Page 1 of The Bossy Billionaire

CHAPTER ONE - LUCY BLOOMER

The man standing before me has a broad smile I want gone. It isn’t his fault, but my blood is boiling.

“What do you mean, fix the windows?” I ask as my hands find my hips, wondering if I heard him correctly. My glasses are thick, my eyesight poor, yet I know my ears work just fine.

“I am here to bar up all the windows,” he reinstates his earlier remark, rocking back on his heels. Smile wide, his hands grip on to the braces of his work overalls as his small team gathers around him, all eyes on me.

“Bars? On my windows?” I grit out as my brow crumples. I didn’t organize anything like that. Bloomer Books is my sanctuary, open for everyone. Sure, I have had a few odd encounters with people lately and a few media poking around, but nothing I can’t handle.

“Yes. Arranged by the Rothschild Company. Order came in this morning, so I made sure we got here as soon as possible. Especially since I heard the rumors…” The tradesman lowers his voice and leans toward me a little, like he is telling me a secret.

“Rumors?” My eyes widen as my nails bite into my palms.

“Yeah, you know. Harrison Rothschild is going to be running for president soon. Word on the street is he will announce his running in the next few months,” he whispers, then nods to me. “I can’t believe you’re his sister…” He is fishing for information like everyone else who I come in contact with these days.

“I can’t believe it either,” I say, plastering a fake smile on my face. I taste blood in my mouth from biting my tongue too hard, but he doesn’t need to deal with my frustration. My hand finds my necklace and I pull at it. My adoptive mother’s necklace. The one I haven’t taken off since she gave it to me the night she died.

“Anyway, where can we start? We need this place secure, and it will take me most of the day. But the Rothschilds will give me a bonus if I can finish it all before four this afternoon.” I push my shoulders back as his team goes back to assessing the windows. It’s not uncommon to see more people lurking around the shop ever since my true identity was revealed, and yes, maybe some are intrusive. But it doesn’t warrant bars on the windows, courtesy of my four annoying brothers who continue to stick their noses in my business.

I look around the bookstore my adoptive parents built. Bloomer Books has been here for decades. The place is so full of memories of my childhood that I don’t want to change a thing. Sure, the windows are as old as the building and maybe they don’t latch correctly.

The paint is peeling from the walls, especially high up where I continue to ignore it, and the carpeting on the floors has seen better days, so well-worn it is almost see-through in spots. But it still has the marks on the far wall where my dad would measure my growth over the years as a child. It still has the artwork on the side wall that I drew in crayon when I was five, my mom and dad adding to it and making it a mural feature for the children’s books section.

My eyes flick to the family photo that sits proudly at the entrance, my breath catching in my throat at their memory. Bloomer Books is a Baltimore Institution. It has character. It has charm. What it doesn’t have is bars on the windows. It is a bookshop, not a prison.

“I’m sorry to waste your time, but your services are not needed,” I say as calmly and as kindly as I can. I readjust my legs, the dull ache developing from standing too long in the one spot. I do physio weekly, but the pain continues to appear.

“Are you sure?” he asks, not convinced. Clearly, seeing the chipped paint on the walls and the broken glass on the far-end window doesn’t fill him with confidence. I am aware of all the building flaws. I am here all day. Every day. I live in the small apartment upstairs. It is not like I don’t know that the building needs serious overhaul. It is on my list of to-dos, but money isn’t stretching that far these days. Business is not as fruitful as it once was. Plus, my ongoing medical bills take everything I have. “The Rothschilds were pretty adamant…” he continues, but I cut him off.

“I’m sure. I don’t want to waste your time. I will speak with the Rothschilds and let them know. They can cover your fee for coming out so you are not out of pocket, but there is no job here today.” I give him a forced small smile and open the front door, leaning on it to give my leg some relief. He looks a little unsure, which is to be expected. It is not his fault that my brothers are overprotective, overbearing, albeit totally loving, goofballs. But they need to stay out of my business.

“Well, if you are sure… I mean, Bloomer Books has been here for years…” he murmurs, a grin coming to his face. That’s what Bloomer Books does, it evokes memories. Everyone came here as a child, and they have now turned into adults who bring their kids here. My weekly story time session is always packed with children, and I love it. I sigh, feeling the nostalgia wash over us both, as the welcome light flickers above us. Yet another thing I need to fix.

“Here is my card. Call me if you reconsider. You will speak to your brothers?” I know why he’s asking. Who wouldn’t want to confirm that this won’t affect his business with the city's richest men in the future.

“Of course, I will call them now,” I say, my smile now genuine as I push him and his team back out the door.

“Okay, thank you, Miss Bloomer.” Giving me a nod, they all step out onto the sidewalk, and I close the shop door behind them.

I rest my forehead against the doorframe and take a deep breath, gathering the strength I need. I spot Dwayne, my barista, watching me from the small café area. He has been working here for a few months now, is great with customers, makes fantastic coffee, and I don’t know how I would run the bookshop without him.

“Dwayne, I’m going out,” I say as I push off the front door. “How dare they think they can just send around a security company to bar up my windows. Are they insane?” The tension I felt earlier rises again as I bark out my words to Dwayne and anyone else within earshot as I strut as best I can with my limp to my small, cramped office out the back to grab my bag.

“Probably. That’s what money does, makes you think that you can do whatever you want, whenever you want, without taking anyone's feelings into consideration,” Dwayne says, and I pop back out with my bag firmly over my shoulder to look at him.

“Bloomer Books is my business, not theirs. I didn’t even know I had brothers eighteen months ago, and now they are poking their heads in all the time. They are so annoying.” Finding out I had four brothers was certainly a surprise, one I am still trying to navigate. I know they mean well, but I am just not used to having anyone looking out for me. And they do it constantly.

“Should I call your brothers? Give them a warning?” he asks with a cheeky grin now on his face, and I raise my eyebrow at him.

“What for?” I quip, checking my bag that I have my purse and keys, throwing in my cell phone that is so old it is almost falling apart.

“To tell them to be ready.” He wipes down the coffee bar, acting nonchalant. Bloomer Books is not only Baltimore's oldest bookstore, but it is also a place people come to grab a coffee, chat with friends, and then snuggle up on the soft armchairs and devour the latest book of choice. It's home. It’s my home.

“Ready for what?” I’m wondering what in the world he is talking about, my brain now frazzled with yet another thing I need to manage today that I just don’t have time for.

“Ready for the can of whoop-ass their sister is going to open up on them in about”—he looks at his watch, then back at me—“ohhh, twenty minutes,” he says, smiling, and I huff a laugh.

Dwayne flashes me his pearly whites, his man bun piled high on his head today. I haven’t really delved into his private life much, but he seems a bit of a loner, preferring to chat to the customers here after work rather than going home to any family.

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