Page 1 of The Bookworm Who Stole Christmas
Chapter One
MADDIE
Ihate Christmas.
Like, I legitimately hate it.
There’s something about the too-bright lights, the way the tinsel reflects off of everything, and the buying of presents just because it's expected, only for someone to be upset it’s not the right size or color, that just drives me insane.
Anddo noteven get me started on the damned Christmas music. It sets my teeth on edge just thinking about it. Why does the same music have to be repeated? There’s only so many times I can hearLast Christmaswithout wanting to off myself.
No thanks.
If I never have to celebrate another Christmas again, it’ll be too soon.
Unlocking the door to my bookshop—Maddie’s Den—I flip the switch, shielding my eyes from the glaring light. Walking to the back room, I throw my bag down on my desk and go about opening up. Strolling through the store, I straighten up chairs, books, and any ornaments that are outof place, then open the blinds. The view of Main Street greets me—Mrs. Taylor’s coffee shop and BumbleBee’s florist opposite my store.
The town is one of those old but cute settings, something you would see in a classic western film, but more modern. Most of the buildings are one-story high, but the florist’s used to be an old jail, so it’s two-story. My flat sits above it, having been converted… however long ago. I didn’t bother listening to the realtor as they spouted off facts—I was too busy looking around.
The mornings are dark in the little town of Haven’s Dale, winter's claws sinking in deep, which means I’m in a perpetual state of dreariness from morning till night. Add in the snow forecast in the lead up to Christmas, and I couldn’t be more excited—not. October’s always been my favorite time of year, though—Halloween. The leaves turn brown, the temperature cools down to something more livable, and the pumpkin-spiced lattes are out in full force.
Pure bliss.
I take a deep breath and let out a sigh of contentment that this is my life—a lonely one, but a happy one…I think. My black and white moggy, Artemis, and I mind our own business, keeping each other company. I don’t need any more than that. Too many people over the years treating me like shit have made me close myself off to people. Healthy? Probably not, but it is what it is.
Grrr, that saying. Annoying, but apt.
The morning passes by in a blur—restocking, re-ordering, and dealing with irritating customers who think they’re right when, nine times out of ten, they’re not. I finally get two minutes to breathe and have acoffee when the doorbell chimes.
“For fuck’s sake,” I grumble under my breath, rolling my eyes.
I don’t bother pasting on a friendly customer service smile; people know me to be brash at times. I don’t mean to be, I just gave up caring about what other people thought of me a long time ago.
“Ah, there’s my favorite grump,” Zoey, the closest thing to a friend that I have, says, smiling from ear to ear.
“It’s a good thing I like you, otherwise I would have booted you out for ruining my coffee break,” I snark, but there’s no heat to my words. There never is where Zoey’s concerned.
She took me under her wing when I moved here six months ago. I had no qualifications, no life experience, just a bag on my shoulder and a shop that had been left to me by a grandmother I’d never met. Zoey saw a lost soul and decided to befriend me, and even though I tried keeping my distance, she kept coming back.
“Aw, I love you too, Mads.” Zoey blows me a kiss, and I smirk.
Bringing the cup to my mouth, I gesture with my head. “Changed your hair color again? Looks good. I like it.”
She fluffs her hair, popping her hip out dramatically. “You think? I mean, I loved the blonde, but the pink is really doing it for me.” She twirls, her lustrous hair flowing behind her.
Her hourglass figure is encased in ass-hugging black jeans, a cream woolly jumper, and a black overcoat. Zoey’s the epitome of chic and sophisticated, even with her pastel pink hair. Unlike me, who loves my leggings and baggy hoodies a bit too much to be socially acceptable. I can’t remember the last time I got dressed in anything else.
“Definitely suits you,” I offer with ashrug.
I never know how to compliment people, so I always feel like I come across as a weirdo—either too energetic, which doesn’t happen very often unless I’m drunk, or like I don’t care. I think I’m wired wrong.
“What have you got planned today?” Zoey asks as she runs her hands across the spines of the books on display.
“Same old, same old. Work, then home to Arty. I’m desperate to finish offTwo Nights in Argyll.” Zoey gives me a confused look, so I gasp, clarifying, “By Jac Franklin? Only the spiciest book I’ve ever read! I’m pretty sure I’m going to need new panties. I think there’s something like forty-seven percent smut in it.”
By the time I’ve finished my bookish rant, I have a smile on my face the size of the Sahara Desert. If there’s one thing I love talking about, it’s books.
“Okay, fine. I’ll read it,” she says with a smirk. “You got it in stock?”
