TWO JORDIE
TWO
JORDIE
Isit on the carpeted floor of Eleanor’s Book Barn, resettling in the corner that has felt vaguely mine since I moved back from Sydney to shift to a nursing degree.
Eleanor could put up a sign. Reserved for Jordie Mitchell and her terrible coping mechanisms. Not that anyone else seems inclined to marinate on bookstore floors for hours. Apparently, that’s my thing.
I have five books stacked in front of me like they’re competing for a rose on a literary version of The Bachelor.
It’s the ritual. The whole performance of picking the one. The book that’ll live on my nightstand, get shoved into my bag, and annotated within an inch of its margins until historians declare me emotionally unstable.
Pride and Prejudice. I already own it. But not this clothbound edition with gold-foiled edges and delicate illustrations. Mr. Darcy silently brooding in the corner of a ballroom sounds like the perfect antidote to today’s haughty doctor.
Anna Karenina. Has sprayed edges and French flaps, which means it’s completely different from the battered paperback I already own. Totally justifies buying it again.
Then there are the books I haven’t read. The ones that have been sitting on my mental Tbr for years, judging me.
The Count of Monte Cristo. Long as hell. Do I want to commit to revenge and betrayal right now? Actually . . . given this morning’s shift, it’s looking pretty damn appealing.
Villette. Charlotte Bronte’s darker, lonelier sibling to Jane Eyre. Supposedly soul-crushing. Emotional ruin this week? Sure. Between that and my uterus staging a coup, what’s a little more suffering?
The Custom of the Country. Supposedly Edith Wharton’s sharpest social satire. And honestly? I’m in the mood for pettiness and high-society backstabbing.
I’m still undecided. I need a sign from the universe. Maybe the bookshop ghost could knock one off the shelf for me?
My phone rings so loudly that it startles me.
I answer immediately. “Tell me you’re back in Townsville.”
“I wish. I’m still in Brisbane, still stuck in a negotiation loop,” Leith sighs. “Where are you, House Mouse?”
“Eleanor’s.”
Leith makes a sound that’s part groan, part amusement. “Of course. And how long have you been agonizing over which book to buy this time?”
I glance outside. Sunlight has now been replaced by streetlamp light. “No comment.”
“Right. Which poor classics are on trial today?”
I flick through the stack. “Mr. Darcy in a fancy new suit, Tolstoy’s spiral into despair, Dumas’s take on revenge. The usual suspects.”
“Normal Tuesday then,” Leith snorts. “You know what I’m going to say.”
I sigh. “Buy them all.”
“Buy them all,” he confirms.
Of course, he’d say that. Leithon Morgans—Luxeon Suites World Hotels CEO, genius businessman, rich as a royal divorce settlement, and could buy the whole bookstore without denting his bank account.
“Can’t.” I rest my head against the bookshelf. “Didn’t pick up many shifts this month.”
I don’t need to tell him why.
He knows. Has known. Will always know.
Leith is quiet for a beat. The kind of pause that holds everything he could say—then lets it go.
“Well, if it makes you feel better, I’m about to murder someone,” he says, smoothly changing the subject. “Visit me in prison?”
“After my morning today, we could be cellmates.” I shift the phone to my other ear. “You first.”
Leith’s words come fast. “This jackass CEO’s sitting on the last building I need.
I offered Vincent Harrow six times what his precious Iverton Hotel is worth.
He doesn’t care about the deal. Just wants to waste my time and see how much more he can squeeze out of the billionaire with a bleeding heart. ”
“Leith . . .” I start, but I don’t even know what I want to say that won’t sound like useless platitudes.
He lets out a short laugh—humorless and brittle. “You know what’s funny? I’ve been playing by the rules. But they’d rather play dirty. They don’t realize how much filthier I’m willing to get.”
“You’re doing a good thing, Leith,” I assure him.
For a moment, he says nothing. Then, when he speaks again, the sharpness is gone, replaced by something worn at the edges.
“I don’t know, Jords. All anyone else sees is a goddamn price tag. It’s fucking exhausting talking about lives when the only language people understand is profit.”
His voice dips on the last word, quieter now.
Something in my chest cleaves. Because for nearly a decade, Leith has been fighting, pushing, buying, building, and making sure no one else has to live through what he did that night.
And for the first time, it sounds like he’s wondering if it’s even possible to win.
I search for something to say. Something that won’t sound empty.
On the other end, there’s a pause—then a shift in his voice. Lighter. Tightly reined.
“Anyway,” Leith says breezily, “murder’s still an option. Now tell me yours.”
I snort. “Your murder is justifiable. Mine’s just petty.”
“That’s what lawyers are for,” he replies, deadpan. “Now, spill.”
I growl, dragging a hand through my hair, “It’s this hotshot anesthetist who thinks he’s God’s gift to med—”
Before I can finish, someone walks directly into my stack of books.
“Hey!” I yelp, dropping my phone as Pride and Prejudice and Anna Karenina topple over, skidding across the floor.
“Oh, shit. Sorry,” a voice rushes out, already bending down to grab them. “I’ll . . .”
The apology dies mid-sentence.
You have got to be kidding me!
Of course it’s him.
Dr. Callum Docsplain-My-Chart Han.
I lift the phone back to my ear. “Better call your lawyers, Leith. Eleanor’s Book Barn’s about to become a crime scene.”
I hang up and scramble on my hands and knees, grabbing Pride and Prejudice before Callum can plant his large leather oxfords and arrogance on it again. His shoes—polished and expensive—mock me at eye level, looking just as pretentious as the man wearing them.
I clutch the book to my chest as if it were a rescued infant, and immediately start inspecting it for damage.
Then I turn to him, still very much on the floor, holding up Pride and Prejudice like I’m presenting a rare artifact.
“Do you have any idea how special this is?”
I check the corners. No bent edges.
Callum does not look moved. “It’s a book.”
I gape at him, aghast. “It’s not just a book, you literary heathen. This is a special edition.” I shake it slightly for emphasis. “They only send ten copies to regional bookstores.”
He looks supremely unimpressed. “Okay?”
“Okay?” I echo, scandalized. “No, it’s not okay.
If I hadn’t grabbed it first, some girl with a Pinterest-inspired bookshelf and a penchant for beige aesthetics would have waltzed in here, bought it for Tinder date talking points, and then—” I lower my voice to a horrified whisper, “never even read it.”
I inspect the pages for scuff marks.
“That’s . . . tragic?”
“It is!” I throw up a hand. “They wouldn’t even know Darcy’s first name!”
“Fitzwilliam,” Callum says blandly.
I freeze. Then tilt my head up to meet his eyes. “What?”
He shrugs, completely unbothered. “Darcy’s first name. Fitzwilliam. You were saying?”
Before I can even begin to unpack the fact that he knows that, I push myself up to stand. A sharp pain knifes through my lower abdomen. I suck in a breath, knees locking with the ache. My hand presses against my belly—useless, but instinctive.
“Are you—” Callum’s voice cuts in, immediate.
I barely register the movement, but his hand lifts halfway between steadying me and reaching for my wrist. Then, just as quickly, he pulls back. His fingers twitch once before he crosses his arms.
I straighten, exhaling through my teeth, forcing the pain away.
Pride and Prejudice is still clutched in my hand, rescued from the floor where his giant feet nearly stomped it into an early grave. Deciding this is the one, I absently set it on the shelf beside me, freeing up my hands to shove my phone in my bag and get my wallet.
“Do you always sit on the floor of a bookstore like some kind of feral goblin?” he says, tone aiming for clever but landing squarely in ass-holey territory. “Or is this a special occasion?”
The textbook in his hand gets my attention. The Silent Leader: Advanced Anesthetic Practice the bell above the door giving a bright jingle.
“I was going to buy that!” I exclaim.
He lifts his bag and flashes me a whoopsie-daisy, not-remotely-sorry grin. “Then you should have bought faster.”
And just like that, he steps into the night; the door swinging shut behind him.
I stare at the spot where he stood, livid and personally victimized.
Then I spin toward Eleanor. “Elle, we need to take action.”
She blinks, amused. “Oh?”
“Yes. We should print his picture, slap a ‘Menace to Society’ label on it, and post it here by your door. Ban him!”
Before she can protest, I yank my phone out, pull up the Hospital Network page, and thrust it in front of her.
“This is the man who just committed a literary crime!”
The photo is standard-issue professional.
Sharp suit, perfectly pressed. Jet-black hair neatly styled.
Broad shoulders that make the frame look smaller than it is.
Strong jaw. Brown eyes fixed on the camera with a glare that suggests the photographer got exactly one shot before being professionally disemboweled.
Eleanor tilts her head, then reaches for her glasses, perching them on the tip of her nose. She peers over them, studying the screen as if she’s evaluating fine art.
Then, to my utter horror, she smiles.
“Well, dear, this might help drive in more female customers. Don’t you see?” She turns my phone back to me.
I gape at her. “NO! I do not see.”
. . . Okay, maybe I see . . . a little.
Because I have eyes.
I groan, shoving my phone into my bag like that’ll somehow erase the last thirty seconds of my life. “Eleanor, you’re supposed to be on my side.”
She just chuckles, entirely unrepentant, and returns to stacking books.
Meanwhile, I’m left to wander the aisles like a tragic literary heroine—heart heavy, soul burdened—forever haunted by the book that got away.