Page 7 of The Bossy Billionaire

“Mom, we need to go in, we will be late. Lucy would have started!” the little girl says, pulling on her mother’s hand.

I didn’t even realize I had crossed the street and am now standing right in front of the bookstore.

“After you,” I say with a smile, holding the door open and letting her and her little girl walk inside. Not growing up in Baltimore, I haven’t been here before, but I am intrigued, and as I step through the door myself, a little chime sounds.

“Cute,” I mutter to myself, hating it already. It is even older inside. Musty, almost. Not dirty, as everything is spotless, but old.

“Excuse me,” a little voice pops up behind me as a child dashes past my legs.

“Sorry.” Her father cringes, following her. He is dressed in an ill-fitted suit, his hair ruffled, looking stressed, not someone I would expect to see in a bookstore on a Wednesday afternoon.

I move to the side, away from the crowd gathering, and walk down a row of books. Poetry, history, autobiographies all in a neat row. I walk to the edge and around into a new aisle. Fantasy, romance. There are a lot of books. Surely, she could move all this online already. Although as I look around the space, I appreciate that this building has potential with its high ceilings and large rooms. I visualize an industrial warehouse fit-out and the opportunity to make this an excellent co-working space. We need more of them. No one wants to go back into the office anymore, and the new startup I just purchased on the other side of town would go really well in a space like this.

I hate the old, the old-fashioned, the lack of progress. I look around and take it all in. That is exactly what this store is. Old. Lacking. But as I observed on the outside, there are people everywhere. The sharp smell of coffee lingers in the air. The good kind, not the shitty stuff. There is color, noise, but there is also disarray. It needs paint, new carpet, the stairs to the side look like they are about to collapse, and I spot a snotty kid who is wiping his sticky hands down the wall next to the books on household cleaning. Ironic.

As I move closer to where the crowd gathers, I spot the mom from earlier. Grabbing a coffee from a barista with a man bun piled high on his head, she takes it to an open room toward the back, which I can see is full of chairs and tables. She seems to join a group of friends as they all start chatting. My eyes case the room, looking for her daughter, and I spot her sitting on a large carpeted area next to other kids. Their eyes are all looking at something I can’t yet see.

There are a lot of kids, prams, and toddlers, all running back and forth. It makes me think of my nephew, Harvey, and I should probably look for a book that he would like and send him a gift. I add that to my mental list and push my way through the crowd to see what they are all looking at, stopping short when I see it. Lucy Bloomer, sitting in a large armchair at the end of the space, with at least fifty kids sitting on the floor at her feet as she reads them a story.

“Once upon a time in Spain, there was a little bull, and his name was Ferdinand.” Her voice is soft yet strong, and the kids all go quiet. You could hear a pin drop as they hang on her every word. As do I.

I feel my chest burn a little. Ferdinand was my favorite book as a child. My mother read it to me every night before bed for years. Given I can’t read very well, it was a special time for me. It was probably everyone’s favorite, but just listening to Lucy now, I can hear my mother’s voice, and it takes me back. My stance immediately softens, and I lean against the wall and watch, just as fascinated as every other person in this room, even though I am by far the oldest.

Lucy reads it with passion. Making noises and faces for the kids who oohhh and ahhh at almost every page. She comes alive with the storytelling, her smile captivating. Her lips as they move with the words are enchanting.

She must feel my eyes on her, because as she turns the page, she looks up and around the room, smiling wide at all the kids before her eyes land on me. Even though her glasses are thick, I see the moment they widen in shock before she schools it and goes back to the story. A professional.

“I haven’t seen you around here before?” a rough voice says at my side, and I look up. It is the barista.

“First time,” I murmur, looking away from him and back to Lucy, not wanting to miss a moment.

“You have a child here?” he asks, and when I give him a sharp look, his eyes thin.

“Do you interrogate all your customers?” I ask, pissed off that he is interrupting the story.

“Only the ones dressed in a suit that costs more than my annual salary who I have never seen here before. Are you here to cause trouble?” the guy asks as he stands taller, folding his arms across his chest like a bouncer at a bar would.

“What is your problem?” I squint at him, wondering what the issue is. My muscles tense as I clench my fist. There is something about him that feels off, so if he starts something, I will finish it.

“It’s children’s hour. You’re a single man here in a suit. What do you think my problem is?” he snides. Is he accusing me of something? My back goes ramrod straight, and I turn and face him. I guess the bookstore could use an upgrade to their customer service as well.

“It’s fine, Dwayne.” Lucy’s soft voice sweeps from the side and we both turn. Story time clearly finished, and I missed the rest of the story. I’m upset for a beat, wanting to hear the end of Ferdinand and watch her some more. I look at her, assessing her as she stands by my side. I can smell her aroma as it slides up my nose and embeds in my chest. Jasmine. It reminds me of springtime at my ranch. She is so close to me now, and I can see that I underestimated her beauty when I met her all those weeks ago. Her brown hair is shining and long as it runs down her back. Her eyes are still hard to see behind those god-awful glasses, but they are big and brown, her lashes long. She has a soft peachy complexion, her lips pink and pouty. I swallow and turn back to look at Man Bun.

“See, I’m fine, Dwayne,” I mock him, and he simply nods to Lucy, walking back to the coffee machine. His line is now about ten people deep.

“What are you doing here?” she asks as she picks up a stack of books nearby, turning her back to me and subtly limping across the floor to the nonfiction section.

“Here, let me…” I rush to grab the stack of books from her. And she jerks her arms away.

“No! It’s fine,” she says sharply, giving me a look that could slice me in half.

“You need help,” I offer because it is obvious. She is struggling.

“I don’t need help,” she spits out, walking away from me faster.

“Are you always this stubborn?” I ask, following her as she puts the books on a trolley and starts to sort through them. I am only trying to help.

“Yes. What are you doing here?” she asks again, patience not one of her best qualities, apparently. My shoulders stiffen, as no one ever speaks to me this sharply. I am surprised for a beat.

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