25. All Wires Crossed （Hattie）
ALL WIRES CROSSED (HATTIE)
I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I might have too many books.
Boxes are scattered across my living room floor, taped and labeled. Some filled to bursting, many way too heavy for one average girl to lift.
My mistake for buying up a heap of used romance books online plus some fancy new hardback special editions and having them shipped to my place for sorting before they go to the store.
Unfortunately, one average girl is in charge of hauling them right now.
Mom should drop by later to help load them into her more spacious SUV, but right now it’s just me finishing up the packing process.
Fine.
Obviously.
I definitely do not miss a certain mountain of a man with biceps for days. There’s nothing I want less than for him to turn up with an apology and a lot of muscle.
Sigh.
The acid vat is still my best option.
And yes, I’m aware I deserve better treatment than what Ethan Blackthorn delivered. I have to own it.
Mom might not be right about Ethan being a total piece of work, but I know I’m worth more than being chucked aside like an expired banana gone mushy.
Unforgivable, no matter his reasons.
I’m not even sure he can grovel his way back.
I legit want a man who loves me harder when times get rough. Somehow, I deluded myself into thinking Ethan might be him.
Now, all I have to do is figure out how to stop wishing he’ll ever fill that hole.
Margot recommends revenge. Pretty intense, coming from his own sister.
She’s probably thinking glitter bombs or pies to the face, but while that would be hilarious, my plan is a little different.
Living well.
Quietly and peacefully.
Never having to lay eyes on his smug, selfish face again.
The best kind of revenge served cold is showing the other person you don’t need them. Showing them exactly what they’re missing.
Right now, Ethan is missing out on not having to wrestle a few hundred pounds of books and ferry them to the store. But when Hat Trick Books reopens and becomes the best niche bookshop in Maine, then he’ll notice, and he’ll be miserable.
Wishful thinking.
I even have a revenge dress in my so-we-meet-again fantasies.
It’s red, backless, and there’s a slit up to my hip.
Margot called it devastating spy chick wear when I told her, and I’m inclined to agree. If Margot ever brings us together at some social event, you’d better believe I’m going to wear it like armor.
Eat your heart out, Mr. Jackwagon.
I am thriving .
At least, I will be once I’ve pushed through this hollow feeling and come out the other side. Preferably without blowing my back out today moving this much inventory.
Maybe someday I’ll buckle down and write my own book.
A life story about a shy girl who used to wear glasses and have frizzy hair, and her journey to single Cinderellahood. And, naturally, the idiot prince who threw away his chance to be with her.
But daydreams won’t help me get this done faster.
Sighing, I set down another box and grab a Sharpie, scribbling Romantic Suspense on the side.
Hat Trick Books is going to be dreamy as hell, a haven for the dark and stormy stuff alongside the lighter slapstick rom-coms. The best dreams come from the pages of brilliant writers who capture love and heartbreak like a fisherman trawling the waters for lobster.
As I box the books by category and seal them up, I dream about what I would do if I was a struggling writer. The greats never quit when they hit a wall.
They always find a way to reignite their creativity and punch right through it, charging back better than ever.
And rave success usually means you fall in love.
Jane Austen never married and look at her.
Absolute powerhouse.
She made history say ‘daddy’ and carved her name on its skin, even if she never enjoyed much fame while she was alive.
Hmmm.
What would Jane Austen do?
Not sit around moping and waiting for things to happen, that’s for sure.
With a lion-sized yawn, I finish taping another box of reverse harem fantasy books, then add it to the corner where the finished boxes are.
I’m overdue for a coffee break.
It’s nearly ten a.m. and I’ve been at this since seven.
Mom should be here soon.
That’s one huge silver lining since the ugly breakup. After seeing me hurt, Mom is acting like everything a mom should be.
No more digs about my weight.
No more pushing swamp juice.
She keeps sharing fresh ideas for the bookstore, articles about mad successes across the world and cute little Pinterest boards with décor ideas.
Some of her ideas are out there, because hey, it’s Mom.
Her latest brainworm is having a yoga section in the back room, surrounded by books about wellness and meditation.
Of course, she included a mile-long list of titles by yoga gurus and fitness freaks to stockpile.
Not quite the direction I’m aiming for, but I appreciate her enthusiasm.
My vision feels more universal, and if I’m lucky, it’ll pay off too.
It’s going to be a shrine to popular genres, especially the ones loved by my fellow ladies, the biggest readers of them all.
Romance, thrillers, historical fiction, fantasy.
I want to promote the hell out of successful women authors, too.
There’ll be a shelf for local writers, a Booktok/Bookstagram section, and eventually, an outreach program for young adult readers.
I want my book shrine to jive with Portland seamlessly, locals and happy tourists alike.
In time, I want my store to make a difference. To matter to folks who want a human face and a fun conversation with a fellow reader whenever they come searching for their next true love between the covers.
If I can help get folks genuinely excited about reading again, the money will come.
I just know it.
No more barriers.
No more staged influencers who only promote the popular books for views.
No more detached online orders where an AI algorithm shoves your next book in your face.
I want to deliver nostalgia. The full experience of roaming the shelves and feeling the print in your hands.
I want customers drowning in the smell of books, new and old, and have them free to flop down in cozy chairs and let the books hook them right in the store.
If I can achieve that—if I can spark a few miracles—it’ll all be worth it.
Adrenaline feeds the giddiness in my blood.
Oh, yes, I want payback for Ethan and his heartbreaky ways. But more than that, I want meaning.
I want to hook people up with the books that will inspire them for years to come.
I want wisdom to flow like inked words, true and beautiful, the moral compass that never disappoints.
Unlike so many people.
With a little cold brew from the fridge in hand and reenergized, I finish packing my last box and eye the door.
Time to get these babies down to the parking lot so Mom can transport them to the bookstore.
At least the elevator works today—that’s never guaranteed in this building.
I bend down and lift the first box, groaning at the weight.
My knees tremble.
My tired arms threaten to dislocate from my shoulders.
I know, I know.
I need to start a gym routine, or at least do a few kettlebells at home.
Slowly, I stagger down the hall to the elevator and dump the box in the small lobby.
It’s a quiet building, especially this early, so I’m not worried about anyone taking them.
Now, for the next box.
And the next.
By the time I’ve lugged down eight boxes of over four hundred paperbacks, my back is ruined.
I stretch out in the elevator, bracing one hand against the wall as I tap the button for the lobby.
Mom greets me as I’m carrying the last box outside. She’s wearing pretty olive pants and a white tank top today.
“Hi, Mom,” I grunt, half-bowed over by the weight of the books. “Are your seats down?” I let her guide me with one hand on my arm to the car.
Between us, we wrangle the first box in.
“Only three hundred and fifty more books to go,” I mutter.
“What?” Mom’s mouth parts in horror. “Tell me you’re kidding, Hattie.”
I smile sheepishly.
“It goes faster than it looks, especially with your help.” I turn, reluctantly ready to get the next box, when a car screams into the parking lot.
Margot.
She lurches to a stop across three parking spaces and cuts the engine. When she opens the door, Ares jumps out.
“Is he here?” Margot demands, her eyes looking around wildly.
Ares bellows excitedly and runs at me, banging against my knees as his tail swishes the air.
Wow.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen this old dog move so fast.
His happy hand licks bring back bittersweet memories. Like how Ethan used to think the dog was such a burden, only to wind up with a new best friend.
…but why is Ares with Margot?
My heart sinks.
“Hey, boy,” I whisper, dropping to my knees so Ares can lick my face, chasing back my tears before they start. “Long time no see.”
Margot turns to Mom, her always stylish heels glittering in the yellow sunlight.
“Is Ethan here?” she demands, almost winded.
Ethan again.
I should’ve known.
His name rocks through me, and I straighten up, wiping my cheeks with the back of my hand. Only to wipe away Ares’ drool, of course.
“Ethan?” I ask.
“Yes, Ethan,” Margot says impatiently. “I guess that’s a no? If he is, do not let him back in easy .”
I don’t understand.
“Why would he be?” I’m so stunned it’s hard to speak.
“I don’t know. I just thought he’d—never mind.
Honestly, I don’t know where he’s gone.” Margot rakes a hand through her hair.
“He left hours ago, last night, but it was so abrupt. Someone had to stay with Ares and I couldn’t go chasing after him.
I—God. After the way he acted, I really thought he might come here, but—”
“There’s no reason for that, Gigi,” I say flatly. “He hasn’t said a word to me since I left.”
“Total knuckle-brain,” she mutters. “Well, in that case, I’m out of ideas.”
“What happened?” Mom interjects. “This seems serious.”