Page 34 of Booked for the Holidays
I blink once. Twice.
Did I ever tellPourChoicesI have a reading nook? I don’t think so.
Sure, lots of indie bookstores have them. But mine isn’t exactly obvious. It’s tucked behind the table display of tropes and staff picks, between the stacks on the north side of the store, opposite the wall with built-in shelves and ladder. A battered blush velvet chair, a basket of knit blankets in every shade of pink and cream, a little side table I found at a vintage market last spring.
It’s not official. It’smine.My soft landing when the chaos gets too loud. Where I hide with an annotated paperback and a mug of something sweet when the weight of keeping this dream alive feels heavier than I can hold.
I scroll up through my old messages withPourChoices, just to be sure. Did I mention it when we talked about his wine bar opening next door? When we swapped marketing ideas? Nope.Nothing.
A prickle of suspicion dances down my neck, but my phone buzzes on the counter.
It’s Charlotte.
Charlotte
Hey Juni, I hate to do this, but I can’t make my shift today. Oliver’s running a fever, and I can’t find anyone to watch him.
Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
I let out a groan that echoes off the walls of shelves. No help during the biggest holiday rush of the year. It’ll be just me, my peppermint latte that’s gone cold, and a line of romance lovers needing recommendations, gift wrap, and for me to remember where I put the new shipment of special editions.
I glance back at my laptop. The chat withPourChoicesis still open.
Part of me wants to type back:How do you know about the nook?
But my thumb freezes. There’s no time. There’s no headspace for that mystery today.
So I shove my phone into my skirt pocket, straighten my newCome for the Tropes, Stay for the Spicesign by the register, and force a smile for the first customer of the day.
Questions can wait.PourChoicescan wait. Liam can definitely wait.
Right now, the only thing that can’t wait is my bookstore.
It’s early afternoon when three women approach the counter with their purchases. A mother and her two daughters similar in age to me.
“This is the cutest store,” one of the daughters gushes.
“Thank you.” I grab a tote bag and start ringing up their books.
The mom makes a waving motion. “And he’s a nice touch.”
“I’m sorry. Who?” My brows dip as I scan another book.
“The gorgeous man who looks like a book boyfriend reading between the stacks.” She cups her hand like she’s sharing a secret. “His British accent is on point.”
“It’s like that account for hot dudes reading,” one of the daughters notes. “You know, where people anonymously post hot guys reading in the wild?”
A man with a British accent reading in my store…what are the odds? Something tells me Liam would know.
I’m going to kill him.
I smile, but it’s thin and murderous. “It’s fake.”
The mom blinks. “Wait—really?”
“Tragically American.”
I force a polite smile, but under the surface, I’m already imagining Liam being shelved—face-first—into the mafia romance section.
