Chapter Two
Rosalia
The bell on Novel Idea’s door rings out again, followed by a burst of cheerful chatter and laughter that shatters our crystal-delicate moment.
I tear my gaze from his. Half of the Wednesday afternoon romance book club pours through the door.
Any other time, I’d be delighted to see them.
They’re practically family, but right now, the timing is… inconvenient.
Anna, the group’s unofficial leader, glances at Sebastian’s retreating form, then back at me.
She raises an eyebrow and the corner of her mouth quirks.
I can practically hear her thoughts. Last time Sebastian visited at the same time as the book club, she shared her theory: “He’s here for the bookstore owner, honey, not the books.
” I’d laughed it off, the idea too ridiculous to entertain.
Looks like I’m better reading books than people.
Anna sidles up to the counter immediately. “Was sexy Sebastian here to check out your…books?”
I fidget with the button of my worn, well-loved cardigan. “He’s just a regular customer.”
“Mmhmm,” she hums. “A regular customer who looks at you like you’re his favorite novel.”
“Your table is ready in the back. I put on fresh pots of decaf and regular coffee.” I say, hoping to change the subject.
Part of me wants to gush with excitement, but Sebastian probably isn’t interested in me and only wants to talk with another book lover.
I mean, seriously, we are from different worlds.
I grew up around the super wealthy and know how most of them think.
They talk about “pulling yourself up by your bootstraps” without realizing some of us couldn’t afford boots to begin with.
“Did you get the muffins from Paige’s Pastries?” someone calls out.
“Of course.” The coffee and goodies are a nice bonus. My friend, Paige, makes the most delicious treats at her popular bakery a few doors down.
My cell chirps from a hidden pocket of my skirt. Blackstone Business flashes across the screen. I glance out the large window at the front of my store as if I’d see Sebastian, but only nameless tourists and locals stroll by.
“I have to get this,” I tell Anna, swiping my thumb to answer.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Manchester,” replies a man who is all business. “I’m Daniel Poncelet, an attorney representing Blackstone Bourbon Holdings. I’m calling about your current lease agreement with our client. Do you have a few moments to discuss this?”
“Okay…” The lease for the bookstore and my apartment doesn’t renew until mid-May, and it’s only the second week in March. Why would they be calling with almost two months remaining? My payments have always been on time .
“Blackstone Bourbon Holdings has decided not to renew your lease,” the lawyer tells me in a business monotone.
The room tilts from the shock, and I nearly drop the phone. “I don’t understand. Buying it is impossible. I was told I could rent indefinitely.”
After a pause that lasts an eternity, he says, “I’m sorry, but things change. The termination papers will be sent to you via email by the end of the day.”
“When signing the lease I was told I could rent indefinitely.” I know I’m repeating myself, but I don’t care.
Novel Idea is supposed to celebrate its second anniversary in May.
And if I lose this place, it won’t only crush all my plans and dreams. Dad’s face flashes in my thoughts, the way he’d smiled when signing as guarantor for my loan, putting his house on the line so I could chase my dream. My stomach twists with guilt.
“Like I said, things change,” drones the lawyer.
“Tell that to the kids in my programs,” I snap. Jamal, the shy boy who’d blossomed into a confident reader thanks to the after-school tutoring sessions, waves from my mind’s eye. He’s replaced by Molly, the teenage girl who’d found solace in poetry during her mother’s illness.
“Ms. Manchester,” the lawyer says, his voice softening almost imperceptibly. “I understand your frustration, but my clients are well within their legal rights. There’s nothing in your lease contract saying you can rent indefinitely.”
No, I’d trusted the Blackstones to keep their word. That had been my first mistake—trusting the wealthy. They didn’t care whose dreams they destroyed in their pursuit of buying another yacht, private jet, or whatever the heck rich people bought.
“If you have any questions about Blackstone Bourbon Holdings’ position on this matter, you can reach me at the number on my email signature. Good day, Ms. Manchester.”
The call ends with a click that echoes through me. I’m frozen behind the counter, the cheerful chatter of the book club becomes distant and muffled, as if I’m underwater.
Blackstone Bourbon Holdings .
Sebastian Blackstone. He’d been here not thirty minutes ago, full of smiles and coffee date invitations. Now he’s somewhere across town, probably signing my eviction papers. My cheeks burn with embarrassment and anger.
“Rosalia? Are you okay, honey?” Anna rests a hand on my shoulder, jerking me from my daze.
I plaster on a smile that feels brittle enough to crack my face. “A business call. Everything’s fine.”
But nothing is fine. My dream, everything I’ve worked so hard for, is slipping through my fingers with a simple phone call.
Sebastian’s words from a few months ago echo in my head.
I’d confessed my fears to him about running an independent bookstore in the age of e-books and online giants.
He’d reassured me. “You’ve created more than just a place to shop and get books; you’ve built a community,” he’d said, his expression earnest. “That’s not something that can be easily replicated or replaced. ”
And like a fool, I’d swooned over the sexy, kind billionaire, believing he understood me. That he might actually see me as more than just his tenant, but reality comes crashing down. To him, I’m a line item on a spreadsheet. Sebastian’s never had to choose between paying rent or owning a car.
The coffee date invitation takes on a new, sinister meaning. Was he planning to soften me up? Make the blow of losing my store easier to take?
I move through the rest of the afternoon on autopilot, somehow managing to host the book club while my mind churns with possibilities, none of them good. The women and men notice my distraction but attribute it to Sebastian’s visit, teasing me good-naturedly about my crush.
If only they knew my crush was crushing my soul.
After they leave, I flip the gorgeous hand-carved sign my dad made from OPEN to CLOSED, resting my forehead against the cool glass and letting a few tears fall.
Dad had remortgaged his home to help me get a loan I needed for the upfront costs of turning this former tasting room into a bookstore.
How in the hell will I be able to keep paying on my current one and get another for a new location ?
Dragging my tired feet to the checkout counter, I pull out my laptop and type “tenant rights Kentucky small business” into the search bar.
Maybe there’s something, anything, that could help me.
But as I scroll through legal jargon and complicated statutes, my stomach sinks further.
Without money for a lawyer to interpret all this, I’m at a serious disadvantage.
I sigh, looking out onto Whiskey Row. The historic buildings that once housed bourbon empires mock me. All the trendy bars and restaurants are packed with people spending money without a second thought.
The Blackstone name is everywhere. A distillery tour bus with their logo passes by. The sleek office building at the end of the street is theirs. A few blocks away, the historic courthouse bore a plaque thanking the Blackstone family for funding its restoration.
I should have gotten Sebastian’s number when he’d asked me out. I’d call him and…and, what? What would I say if he were standing in front of me right now? What good would confronting him do? In his world, business is just business. Nothing personal.
Except it is personal to me. This store isn’t just my livelihood, it’s my dream. The apartment above isn’t just a place to sleep. After living under Mom’s roof for years and then my ex’s, where I couldn't even hang a picture without his permission, having my own sanctuary means everything.
And now the Blackstones are about to rip it all away from me.
Novel Idea isn’t just a bookstore. It’s where kids like Jake discover the magic of reading, where the lonely can find community, and where stories bring people together. It’s that and so much more.
But I can’t afford to pay off the current loan for this building and get another for a new space.
The romance novels I’d so carefully arranged earlier catch my eye; their illustrated covers promise happy endings and fairy tale romances.
I almost laugh at the bitter irony. Here I was, buying into the fantasy that someone like Sebastian Blackstone could be interested in someone like me .
Reality check: I’m not the heroine of a romantic novel. I’m another small business owner about to be crushed under the wheel of progress and profit margins.
My computer buzzes with a notification, and I turn from the window to the screen.
Instagram. A post from a Kentucky social account I follow.
Sebastian and his brother stare back at me from a photo taken at a charity gala.
They’re both in tuxedos with champagne flutes in hand and perfect smiles for the camera. The caption reads:
“Are the Blackstone brothers mending their rift to support the Children’s Hospital Foundation?” #GivingBack #BlackstoneFamily
The differences between them are striking.
Thorne stands with the confident swagger of old money, his smile practiced and sharp, like a man accustomed to getting exactly what he wants.
I’d heard the rumors about the elder Blackstone.
The reckless deals, the high-stakes gambles that somehow always paid off.
The tabloids called him “The Bourbon Gambler” for a reason.
Unlike his more measured brother, Thorne seemed to thrive on risk, making him both feared and respected in Kentucky business circles.
And then there’s Sebastian, whose eyes still manage to look kind even in this posed shot.
Where Thorne dominates space, Sebastian inhabits it with quiet authority.
The articles I’d read describe him as the steady hand of Blackstone Bourbon, the master distiller whose innovations had breathed new life into the family brand while respecting its heritage.
The bourbon world revered him for his palate and vision; the business world, for his integrity.
On my screen, they raise glasses worth more than my daily sales, “giving back” through charity. Meanwhile, I’m about to lose everything, including the free literacy program I run that actually changes lives. The cruel irony would be almost laughable if it weren’t crushing me.
The coffee date looms in my mind. He’ll walk through that door, all charm and dimples, expecting to take me for coffee while his company prepares to wipe everything I’ve worked for.
A part of me wants to throw his hot drink in his perfect face.
How pathetic am I: the bookstore owner attracted to the villain of her own story.
Come Tuesday, I’ll have to decide whether this story ends with the heroine’s fiery confrontation, her humiliating surrender, or her dignified silence. But tonight, I let myself mourn the ending I never saw coming.