Page 3 of The Bourbon Bet
Rosalia
The bell on Novel Idea’s door rings out again, followed by a burst of cheerful chatter and laughter that shatters our crystal-delicate moment. I tear my gaze from his. Half of the Wednesday afternoon romance book club pours through the door. Any other time, I’d be delighted to see them. They’re practically family, but right now, the timing is…inconvenient.
Anna, the group’s unofficial leader, glances at Sebastian’s retreating form, then back at me. She raises an eyebrow and the corner of her mouth quirks.I can practically hear her thoughts. Last time Sebastian visited at the same time as the book club, she shared her theory: “He’s here for the bookstore owner, honey, not the books.” I’d laughed it off, the idea too ridiculous to entertain.
Looks like I’m better reading books than people.
Anna sidles up to the counter immediately. “Was sexy Sebastian here to check out your…books?”
I fidget with the button of my worn, well-loved cardigan. “He’s just a regular customer.”
“Mmhmm,” she hums. “A regular customer who looks at you like you’re his favorite novel.”
“Your table is ready in the back. I put on fresh pots of decaf and regular coffee.” I say, hoping to change the subject.
Part of me wants to gush with excitement, but Sebastian probably isn’t interested in me and only wants to talk with another book lover. I mean, seriously, we are from different worlds. I grew up around the super wealthy and know how most of them think. They talk about “pulling yourself up by your bootstraps” without realizing some of us couldn’t afford boots to begin with.
“Did you get the muffins from Paige’s Pastries?” someone calls out.
“Of course.” The coffee and goodies are a nice bonus. My friend, Paige, makes the most delicious treats at her popular bakery a few doors down.
My cell chirps from a hidden pocket of my skirt. Blackstone Business flashes across the screen. I glance out the large window at the front of my store as if I’d see Sebastian, but only nameless tourists and locals stroll by.
“I have to get this,” I tell Anna, swiping my thumb to answer.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Manchester,” replies a man who is all business. “I’m Daniel Poncelet, an attorney representing Blackstone Bourbon Holdings. I’m calling about your current lease agreement with our client. Do you have a few moments to discuss this?”
“Okay…” The lease for the bookstore and my apartment doesn’t renew until mid-May, and it’s only the second week in March. Why would they be calling with almost two months remaining? My payments have always been on time.
“Blackstone Bourbon Holdings has decided not to renew your lease,” the lawyer tells me in a business monotone.
The room tilts from the shock, and I nearly drop the phone. “I don’t understand. Buying it is impossible. I was told I could rent indefinitely.”
After a pause that lasts an eternity, he says, “I’m sorry, but things change. The termination papers will be sent to you via email by the end of the day.”
“When signing the lease I was told I could rent indefinitely.” I know I’m repeating myself, but I don’t care. Novel Idea is supposed to celebrate its second anniversary in May. And if I lose this place, it won’t only crush all my plans and dreams. Dad’s face flashes in my thoughts, the way he’d smiled when signing as guarantor for my loan, putting his house on the line so I could chase my dream. My stomach twists with guilt.
“Like I said, things change,” drones the lawyer.
“Tell that to the kids in my programs,” I snap. Jamal, the shy boy who’d blossomed into a confident reader thanks to the after-school tutoring sessions, waves from my mind’s eye. He’s replaced by Molly, the teenage girl who’d found solace in poetry during her mother’s illness.
“Ms. Manchester,” the lawyer says, his voice softening almost imperceptibly. “I understand your frustration, but my clients are well within their legal rights. There’s nothing in your lease contract saying you can rent indefinitely.”
No, I’d trusted the Blackstones to keep their word. That had been my first mistake—trusting the wealthy. They didn’t care whose dreams they destroyed in their pursuit of buying another yacht, private jet, or whatever the heck rich people bought.
“If you have any questions about Blackstone Bourbon Holdings’ position on this matter, you can reach me at the number on my email signature. Good day, Ms. Manchester.”
The call ends with a click that echoes through me. I’m frozen behind the counter, the cheerful chatter of the book club becomes distant and muffled, as if I’m underwater.
Blackstone Bourbon Holdings.
Sebastian Blackstone. He’d been here not thirty minutes ago, full of smiles and coffee date invitations. Now he’s somewhere across town, probably signing my eviction papers. My cheeks burn with embarrassment and anger.
“Rosalia? Are you okay, honey?” Anna rests a hand on my shoulder, jerking me from my daze.
I plaster on a smile that feels brittle enough to crack my face. “A business call. Everything’s fine.”
But nothing is fine. My dream, everything I’ve worked so hard for, is slipping through my fingers with a simple phone call.
