Chapter Three
Lilah
The universe is out to get me. I know this because nothing is going my way, not since Lincoln Hanover appeared in my shop to ruin my life two days ago.
First, he dropped his bomb. Then, an entire shipment of books went MIA. And then Sarah caught the flu, leaving us down a woman for Cassia Murphy's book reading tonight.
The store is packed to the rafters. I'm not frazzled. I'm whatever comes after that. Jazz and Olive are doing their best to help. Even Loralei jumped in to help, but we're seriously outnumbered.
Maybe adding a fundraising component to the reading was a bit of an overreach. Everyone has been swarming the counter all night to buy tickets for the massive raffle basket Cassia and her husband helped put together. The money is going to a women's shelter.
"We need more wine!" Jazz whisper-hisses, her eyes wide as she scurries around the side of the counter where Olive and I are doing our best to ring up customers and wrap up books before they mutiny over the wait.
Loralei is working the café by herself. Thank God Cassia brought her husband with her because I have no one left to station at her table to help her.
"Check in the back," I mutter to Jazz. "Oliver's brother delivered more first thing this morning." Thankfully, I planned ahead and asked Lucy to send two more cases. We're going through bottles like it's nothing tonight!
"Excuse me." A woman in a miniskirt and heels higher than my blood pressure steps up to the counter, holding a special edition of Fourth Wing in her hands. Where she got it from, I don't know. I thought we sold out of them last week. "Is this really sixty dollars?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Cool," she whispers, staring at the book like it's the Holy Grail. "I want it." She thrusts it out toward me.
"You'll have to wait in line." I nod at the line of customers waiting to check out.
"Oh." She beams at me. "But I'm a regular."
"And we adore you for it," I say with a forced smile. "But so are a lot of them. Please wait in line, and I'll get you checked out just as soon as I can."
"Ugh. Fine." She rolls her eyes and then stomps away, muttering under her breath.
Awesome. I'll probably have a bad Google review tomorrow. Oh well. That's a tomorrow problem. Today, I need a stiff drink, a whole line of Oreos, and a long soak in the tub.
"We're out of tissue paper," Olive announces beside me.
I was wrong. I don't need a line of Oreos. I need the whole pack.
"Check the back."
"I already did."
"That'll be thirty-seven dollars and nineteen cents," I murmur to the sweet old lady in front of me before turning to Olive. "Can you take over here, and I'll go look?"
"You want me to run the register?" She eyes the screen like she's worried she'll break it.
"You'll do fine. All you have to do is scan the barcodes and follow the prompts." A toddler could operate the register, so I'm absolutely confident that Olive—with her advanced degree in biochemistry—can handle it.
"Okay," she says with a shrug. "But if I break something, it's your own fault, and I probably won't be very sorry."
I just shake my head and leave her to it, hurrying toward the back.
"Next time we do a reading, we're hiring extra help," Jazz swears, her arms loaded with bottles of wine.
"We hired Olive and Loralei to help out."
"Fine. We're hiring extra, extra help," she retorts. "This is a madhouse."
"Maybe we overcommitted," I mutter.
"Maybe?" Her brows shoot up. "I'm pretty sure we broke the fire code thirty people ago, Lilah! This is wild."
She isn't wrong. I did not expect this kind of turnout.
It's like half the women in Santa Maria turned up to meet Cassia Murphy tonight, drink wine, and try to win that basket.
Or maybe half the women in Santa Maria turned up to ogle Cassia's husband, Cord.
Either way, half of them are in my store, drinking copious amounts of wine, and buying everything.
It's not a complaint. I promise. Just a note to self to hire extra reinforcements next time we book a cowboy author married to a real-life hot cowboy.
"Five hundred more nights like this, and I might actually be able to afford to buy this place," I murmur.
"You need to call your dad," Jazz says, the same thing she's said half a dozen times since Lincoln Hanover—the devil—waltzed in and ruined my day.
"It's not his job to bail me out," I say, the same thing I've said every time she brings it up.
Besides, my parents already set up a trust fund for each of us kids.
They gave us one million each to get us started in life.
It's not their responsibility to step in and give me more now.
Unlike a lot of people who make what my dad does, my parents actually taught us the importance of hard work and the value of a dollar.
I want to make them proud.
"You think Grant would be upset about helping you?" Jazz looks at me like I'm crazy. "Your dad adores you, Lilah. He'd probably kill for you guys without hesitation if he thought it was necessary. And it's not like what you need for the building will break him."
"That's beside the point," I mutter.
"Then what is the point?" she demands. "Because you're about to lose the store you've dreamed about your whole life, because you're too stubborn to ask for help."
"The point is that he already gave me a million dollars. How many twenty-five-year-olds are given a million dollars to use however they want? Not many, but they still make it work," I say. "And if they can do it without the safety net I had, then I need to learn to do it, too."
Jazz stares at me for a long moment and then shakes her head like I'm a lost cause. Maybe I am, but I can't just ask my dad to bail me out every time life throws a curveball my way. If I can't make this dream work on my own, maybe it's not meant to work.
"We're so not finished discussing this," Jazz says. "But I have wine to deliver before they riot out there."
"Yeah, yeah." I wave her off, already hunting through boxes of books for the tissue paper I'm absolutely sure is back here. There's no way we're out of it already. I just reordered it two weeks ago.
"Lilah!" Olive shouts from the front.
Crap. I give up the search and grab a box of Kraft paper, deciding to wing it for now and find the monogrammed tissue paper later, when we actually have time to search for it.
I scurry to the front, expecting a disaster. What I get isn't that. It's six-odd-feet of gorgeous irritation, still wrapped in expensive Italian silk.
"You aren't welcome here," I growl, dropping the paper onto the counter beside Olive while scowling daggers at Lincoln. "You need to leave."
"I came to talk," he says quietly, and then grimaces. "I just didn't realize you were holding a party."
"It's not a party. It's a book reading, you know, one of those things where an author reads from his or her book?
" I pop a hand on my hip, still glaring at him.
"Of course, you don't know what that is since the last thing you probably read was the contract you signed with Satan when you sold your soul. "
His lips actually twitch. "You think I sold my soul?"
"No, actually. I'm not sure you had one to begin with." I eye him up and down. "Where do you hide the horns and tail?"
"If the devil looks like him, I ain't done nearly enough sinning in my life," the middle-aged woman Olive is checking out says, eyeing him up and down. Her comment sends her friend into hysterical laughter.
Olive hides a smile behind her hand.
Lincoln finds the situation less funny. His almost-smile falls, his eyes narrowing on me. "I see you're still being difficult."
Oh no. I know he didn't.
"Difficult?" I hiss, pretty sure steam is coming out of my ears. "If you don't get out of my store right now, I swear to God, I'm going to show you difficult, Lincoln Hanover."
"Is that a threat or a promise, sweetness?"
The sound that leaves my mouth is fifty percent indignant squawk, fifty percent growl, and one hundred percent unhinged.
If there weren't two hundred witnesses, I'd strangle him with his own expensive tie right here and now.
Unfortunately, half the damn store is watching us like we're acting out their favorite billionaire romance and will be getting down and dirty in the next five seconds.
For the record, that's not happening. I don't care how pretty he is or what my clit has to say about it. I'd rather fuck a velociraptor. And monster romance isn't even my thing.
"Get. Out," I growl, stomping around the counter toward him. "Before I have you forcibly removed."
"I'll go, but only if you agree to have dinner with me first."
"Oh, I like him," the woman at the counter whispers, watching us with avid interest. Even Olive—the traitor—is staring instead of working. Half the damn store is staring.
What happened to solidarity? To chicks before dicks? To…to…to whatever it's called when women support other women instead of hot demons in suits?
"I am not having dinner with you."
"Then I'm not leaving." He plants his feet, his arms crossed like he's prepared to stand there all night. He probably is, dammit. I bet he routinely harasses people like some crime boss hitting up the laundry mat for their monthly street tax.
I can fight fire with fire, though. Hell yes, I can.
I hold his gaze while placing two fingers between my lips. The whistle that erupts splits the air, silencing everyone. Curiosity flickers in his expression, and I can practically see him fighting the urge to ask what I'm doing.
But if he can summon my worst nightmare, then I'm summoning what's guaranteed to be his new nightmare. I bet he cracks like an egg.
"Whoever manages to chase this man out of my store gets a gift card for $500!" I shout into the silence. It'll be the best money I ever spent.
"Jesus Christ." He glances around, mildly alarmed now. See? Billionaire, meet your new nightmare.
"Are there any limits on what we can buy with it?" someone at the far side of the shop calls.