Page 33 of Billionaire's Bookworm

Emma sank into one of the reading circle cushions, absently running her fingers through Porky’s sparkly fur. After a moment, I sat across from her, giving her space but staying close enough to show I was listening.

“Books were always my escape,” she said finally. “Grammy used to say that stories let us try on different lives, imagine different paths.” She gestured around the store. “This place... It’s mine. Every decision, every book, every story time. I built it myself.”

The pride in her voice resonated with something in me. “No small feat, starting a business from scratch.”

“Worth every struggle though.” She smiled, but there was something wary in it. “What about you? Tech entrepreneur hanging out in a small-town bookstore... There’s a story there.”

I shifted, careful with my words. “Sometimes you need a place where you can just be yourself. No expectations, no pressure. Just... you.”

“And who are you, when you’re just being yourself?”

“Still figuring that out.” I met her eyes. “But I think I’m closer to knowing here than I’ve ever been anywhere else.”

She nodded slowly, like she understood exactly what I wasn’t saying. “It’s peaceful here, isn’t it? Away from... everything.”

“Is that why you chose here? The peace?”

“Partly.” She looked around her store, her expression soft. “But mostly... this feels real in a way nothing else ever has. Even when it’s hard, even when it’s messy, it’s mine.”

I watched her, this woman who clearly had her own stories, her own reasons for choosing this quiet life. “You know what’s funny? I think I’d get more actual work done sitting in your reading nook than I would in my fancy office in Miami.”

“Must be the glitter,” she teased. “It’s magical.”

“Must be.” I looked at her, covered in sparkles and completely at ease with herself. “Or maybe it’s the company.”

Something changed in the air between us, and I found myself thinking about another time, another conversation. “You know, you remind me of someone I knew in college.”

“Oh?” Her tone was light, merely curious.

“There was this girl...” I watched her carefully, but her expression showed only polite interest. “Red hair, brilliant mind. The kind of person who could light up a whole room just by walking into it.”

“What happened?”

“Wrong timing, I guess.” I shrugged, fighting down the urge to tell her more. To make her remember that night, our philosophy arguments into the wee hours of the night, the way she’d challenged every thing I thought I knew about my future. “Sometimes I wonder if that’s why I can’t seem to fit into the life my family expects me to want. Nothing quite measures up to my memory of that connection.:

Emma tilted her head, something flickering in her eyes before disappearing. “I had a night like that once, actually. Junior year I think it was. There was a guy who...” she trailed off, shaking her head. “It’s funny how some memories stick with you, even when the details get fuzzy.”

My heart hammered, but I kept my voice casual. “Maybe sometimes the people we meet are meant to remind us there’s more out there than what’s expected of us merely because of who we are or where we come from.”

“Maybe.” She brushed some lingering glitter from her shirt, breaking the moment. “Though right now, what’s expected ofmeis to get this store back in shape and ready for the afternoon crowd.”

I stood, recognizing deflection when I saw it, but letting it slide. She wasn’t ready to remember, and frankly, I wasn’t ready to push. I didn’t know how she’d react and I didn’t want to risk our tenuous friendship.

“Need any help?”

“Are you kidding me? Don’t you think you’ve done enough enabling for the day with Silvy and her glitter shenanigans?” she teased. “She’s been calling it her ‘sparkle revolution.’”

“Revolution might be the right word,” I said, brushing the stubborn stuff off my jeans. “I’m pretty sure this glitter is staging a hostile takeover of the entire building.”

“Says the man offering to voluntarily help clean it up.” She started gathering up scattered craft supplies, then paused. “You know, for someone who claims to need space to just be yourself, you seem pretty invested in our little bookstore’s success.”

I swallowed hard, my fingers itching to touch her as I watched her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Maybe I just like seeing someone build something real.”

“And what are you building, Wade James?”

The question hung between us, loaded with potential. For a moment, I considered telling her everything—about that night in college, about how a passionate debate with a fierce-minded philosophy major made me question everything I thought I knew about success and legacy. About how her words had given me the courage to build something of my own instead of following my family’s carefully mapped path.

Instead, I offered a roguish smile as I knelt to sweep some glitter into a dustpan. “Well, for starters, I make a mean damn chili. In fact, I’ve built quite the reputation around Seashell Cove, I’ll have you know. And as of right now?” I glanced up with a wink. “I’m building a life where cleaning up glitter feels way more important than board meetings and acquisitions.”

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