Page 31 of The Bossy Billionaire

“Huxe?” I reply, not willing to explain. He knows I am lying, but I don’t need any more media attention or additional stress. I can handle it all on my own.

“I can only help you if you let me in.” His voice is low, sincere, and almost has me wanting to tell him everything. I hold my breath and look at the ceiling, not used to people pushing me for answers, and wondering if Huxley Hamilton isn’t the knight in shining armor I wish he was. If he was, wouldn’t he be here? Wouldn’t he want to kiss me again? Oh God, I am so confused. This is yet another reason why I don’t date. I overthink things. All the time.

“I don’t need help.” I say the words I constantly say, yet they don’t feel right anymore. Not with Huxley.

“Maybe not, but what you do need is more staff,” Huxley says, clearly changing the subject.

“You and I both know that I can’t afford more staff.”

“Maybe not full-timers, but a few young students could come in and assist.”

“Dwayne has offered to do a few more hours,” I tell him. Dwayne's offer earlier in the week was nice, but I haven’t taken him up on it. Yet.

“I’m not sure Dwayne is the right guy for the bookstore,” Huxley says, sounding bitter.

“Why? He is a great barista.” Dwayne seems to be going okay, although some more support from him outside of coffeemaking would be good.

“I think you need someone to help on the book side of the business. Coffee is great, but he needs to do more,” Huxley says, and it makes sense we both came to the same conclusion.

“I can train him on merchandising, maybe?” I think out loud.

“I question his commitment to the job,” Huxley murmurs.

“He is great in the store…”

“He is great with you. When you are looking at him, he is perfect. It is when you are not around that is the problem. He is committed to you. Not to the job. Not to Bloomer Books,” Huxley says with conviction, and I stand in shock for a beat.

“What are you getting at?” I ask, wondering if I am understanding him correctly.

“Dwayne likes you. He is trying to get your attention, not actually doing his job correctly.”

“I don’t think he likes me in that way, Huxley.” I scoff, rolling my eyes in the darkness of the shop.

“Believe me. He does.”

“Well, I will keep my eye on him. If I can see any evidence of him not doing his job properly, then I can have a talk with him,” I say, like the responsible business owner I am, as I try to ignore the anxiety that such a conversation stirs for me.

“Fine. Now back to the locks. What happened?” Huxley gets us back to business, and I remain quiet. I want to tell him, but he doesn’t need my drama. He is already helping me out so much.

“Luce, what’s going on?” he asks again, but the minute the words leave his mouth, the window right in front of me shatters. I scream. It’s bloodcurdling, the fright in my body instant.

“Luce?” I hear Huxley’s panicked shout before glass pours over me like rain, and I duck to shield myself. But as I move, I feel something hard whip across the side of my face, knocking the phone from my hands, and I fall to the ground.

“Huxley!” I scream, having no real idea what is going on and hoping he can still hear me. The rain from outside is now pouring in on me, and I lift my head to see no one. Nothing.

With my heart thumping out from my chest, I crawl into the nearest bookshelf and curl up in the fetal position. I remain wide-eyed, shaking, looking everywhere for any signs of danger as the rain falls inside, coating me, the floor now wet, the books around me getting water damaged. The streetlights outside cast a glow, making the shattered glass around me light up like stars, and I feel more alone than ever.

Car tires screech down the street, startling me, but I can’t move. I’m too scared. My body is frozen. My eyes search everywhere, and I can see my phone on the other side of the room, but I am too scared to reach for it. Terror consumes me as I ball myself up tight, hold my breath, squeeze my eyes closed, and pray.

CHAPTER NINETEEN - HUXLEY

I have never moved so fast in my entire life.

I grabbed my car keys and ran out of my apartment, calling the bookshop and her cell, to no avail. I then called the police because the way she screamed was bone-chilling, and I know it will forever be ingrained in my memory. Once I jumped in my car, I called Harrison as I drove like the wind to the other side of town where Bloomer Books is, breaking every road rule known to man.

My heart is stretching out of my chest, my skin clammy, and I grip my steering wheel, thanking God I left my sports car here in Baltimore and that it had a full tank of gas. On a trip that should have taken me at least thirty minutes or more in traffic, I get here in twenty.

By the time I reach Bloomers, the street is coated in red and blue lights and the distinct luxury cars of all four Rothschild men are parked haphazardly on the street. They obviously moved just as quick as I did, and given they live closer, they got here before me. It is a total shitshow. Police are everywhere and more are pulling up as I park in a no-standing zone and run from the car.

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