Page 25 of Billionaire's Bookworm

Literary trivia.

I had a private library full of first editions and could probably recite War and Peace in my sleep, but that wasn’t going to help me blend in with the locals.

The last thing I needed was to come across as a know-it-all businessman showing off. If I wanted to win Emma over, I needed to learn how these small-town trivia nights worked—the inside jokes, the local references, the unwritten rules.

Decision made, I shot Ryker a quick text and his response came almost immediately.

Me: Did you mean it about the grand gesture?

Ryker: Lmao. Sure, man.

Me: Need your expertise on small-town trivia dynamics. Help me not stick out like a sore thumb?

Ryker: You’re hopeless. My place at 7. Bring beer.

Maybe. I couldn’t help but grin. But if trivia night was my ticket to spending more time with Emma, I was all in—even if it meant playing down my book knowledge and letting Ryker show me the ropes.

Whistling, I flipped on the radio and dropped the cover of my convertible. Making a pit stop at the grocery for a six pack, I headed back to my estate, anticipation thrumming like a live wire as I contemplated my next move.

Let the games begin.

ChapterSeven

Emma

A groupof teenage girls walked past, erupting into giggles as they glanced between me and the bookstore’s open window.

“Did you see them at the cook-off?”

“So romantic!”

“Totally!”

Their whispers carried on the breeze as they disappeared around the corner. Was thereanyonein this town who hadn’t witnessed that kiss? I groaned inwardly. At this rate, it would become local legend.

Pacing the length of Beachy Keen Reads’ counter for the third time in under ten minutes, I flipped through trivia note cards like they’d personally offended me. The questions were solid—balanced, clever, and just tricky enough to trip up anyone who dared to think Jane Austen had only writtenPride and Prejudice.

So why did my stomach feel like it had been taken over by a fleet of tap-dancing crabs?

I plopped the cards down on the counter and groaned, glancing at Silvy, who sat perched in her usual spot in the corner of the shop, organizing a display of bookmarks that did not need organizing.

“You’ve been sighing like that all afternoon,” she said without looking up. “If you don’t knock it off, I’m going to start charging for emotional labor.”

“I’m not sighing,” I shot back, already halfway through another exasperated huff. “And I don’t need emotional labor. I need... ugh.”

“Oh,you need ugh.Very articulate.” She set the bookmarks down and leaned back, arching one perfectly sculpted brow. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain billionaire chili cook-off competitor, would it?”

I froze, trying to play dumb. “Who?”

“You know, tall, dark, ridiculously good-looking. The one who bribed your dog with scones, gifted you with a first edition book, and has had you doing that dreamy-eyed thing you do when you think no one’s looking for days.”

“I don’t do a dreamy-eyed thing.”

“You absolutely do.”

I scowled, but Silvy only smirked. She wasn’t wrong, either. Wade James—the most irritatingly persistent man in existence—had been taking up far too much space in my head lately. Ever since the cook-off, I couldn’t stop replayingthat kissin my mind.

And he keeps showing up…everywhere.

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