Chapter 1 The Bookstore Encounter #2
“Only the ones looking for The Little Prince.”
“That’s a very specific rule.”
“It’s a very specific book.”
She nods slowly. “Fair.”
There’s a brief pause between us. Not awkward. Just… quiet. She flips the book open absentmindedly, scanning the first page before closing it again carefully.
“You come here often?” she asks.
I gesture vaguely around the store. “More than is probably healthy.”
Her gaze drifts across the shelves. “It’s nice,” she says softly.
“It is.”
“My father loved places like this,” she continues. “Small bookstores. Second-hand shops. He said the best stories always hide in quiet places.”
I feel something tighten faintly in my chest at that. “My mother used to say the same thing.”
Her head lifts slightly. “Really?”
I nod. “She loved bookstores.”
“What about you?” I glance around the room.
The wooden shelves. The crooked stacks of novels. The quiet rustle of pages somewhere behind us. “I grew up in them,” I say simply.
She smiles faintly. “That explains the detective-level book recognition.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“Occupational?” she repeats.
I realize I might have revealed more than intended. “Let’s just say books are… involved in my job.”
Her curiosity sharpens immediately. “What do you do?”
“I run a publishing house.” Her eyebrows lift.
“That sounds impressive.”
“It mostly involves reading manuscripts and drinking too much coffee.”
“And deciding people’s literary futures?”
I shrug. “Occasionally.”
She studies me again. “You do look like you are not the corporate type.”
I snort softly. “My father would agree with you.”
“What did he do?”
“Built companies.”
“And you chose books.”
“Yes.”
Her smile grows slightly. “Rebellious. Love that for you.”
“I prefer the term selective.” She laughs again. This time the sound is lighter. Less forced. I realize I like that sound. Probably more than I should considering I met her five minutes ago.
She tucks the book under her arm, glancing down the aisle as if suddenly remembering something. “I should probably buy this before someone else grabs it.”
“Highly unlikely,” I say.
“Why?”
“Because no one else in this store was desperately searching for it five minutes ago.”
She narrows her eyes playfully. “You’re very confident.”
“I’m just very observant.”
“Is that why you think you can read minds?”
“Partly.”
“And the other part?”
I lean closer slightly. “Instinct.”
Her eyes meet mine. There’s a brief moment where neither of us looks away. Then she breaks the eye contact first, clearing her throat softly. “Well,” she says, shifting the book slightly in her hands. “Your instincts were correct.”
“About what?”
“That I needed this.”
She taps the cover gently. “My father used to read it whenever things got… difficult.”
The pause between those words is subtle. But I notice it. “Things are difficult right now?” I ask quietly.
She hesitates. Then she laughs lightly. “You’re very perceptive for someone I met six minutes ago.” I raise an eyebrow, “I’m timing it.”
“That’s concerning.”
“I’m invested now.” I smile softly, trying to encourage her while wondering why am I still conversing with this woman.
“In what?”
“Your mysterious life problems.”
She shakes her head slightly. “You don’t want to get invested in that.”
“Try me.”
For a moment she doesn’t answer. Instead she studies my face carefully, like she’s deciding something. Finally she sighs softly.
“My father passed away five years ago,” she says.
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
She shifts her weight slightly against the shelf.
“He ran a small business,” she continues. “And when he died… everything fell on me.”
“Everything?”
“Debts. Loans. Responsibilities.”
Her smile this time is thin. “And a seven-year-old brother.”
That catches my attention. “You’re raising him?”
She nods. “Pretty much.”
“That’s… a lot.”
“Tell me about it.” She says it lightly, but I can see the exhaustion hiding beneath the humor.
“And the debts?” I ask carefully.
She looks away. “They’re catching up.”
Something about the way she says it makes my stomach tighten slightly. “How bad?” I ask.
She hesitates. Then shrugs. “Let’s just say the bank and I have become very close friends lately.”
I’m quiet for a moment. A strange thought begins forming in the back of my mind. Ridiculous. Impractical. But also… strangely logical. She notices my expression immediately.
“That look worries me.”
“What look?”
“The one where you’re clearly thinking something dangerous.”
I exhale slowly. “You’re going to think I’m insane.”
“Probably.”
I nod. “Fair.”
I pause for a second before saying it. “I need a wife.”
She stares at me as if I have gone insane which I might have. “I’m sorry?”
“I need to get married within a year.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “That’s… a very dramatic sentence to say in a bookstore to a complete stranger.”
“It’s also legally accurate.” I explain briefly. The will. The condition. The publishing house. She listens without interrupting. When I finish, she crosses her arms.
“So let me get this straight.”
“Go ahead.”
“You need a wife to keep your company.”
“Yes.”
“And you just told that to a stranger who came here looking for a childhood book.”
“That’s the situation.”
She stares at me. Then suddenly she laughs. Not politely. Not awkwardly. Actually laughs. “You’re serious.”
“Completely.”
“And your solution was to recruit someone in a bookstore?”
“I prefer the term propose a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
“That sounds even more suspicious.”
I smile slightly. “Maybe.”
She tilts her head.
“And what exactly are you proposing?”
I meet her gaze directly. “You need financial stability.” Her expression stills slightly.
“I need a wife.” The air between us shifts.
“Marry me for a year,” I say calmly. “And I’ll solve your financial problem.
” Silence settles between us. She looks at me like she’s trying to determine whether I’ve completely lost my mind.
“Do you realize how insane that sounds?” she says slowly.
“Yes.”
“And you’re still saying it.”
“Yes.”
She studies my face carefully.
“You’re not joking.”
“No.”
Another pause. Then she looks down at the book in her hands. Her fingers tighten slightly around the cover. Finally she exhales.
“I need time,” she says quietly.
“That’s fair.”
She nods once. Then she looks up again.
“Thank you for the book,” she says softly.
“You’re welcome.”
She hesitates a moment longer before turning toward the counter. "Wait," I call out. She turns back to face me, her hair falling on her face, she's gorgeous, "I didn't catch your name."
"Divya," She says softly and when our eyes meet I don't want to look away. So I do what naturally comes to me, I walk towards her.
Hands in my pocket, I hand my business card to her, "It was so nice to meet you, Divya.
" I smile. She takes the card from my hand, ours eyes still locked, I inhale deeply when our fingers brush, she smiles one last time and turns away her hair hair hitting me in process and I pick a hint of rose, that's how her hair smells.
And as I watch her walk away—I realize something strange.
For the first time since my father’s will forced the word marriage into my life—the idea suddenly doesn’t feel impossible anymore.