too. You’ll find them all here, Proust, Austen, Machiavelli.” I wet my lips. “Homer.”

“Hmm.” He plucks a book from a shelf, flipping it over to read the back. I recognize it-it’s a decent thriller, but I could recommend a better one. “So,” he says. “What was your game, that night at the bar?”

“My game?”

He slides the book back into place. “Did you need a night like that for inspiration? To clear up some writer’s block?”

My heart is firing at full speed in my chest. “You’re asking if you were research?”