Page 37 of Billionaire's Bookworm

I stopped and turned to look back the way I came. Main Street was quiet at this hour, most of the shops already closed. But my store’s window display still glowed softly, casting warm light onto the sidewalk. Staring at it, it was like I was suddenly seeing through different eyes.

The carefully arranged books, the hand-painted sign, the cozy reading nook visible through the glass. Five years of early mornings and late nights, of tight budgets and big dreams, of creating something that was entirely mine, that no one could take from me or hold over my head to try to control me.

A glint caught my eye––more of Silvy’s rebellious glitter, no doubt––and I found myself smiling despite everything. Maybe that was the real magic of this place. Not that it was perfect or prestigious, but that it was real.

Messy and wonderful and completely authentic.

Just like life in Seashell Cove.

As I turned toward home, something else tugged at the edges of my memory––not the strange coffee shop déjà vu from earlier, but a different kind of remembering. The feeling of finally being exactly where I was meant to be, even if the path getting here hadn’t been what I’d expected.

“Come on, you walking garbage disposal,” I murmured to Porky, who was sniffing hopefully around Sandy’s bakery door. “Those cookies aren’t going to magically appear just because you’ve mastered the sad eyes.”

He gave me his best wounded look before trotting ahead, tail wagging as if to say he’d wear me down eventually. Grinning faintly, I shook my head at the dogs antics and followed him. Still lost in thought, I couldn’t stop wondering if maybe, just maybe, I’d been too quick to assume I knew exactly who Wade James was.

ChapterTen

Wade

I was definitelynotnervous.

Fortune 500 CEO, hostile takeovers… I never got nervous. But watching Emma’s headlights pull into my circular driveway had my heart doing embarrassing things in my chest.

Which was ridiculous. I was Wade-fucking-James. I’d closed billion-dollar deals over breakfast and dated supermodels.

This was just dinner.

With Emma.

Who’d previously shot me down at least twice. But who was counting?

I was a little shocked she’d said yes this time. When I called her this morning, I thought I’d get another refusal, but I’d been determined to wear her down and not take no for an answer.

Maybe she sensed that and said yes out of resignation. I frowned, scrubbing a hand through my hair and then fixing it yet again when it flopped across my forehead.

Dumb, Wade. She said yes because she’s finally realizing there’s something worth exploring. Where’s your damn confidence, man?

MIA, clearly. But I really hoped that’s why she said yes.

Either way, over dinner I planned to tell her about that night in college and hopefully jog her memory for her. I couldn’t in good conscience not say anything any longer. It made things weird and I didn’t want weird.

I just wanted her to give us a shot.

Damnit.Tugging the tight collar of my shirt, I stared at myself in the mirror.Wasthis nerves? If so, this was new territory for me. But the fact that I’d changed three times and reorganized the wine cellar had to be a clue. Either that or I just happened to be particularly interested in alphabetizing vintages today.

By region. Then by year. Then back to region again.

“Get your shit together,” I growled at my reflection, which at least had the decency to look as commanding as usual in my carefully chosen blue button-down. Casual, but nottoocasual. Plus, the shirt really brought out my eyes––a detail I only knew because my sister commented on it once. Really.

A crack of thunder rattled the windows as the doorbell rang. Perfect. Because all this evening needed was the added drama of an approaching storm. I took my time answering it. No need to shout from the rooftops how eager I was to see her, right? Then I checked my watch––the same expensive one Emma had rolled her eyes at last week––and realized I’d managed to wasteforty-five minutesdebating shirts and wine arrangements.

Shit.

I sped up my trek to the front door, swinging it open just as another clap of thunder sounded. Emma stood on my doorstep, her hair slightly wild from the wind, clutching Porky’s leash and holding what appeared to be...

“Did you bring your own wine?” I asked, trying not to laugh as the massive dog immediately bounded past me into my foyer like he owned the place.

“Sorry,” Emma said, not sounding sorry at all. “He gets anxiety during storms. Also, yes… it was that or show up empty-handed to your beachside palace.” She thrust the bottle at me. “It’s from the grocery store and probably costs less than your socks, but it’s actually pretty good.”

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