Chapter 13 Lottie
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
LOTTIE
With an adorable frown on his face, Knox parallel parks, the picture of concentration. For some reason, part of me finds it crazy hot that he’s able to easily slide into a tight spot like that. Or maybe it’s not too much of a mystery why I find it hot. Ha.
Hiding my smile behind the back of my hand, I watch as he turns off the car and gets out. He slings his messenger bag over his shoulder and pulls out the box of books we brought to sell from the back seat with ease, as if they weighed no more than a feather.
“You have everything?” I ask, eyeing the heavy-looking box under his arm.
“Yeah.” He shuts the door with his hip, and I shove my hands in my trench pockets.
It’s drizzling out—one of those gross March spring days where the weather can’t decide whether to be cold or what.
Small droplets fall all around us, and I try not to focus too much on how they look like glitter as they land on Knox’s hair.
The humidity in the air curls the ends at the nape of his neck in a way that tugs at my heartstrings for some reason.
He’s handsome. So handsome and kind-hearted, I feel my determination to stay away from him waver.
With an ache in my chest, I sigh heavily, pulling out my phone to check the convention’s website, scrolling through it to find the vendor map.
“It’s in the Royal Rose Ballroom,” he says, as if reading my mind.
We look up at the entrance of the rundown hotel at the same time and wince, taking in the ancient, two-star building that looks like it should be paying people to come inside instead of charging them.
“I find it a bit hard to believe this place has a ballroom,” I tell him. “But okay.”
He shrugs and we head for the front door together, his long legs matching my pace. “It doesn’t look like a big place, so I don’t think it’ll be too hard to find the guy I’ve been emailing with.”
We make it through the salmon-colored walls, past the front desk manned by the uninterested young woman filing her nails and find the entrance to the Royal Rose Ballroom on our own.
“Wow. This is…” My voice drifts off as we take in the image in front of us.
“Uh, yeah,” Knox agrees, adjusting his grip on the box. He pulls up our tickets on his phone and shows them to the agent—a gangly, red-headed teenager with an unfortunate amount of acne—who lazily waves us in.
With its peeling salmon wallpaper and bubbling paint on the ceiling, the ballroom looks anything but royal. Parts of what I think used to be a cream and gold carpet are now covered in dark beige and brown—water damage stains signaling several years’ worth of improperly fixed leaks.
The hotel has definitely seen better days—and the same can be said for the attendees of the convention.
As we walk around the ballroom peeking at all the different booths and vendors, it becomes painfully evident that we are by far the youngest attendees.
In fact, besides the occasional hotel employee or one-off visitor, most of the convention-goers don’t look a day under sixty-five.
But I don’t dwell too much on the structure or the people inside it too long.
It’s the convention itself that captivates me.
Fascinating, I think. My old VP of Retail brain begins to race as it absorbs the information around it, approximating the cost of a booth, transportation, and other expenses; calculating how much each vendor would have to net in order to break even; wondering what their margin per sale is; what their ROI is.
It wonders whether they’re all certified book conservators, how much it costs to get certified, if that’s even a thing you need to be certified in, how—
“Okay, so keep your eyes peeled for a booth called Lewis’s Literary Lifestyle.
The owner’s the one who offered to pay us three grand for this set of three, but I brought more books just in case we find more buyers.
” Knox cuts through my business brain ramblings, and I’m left shaken.
How long has it been since it ran off with random calculations?
It used to be second nature for me, something I couldn’t help, considering what I did for a living.
But I loved it; it always felt like a game or a puzzle to solve.
It’s like this whole reno and sale thing has awakened that side of me again.
And to be honest? I really don’t hate it.
I smile to myself once more, though for different reasons this time, and nod. “Okie dokie.”
He stops in his tracks to stare at me for a second, raising a brow, processing the shift in my mood. But I just roll my eyes at him with a laugh, and lightly shove his shoulder. “C’mon. I think I see the booth from here.”
Lewis turns out to be none other than a massive asshole.
A tall man in his seventies with a gray comb-over and a perma-frown, he crosses his arms in front of his chest, puckering his lips when he tells us “There’s a slight tear in the Ulysses.
And the pages on the Kerouac are more yellowed than the photos you emailed me the other day.
So I’m going to have to knock down my offer by a grand. ”
“What? That’s bullshit. That’s not even a tear! And the pages aren’t more yellowed than what I sent you.” Knox nearly growls.
“Young man, I’ve been doing this for most of my life. You think I don’t know a tear when I see one? And these pages are definitely not in the condition you sent me. Did you alter the photos? Did you use one of those filters you kids use for all the pictures you take for social media?”
Knox physically rears back. “Social med—” He scoffs, insulted. “I am a professional photographer,” he says, pointing to his ever-present camera bag, strapped across his chest. “I think I’d know if—”
I put a hand on his chest, whispering his name all while keeping my voice firm enough for him to focus back on me.
Knox’s eyes flash to mine—angry, frustrated—but he manages to catch himself.
I nod, trying to convey with a look that he should probably calm down because we’re clearly not getting anywhere here.
“Let’s get out of here,” I whisper in his ear, his sweet whiskey scent filling my lungs.
“No. We need the cash. I’ll figure something out. I promised you I’d get the money and I just fucking lost it with him and—” he whispers back, his voice only audible to me. With a sigh, he scratches his forehead. “I’m not going to fail you. I’m not going to let you down.”
My breath catches in my throat because there’s so much weight behind those words; I don’t think he’s just talking about the sale. “You haven’t let me down. This guy’s just an asshole; he’s not even worth negotiating with.”
I turn to face Lewis once more. “I think we’ll be taking our business elsewhere.”
Lewis’s eyes widen, his stance shifts, a snake ready to attack. “No. You kids—”
“What the hell are you doing, Lewis?” A bored, male voice from the next booth interrupts him. “Are you trying to scam more unsuspecting people?” He walks over to us and pulls our books from Lewis’s table, who tries to make a grab for them.
“Erwin, go back to your booth and stay the hell out of this,” Lewis growls, hands fisted on his hips.
Erwin, I assume, turns to me. “How much did he offer for all three?”
“Three grand originally. But now he’s asking two.”
“Two? Ha!” Erwin throws his head back and laughs in disbelief.
“You two are little mice who walked into a snake’s nest, kid.
” He turns to Lewis with a smile. “I’d tell you I’m disappointed in you, but I honestly didn’t expect anything less.
This James Joyce alone? It’s worth about twenty-five hundred at first glance.
Don’t believe a single word out of this crook’s mouth. ”
Slack-jawed, Knox and I look at Lewis, whose eyes are on Erwin. Through clenched teeth, he grumbles, “You know, you’re getting to be really bad for business.”
“You’re bad for your own business,” Erwin barks back. “Come with me, kids. Let’s look at what you got, and I’ll see if I can help you find someone to buy these from you. Unfortunately, these are out of my price range, so it won’t be me.” And with our books in hand, he walks off to his booth.
Knox and I turn to look at each other in confusion, until he shrugs and follows.
“Alright, so these right here will have a better shot at being sold separately, rather than in a group.” He examines one of the books a little closer, inspecting it for imperfections, I suppose.
“Which one of you set up that sale, by the way? Did you even do any research?”
I shoot Knox a look, and he blushes, looking away.
“I googled,” he replies, a bit defensive.
Erwin scoffs and shakes his head. “Google. Pfft!” After taking a few moments to carefully inspect the books, he straightens and looks at us both for a beat. “What are your names?” as if only now realizing he has no idea who we are.
My business brain wakes once more, hand shooting out to shake his with confidence. “Carlota Veracruz. Nice to meet you.” He takes my hand, grip firm in a way that makes me think he had a different career before entering the world of rare book trades.
“And you are…?” he asks Knox, brows raised as he shakes his now.
“I’m Knox Riddick, sir,” and for some reason the way he says it makes him look so young: nervous like a seventeen-year-old meeting the parents of his date for homecoming.
“Neither one of you knows anything about rare books, obviously. So how the hell did you come upon these copies?” His eyes bounce between us.
“I, uh, got these from my father. I think he was pretty involved in the community and in restoration.”
Understatement of the year, by the looks of the mess he left in his apartment.
“You think?” He hums, surveying our books with ultimate care. “What’s your father’s name, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Walter Adams.”
Erwin’s head snaps up to meet Knox’s face, a huge smile spreading across his face.