Page 2 of Booked for the Holidays
Surprise and irritation pepper the words. Cautious curiosity hides behind the question and weariness, perhaps, to hear the answer.
“I can assure you, Theo, I am definitelynotfucking with you. You don’t strike me as the fucking around type.”
“You’d be surprised,” he draws out sardonically.
I haven’t got a damn clue how I’m supposed to respond to that joke. Comedy is not a talent I’ve known Theo to employ. Frequently peeved? Without a doubt. Quick-witted and humorous? This is a new development.
“Every Wednesday morning at exactly 7:07 a.m., rain or shine, you walk through this door.” I gesture to the entrance, a piece from the original construction I painted bright red. “It’s different from the other days, when you order your drink off the website, head straight in, and pick it up without any interaction. I’m not sure what compelled you to be ahead of schedule today, butyou’rethe one throwing us off. Not me.”
I’m proud of myself, if we’re being honest, for standing up to him. For calling him out on the underserved reproach. This might be the first time anyone’s ever put him in his place. I dig into my pocket and find my keys, a distraction from the expected verbal lashing soon coming my way. My first attempt at opening the door results in the key clanging, upside down, against the unforgiving lock. On my second hurried attempt, I miss the lock entirely.
“Oh.” Theo ponders my rebuttal. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him nod, which is followed by a half-shrug. “I’m… I’m sorry, Bridget.”
Before I can think twice or process the sincerity behind his apology, he’s reaching around my waist and taking the keys out of my hand. He unlocks the barrier, foot propping the door open as a rush of air conditioning hits my face.
“I forgive you,” I whisper.
It comes out breathier than I intended, a puff of words and syllables catching in my throat. At that, Theo’s expression softens. His eyes lighten and his shoulders fall away from his ears. He looks relieved, happy, maybe, if you stare long enough to sift through the negativity to find a hint of joy.
I cut our interlude short and hurry inside. I unhook Ziggy from his leash, watching as he trots to his favorite spot near the window under a perfect stream of sun rays, optimal for maximum relaxation. Lights illuminate the shelves of books and the shop springs to life as I flip a switch, and I smile at the sight.
Books have always been my happy place. As the one true joy and a constant fixture in my life, they’ve loved me back unconditionally and unwaveringly over the years. Creating a place to share my infatuation with reading was always a far-off dream of mine, forged as a young girl who spent many an hour with her nose buried in the pages ofThe Babysitter’s ClubandMagic Treehouse. The child who grew up thinking dragons were real and that she’d go to a magic school, too.
When I reached adulthood, I knew I wanted an occupation revolving around books. Becoming a librarian was a possibility, and clerking at a major retailer was another idea. Either would have scratched the itch for a little while, but I cravedmore. A place where I wasn't just another employee clocking in and out of work. I wanted something that was mine. Something I could create and help build from the ground up, contributing a fundamental part in each step of the process.
One day, it finally clicked.
I was going to own a bookstore.
The books themselves, I knew, would attract a wide following. After the initial design of shelf placement and seating areas, a component was still missing. It was incomplete, analmost therevision lacking a special touch I couldn't quite put my finger on.
My best friend from high school, Chandler Armstrong, suggested a café inside the space with handcrafted beverages and fresh pastries. Her reasoning was simple: there aren't many things in life better than a coffee and a good book on a cloudy afternoon.
On any afternoon, really.
She agreed to join me as head barista if I handled the baking and the books, a deal I knew would be ludicrous to pass up.
We found a sunny space on the corner of Cove Avenue, the bustling road running straight through the heart of our small town, Park Cove. Located on the edge of Orlando, we’re just past the brink of theme parks buzzing with tourists and sports centers housing mediocre home teams. Our city, though, never feels like it’s three miles from a major metropolis.
It’s peaceful here, a location you’d find in a magazine or movie. People walk their dogs and ride their bikes up and down the street. They wave hello to folks who have lived in the same zip code for five decades, content to put up with the heat over snow shovels and frozen pipes. There are farmers’ markets with fresh kettle corn and locally grown squash and peppers. We have sidewalk festivals on the weekend and parades featuring Girl Scout troops. Boutiques, art galleries and restaurants with waiting lists a month long sit under the tree-lined stretch of brick. Shoppers fill the pavement at all hours of the day, bags tucked under their arms and wallets a little lighter from frivolous spending.
The property was a steal for its location, sold to us cheaply by the previous owner who was ready to start his retirement aboard a yacht off the coast of Sarasota.
On an April morning three years ago my dream became a reality.
A Likely Story bookstore was born.
Business has been going well–better than I could have ever imagined–and we’ve been lucky to stumble into some recent mega-success. Earlier this year, a college cheerleader with a massive internet following walked into the store in search of a fudge brownie after an argument with her boyfriend. She browsed around, gushing endlessly over the small touches we had added to make the place welcoming and personal.
Cute coffee mugs line the shelves behind the bar.
A bright, circular rug designates the story time area where kids gather to hear favorite books read aloud.
A plush, blue velvet loveseat nestles cozily near the bay window, the perfect spot to curl up, read, and people watch.
The woman snapped dozens of photos and promised to share them online. The next morning I woke up to find our low four digit follower count on social media had catapulted to the stratosphere, surpassing six figures. Requests and messages poured in from all corners of the world, inquiring about shipping books and our online store.
Sales aren’t showing any signs of slowing down, which is a good problem to have. I’m proud of our hard work. Starting a business isn’t easy. Oftentimes people only see the end result; the culmination of months and months of sleepless nights and risky gambles finally coming to fruition.
