Wicked Beats (Wrecked Rockstar Romance #3)

Prologue Hilary

This is it. The perfect time of day—as far as I’m concerned.

The old brass clock above the register lets out a soft, dignified chime, announcing the arrival of six PM, and I swear my whole body relaxes.

Closing time.

Just me and The Book Shop.

Yeah, I know—simple name.

Almost painfully so. But that’s the point.

This isn’t one of those massive corporate monsters with endless budgets, overpriced candles, and bougie little coffee kiosks tucked between shelves like they’re doing the books a favor.

Coffee? Near books?

Absolutely not.

First, you buy the book.

Then you can do whatever you want with it—highlight it, dog-ear it, spill your overpriced oat milk latte all over chapter three if that’s your thing.

I’ll cringe, sure, but at least it’s happening on your dime and not mine.

Because here’s the truth—I love books.

Like, deeply, obsessively, probably need-therapy levels of love.

But I also need to keep the lights on, and people tend to frown upon buying paperbacks that look like they’ve survived a hurricane.

I step out from behind the counter and take a slow walk through the shop, the familiar creak of the wide-plank wood floors greeting me like an old friend.

The Book Shop isn’t big, but it’s mine—every shelf, every cozy corner, every carefully chosen title.

Soft golden light spills from the vintage sconces along the exposed brick walls, casting everything in this warm, honeyed glow that makes people linger longer than they mean to.

There’s a little nook by the front window with two overstuffed armchairs and a knitted throw one of my regulars made me last winter.

The display tables are neat—color-coded, of course—and the front window is currently done up in a “Summer Is Coming” theme with bright covers, beach reads, and a few scandalously shirtless men that always get a second glance.

Or a third.

Outside, Hammonton is settling into that early summer evening rhythm I’ve come to love.

The air smells faintly like fresh cut grass and something sweet from Bosco’s Baked Goods, which sits a few blocks down from my store.

String lights crisscross the street between storefronts, already beginning to glow as the sun dips lower, and a couple walks past the window hand in hand, laughing about something I’ll never hear.

It’s nice.

More than nice.

It’s everything I ever wanted.

I didn’t grow up thinking I’d get this.

A quiet little bookstore in a small New Jersey town that actually feels like a community.

A place where people know your name, where they come in asking for recommendations and trust you enough to take them.

A place that’s mine because I built it with a little help from my Nana.

One order, one sale, one carefully balanced spreadsheet at a time.

Yeah, I’m a nerd.

A proud one.

Spreadsheets? Love them.

Organization? Thriving.

Reading? Obviously.

Turning all of that into a successful business?

That part still feels a little unreal.

I pause near the romance section—my bread and butter—and straighten a stack that absolutely does not need straightening.

This is where the magic happens.

Quiet book clubs, whispered recommendations, late-night just one more chapter addictions.

From cowboys to billionaires to monsters with impressive assets.

Hey, no judgment here.

I read them all.

As the self-appointed—and proudly elected—president of the Hammonton chapter of Book Boyfriends I’d Like to Fuck, that’s BBILF for short, I can confidently say this summer lineup is going to be a scorcher.

I’ve already got shipments coming in that would make any romance reader weak in the knees.

And if I play my cards right?

I might even land an author signing.

The thought makes me grin like an idiot.

Because even though my best friend Adrianna is currently off living her literal fairytale—with her rockstar husband, Nathan Thorn—yes, that Nathan Thorn—this right here?

This is mine.

My dream.

My version of a happily ever after.

I don’t need the sweeping romance.

The grand gestures.

The broody, tattooed guy showing up out of nowhere to flip my world upside down.

I mean, if one showed up tomorrow, I’m not saying I’d turn him down—but the likelihood?

Nil. Zilch. Zippo.

That kind of thing doesn’t happen to girls like me.

Not in real life.

I’m the nerdy, curvy girl who runs the bookstore. The one who reads about epic love stories instead of living them.

The one who knows better than to expect more.

And honestly?

I’m okay with that.

Mostly.

I reach for the light switch behind the counter and pause, taking one last look around my shop.

My space. My sanctuary. My dream.

Then I smile, flip the sign on the door to Closed, and turn off the lights.

Tonight I plan on going home, curling up with Ziggy, my orange tabby, while I wait for my weekly Chinese takeout order and sip my very hot mug of cinnamon tea.

Why? Because life is good and this is exactly what I want.

Of course, at this point, I am completely unaware that my quiet little world is about to get very, very loud.