Page 23 of Billionaire's Bookworm

After yesterday’s encounter at her store—and the carefully wrapped first edition I’d finally worked up the nerve to give her before bailing as fast as I could—I wasn’t sure where I stood with her.

I wasn’t doing much better either, nearly dropping the scones twice as I tried to maintain my casual facade. The morning sun caught her hair just right, and those damn legs?—

“Wade?” She was staring at me expectantly. Right. Words. I should probably say some of those.

“Morning,” I offered with forced casualness, standing up and brushing off my hands. “I was just, uh, getting to know Porky.”

She glanced at the bag in my hand, then at the crumbs scattered on the ground. “Are you bribing my dog with scones?”

“Maybe.”

Her lips twitched, but she didn’t smile. “You know he’s not supposed to have human food, right?”

“Really? Because he seems to be enjoying it.” I gestured to Porky, who was currently licking his chops and now wagging his tail like we were old buds.

Emma sighed, shaking her head. “You’re so ridiculous.”

“And yet, you keep letting me hang around.”

“I’m not sure ‘let’ is the right word.”

Before I could respond, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, frowning at the screen. “I’ve got to get dressed and get to the store. Maybe try not to corrupt my dog any further while I’m gone.”

“No promises,” I called as she disappeared inside, my lips curving in amusement. The tell was tiny, but I caught it. It was evident in the little circles she was making on her coffee mug with her thumb.

She was flustered.

Because of me.

* * *

Later that morning,I found myself wandering through Seashell Cove’s main street, trying to shake off the nagging thought that Emma might actually be into me more than she let on. Not that she’d ever admit it.

That’s when it hit me.

I stopped dead in my tracks, causing a kid on a bike to swerve around me. Her tell, the way she’d touched her coffee mug this morning, that unconscious circling of her thumb—I’d seen that gesture before. Years ago, in a campus coffee shop at three in the morning, while a passionate philosophy major with fire-red hair argued with me about Kant’s categorical imperative until sunrise.

Emma Michaels. The same Emma who’d made me question everything I thought I knew about my planned-out life that night. The one who’d disappeared before I could get her number, leaving me with nothing but the memory of challenging green eyes and a half-finished debate about moral absolutes.

“Son of a bitch,” I muttered, earning a disapproving look from a passing elderly woman.

The familiarity that had been nagging at me finally clicked. She’d grown out her hair, traded philosophy debates for running a bookstore, but that fierce intelligence, that way of seeing right through people’s bullshit—it was all there. The same Emma who’d changed my life years ago without ever knowing it.

And she didn’t remember me at all.

I needed to clear my head—and figure out why I was now even more drawn to someone who seemed determined to keep me at arm’s length. It wasn’t just the challenge, though her refusal to swoon at my feet was refreshing. It was the way she looked at me, like she could see right through the expensive suits and polished charm to the person underneath.

And that scared the hell out of me.

The town was its usual charming self—brightly painted storefronts, flower boxes spilling over with blooms, and locals chatting like they had all the time in the world. It was so different from the breakneck pace of Miami that it was almost disorienting.

I stopped at Sandy Sips for another coffee, and the eccentric woman greeted me with her usual knowing grin. “Back again? Let me guess—you’re here for more scones.”

“Not this time,” I said, leaning against the counter. “Although Porky was definitely a fan.”

She laughed, sliding me a cup of coffee. “Word of advice, sweetheart: winning over the dog is only half the battle. Emma’s the tough nut to crack.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

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