Chapter One #2
The readers are primarily worried about being treated like unicorns—you know, rare sights to gawk at, prod, and tease.
The others would either prefer to be anywhere but in a "bookstore for chicks," or they think romance books are a waste of time and are only here to buy themselves out of whatever trouble they've gotten into.
There are a rare few male readers who don't give a shit what anyone thinks and enjoy their smut proudly. And there are those from the other camp who fully support the reading habits of the women in their lives, even if they'd rather not spend their time in the store, surrounded by manchest.
Judging by the look on this man's face, he does not belong to the first camp—the one full of men who actually enjoy reading smut, whether secretly or out loud and proud.
His lips press into a line as his gaze flicks around the store like he's sizing the place up and doesn't like any of what he sees.
Rude.
We worked hard on this store. Frankly, it's amazing.
The walls are painted a deep purple, making the space seem even larger than it already is.
The shelves are plum, with funny signs and book dragons strategically placed between rows of books.
With the couches, chairs, and plush rugs, it feels more like a cozy home library than an impersonal bookstore, which is just the vibe I wanted.
People should feel at home here. They should want to curl up with a book and get lost for a while. Comfortable readers are happy readers. We even have bookish blankets they can buy to snuggle in while they read, and a café offering coffee, tea, and baked goods.
"Can I help you find something today?" I ask, drawing to a stop in front of him.
He blinks down at me like he's just noticing me for the first time. His gaze runs over me, his expression changing from bored disinterest to…something else.
His gaze drops to my chest, and I quickly cross my arms, just in case he can see how hard my nipples are. Wireless T-shirt bras are the best thing ever, but they do absolutely nothing to hide what needs to be hidden.
"What kind of store is this?" he asks, and oh, wow, that deep, husky voice is incredible. The question, however, is nine kinds of confusing.
"What?"
"What kind of store is this?" he repeats.
"I heard you the first time," I murmur. "I'm just not sure I understand the question. This is obviously a bookstore, hence the shelves full of books."
"I've never been in a bookstore where people dance around, chanting about sex toys before." He cocks a brow. "Is that typical of most women's bookstores?"
"Depends," I say. "Was the dancing any good?"
He eyes me levelly, clearly not impressed by the question or the free show he got. Awesome. He has no sense of humor.
"So you're one of those," I say, sighing heavily. Why am I not surprised? A man this gorgeous has to have one fatal flaw. His is, unfortunately, the stick I didn't notice shoved up his ass. I guess there are judgmental prudes in every state, even California.
"Excuse me? One of what?"
"One of those," I repeat, tipping my head to the side to look up at him.
"Men who think women should be seen and not heard, and God forbid if one enjoys romance, sex, or the occasional spontaneous happy dance.
Frankly, sir, if you don't want your wife or girlfriend reading, that's a you problem.
We were granted equal rights a long time ago.
" I huff a breath. "And if you treated toys like teammates instead of the enemy, you'd probably be far better off. "
"Who says I don't?" he practically growls at me. And dammit, why does he have to sound like he should be growling filth to me instead?
Oh, right. Because I'm delusional, that's why. I doubt he does dirty talk. He probably has missionary sex with his socks on and the lights off.
Honestly, all that hotness is wasted on him.
"Your attitude says it for you," I mutter, and then suck in a deep breath.
Antagonizing him probably isn't going to make him want to buy anything, but…
it's the price he pays for annoying me with his holier-than-thou attitude.
Store rules. "Did you stop in just to criticize our dancing and the store, or can I help you find something? "
"I'm not here for the books," he growls.
"Surprise, surprise." I really need to stop while I'm ahead. Really, I do. But he's hot and judgmental. He needs to pick a lane because it should be illegal to be both.
"My name is Lincoln Hanover. I came to speak to the owner."
His name is familiar, though I'm not sure why. Definitely not because my brother is also named Lincoln. My brother isn't judgmental. He's amazing, and gay. Maybe this Lincoln's name is on a billboard or something. I flash him a bright, saccharine smile. "Congratulations. You've found her."
He blinks at me like I managed to catch him off guard. "You're the owner?"
"Yes." I narrow my eyes at him, even more annoyed by his tone now.
It's so…insulting. "Refer back to the equal rights statement I made earlier.
I'm sure you'll find it enlightening about what women can and can't do in the twenty-first century.
You know we're even allowed to open our own bank accounts now? "
He growls at me, actually growls. For some reason, the sound makes me smile, an actual smile this time. He is so annoyed. Good. That makes two of us.
Did he come here just to insult me and my store?
"I'm well aware of the 19th Amendment," he says. "It may surprise you to know that I'm even aware that women marched and lobbied for their rights."
I hit him with a slow clap, which makes Jazz snort laughter from behind the counter. Sarah is nowhere to be seen, probably hiding in the back.
He eyes me like he's thinking about bending me over and spanking me. Huh. I bet he'd be less annoying with his hand on my ass.
"Good for you," I mutter. "You know history. Now, how can I help you?"
To my surprise, he doesn't answer right away.
Instead, he just stares at me for a long moment, his gaze flickering between annoyance and something else.
It could be amusement. Maybe it's curiosity.
I'm not sure. And then he mutters a curse under his breath and reaches into his breast pocket, pulling out a neatly folded sheaf of papers. He holds them out toward me.
"What is this?"
"Notice that I intend to buy your building."
"What?" I blink at him, caught off guard.
"I've made an offer to your landlord. Since you have the right of first refusal, he requires that you be notified of my intent to purchase so you can make a counteroffer." Lincoln smirks at me. "This contains the details of my offer."
My mind spins, trying to catch up with what he's saying. He's trying to buy my building? What the fuck? Gary promised to let me buy it as soon as I could safely afford it. He swore he wouldn't put it on the market until I was ready!
"You're the real estate developer," I blurt, realization dawning a little too late.
Of course his name is familiar. He's been buying up buildings all over downtown, promising to revitalize and modernize the area, as if new somehow magically means better.
Maybe that's true for iPhones and televisions, but buildings are different.
Old ones like this have charm and stories that newer constructions lack.
"You aren't buying my building," I growl, ready to strangle him. Hell will freeze over before I let him buy it and turn it into condos or a Starbucks or whatever the hell he thinks progress looks like. This building has been a bookstore, damn near since it was built in the 1930s.
"I'm afraid I am," he says, his tone almost…gentle. "Unless you can come up with two and a half million in the next thirty days."
"Two and a half what?" Jazz practically shrieks.
I echo her sentiments, if not her tone. That's almost double the figure Gary gave me when we discussed me buying the building!
"Two and a half million," Lincoln says, his gaze flickering from me to her and then back.
I snatch the papers from his hand like a feral woman, my heart thudding against my ribcage as I skim through the document. He isn't joking. His company has put in a two-point-five-million-dollar offer on the building. Unless I can match or beat it, he's going to buy my building.
That cracking sound? Yeah, that's my dream, shattering at my feet.
I don't have two and a half million. I don't even have the million that Gary wanted initially. Moving, decorating, building a café, and buying stock cost money. So does hiring help. A lot of money, actually.
I'm going to be sick.
My hands shake as I crumple the papers, glaring daggers at him. "You aren't buying my store."
"I am."
"I'll chain myself to the building before I let you and your soulless, money-grubbing company buy it," I vow, meaning every word. If he wants to bulldoze my dream, he'll have to take me with it because I'm not letting him win. Hell no.
The way he smiles at me makes my blood boil. It also makes my clit twitch, but that's beside the point.
"You have thirty days, sweetness. If you haven't made an offer by then, the building is mine. Chains or no chains."
"Get out," I growl, shoving my hands into my pockets before I do something crazy. I'd much rather read about someone burying bodies than do it myself, thank you very much. But I might just make an exception for Lincoln Hanover.
"And shove your checkbook where the sun doesn't shine!" Jazz calls to him.
Lincoln just chuckles, winks at me, and then strolls out like he didn't just drop a bomb right in the middle of my dream and then watch it detonate.
There's evil…and then there's Lincoln Hanover.
Who knew the devil would look so damn good in expensive Italian silk?