Page 10 of The Bossy Billionaire

Sighing at myself, I put the last book away and slowly make my way down the small ladder and to the storeroom. Pushing through the door, I flick on the light and sure enough, boxes are all over the floor.

“Great,” I murmur, again talking to myself. They do say that is the first sign of insanity. Clearly, I am walking a fine line with my mental health as well. It was something I struggled with after the fire. The nightmares I had for weeks afterward did nothing to help me. I walk over to try to pick up the boxes and store them better so I don’t have as much to do tomorrow, but as I do, I get a chill. It’s like a brush of cool air hits the back of my neck, so much so the hairs stand on my arms, and I feel the need to wrap my hands around myself. I look over to the wall at the thermostat. The cool air fan is off, something Dwayne always ensures he does before he leaves.

“Weird.”

There is another loud bang, and my body jolts. I look around, wide-eyed. The back door is open. The door I never use. All deliveries come through the front, and that back door has been locked and shut tight for years.

Except for now.

It is wide open. All I can see is the dark, vacant alleyway behind the shop. A small neighboring light illuminates the areas slightly as my eyes adjust. There is no one there. During the day, I sometimes spot some homeless people sitting out there, but I leave them alone. The back door rocks back and forth in the breeze that has kicked up tonight. I remain still, staring at it as my heart continues to beat like a drum in my chest, and my eyes flick around the room quickly to see if anything else is out of place.

Realizing that I am a crazy person who speaks to herself and that Dwayne maybe had it open today for some reason and forgot to shut it, I take a deep breath and roll my head on my neck to relieve the fright that settled there. Limping down the room to the door, I grab the handle and am about to shut it when I see it. A muddy footprint half-inside, half-outside and glistening in the streetlights outside where a light drizzle has started to fall.

My breath lodges in my throat, my body again stock-still, my eyes locked on the imprint. It is fresh. This was just made. The boot is large, a foot of a man. A man who was in my space and I didn’t even know.

I slam the door quickly and deadbolt it from the inside. Swallowing roughly, my heart thuds harder. I move as fast as I can and pull heavier boxes across the floor and place them in front of the door, barricading myself in. I should keep it clear as a fire exit, but I'm too scared to think straight. When I have three large heavy boxes in front of the door, I step back slowly, looking at the door like it is going to tell me something. My eyes flick to the wall I share with my neighbor.

Terry Jones owns the next-door offices. He’s a nice guy who has been helpful over the years, although I haven’t seen him in a while. I should probably talk to him about increasing the lighting out back—for both our benefits.

I take a few deep breaths and try to settle my racing heart. There are no more noises, no other suspicious activity. With my nerves now shot, I walk out of the storeroom and lock the internal door and try to get on with my night.

Because the accounts won't balance themselves. And if I can’t fall asleep, maybe I’ll research coffee prices and start charging.

CHAPTER SEVEN - HUXLEY

It’s raining as I step inside the bookshop, shaking my arms a little to get rid of the small droplets on my suit. The familiar jingle of the tiny annoying bell connected to the door rings out as the warmth of the place hits me first, then the smell of the coffee. My shoulders lower instantly.

I have called Lucy a few times, keeping our conversations purely business related, and I have sent her a few business articles to read. I haven’t thought this much about the literary industry ever, and I’ve surprisingly found it fascinating so far. I enjoy talking with her, even though our calls are brief. This is now my third time in Baltimore in as many weeks, my time now stretching to come here more often, especially now that I have my new business interest.

Taking a few steps inside, I see Dwayne looking busy as he foams the milk and makes a song and dance about the coffee he is brewing. As I walk up to him, I notice there are a few other people milling around, but it isn’t as busy as the last time when I was here.

“How can I help you…” Dwayne starts before looking up and seeing my face. “If you are looking for kids story time, it’s only on a Wednesday,” he murmurs, standing up and folding his arms across his chest. The move makes him look bigger than he is but doesn’t rattle me.

“I’m great, Dwayne, how are you?” I say sarcastically, because I was ready to call a truce today, but given that his attitude toward me hasn’t changed, I don’t bother.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, his eyes thinning.

“Getting a coffee. I’ll have an espresso, please,” I say with a smug smile on my face.

“You need to pay.” He nods to a large glass jar on the counter. I look at the cute handwriting on the front that is surrounded by tiny pink love hearts and immediately know it is Lucy’s.

Pay what you think it’s worth.

I huff a small laugh. First, because it is ridiculous. She needs to be charging a premium on this coffee, not asking for pocket change. Then my huff turns into a smile because she followed my advice. That thought alone makes me feel like a king, that the stubborn bookworm actually listened, but also implemented something I suggested. Then I really look at the large jar and see the overflowing of cash, and my eyebrows rise.

“Is this just from today?” I look at Dwayne skeptically.

“Just this morning. I have already cleared it once.” He nods, starting to move and make my coffee order.

I hum a response, trying to calculate how much would be in there. At a rough guess, a couple of hundred.

“So are you a debt collector or something?” he mumbles, still looking at me like I shit in his breakfast this morning.

“Just a friend,” I say, not giving him an inch.

“Lucy doesn’t have friends,” he tells me, his eyes thinning as the steam from the coffee machine blows in front of his face. It is an odd thing to say, as it is clear by the way people smile and greet her in the shop that she is loved by many.

“What are you? Her security team?”

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