Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 84635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
Ignoring her generous offer, I reached into my jeans pocket and pulled out a wrinkled ten-dollar bill.
She waved me off. “Don’t be insulting.”
“You are a new business, too. You can’t just let me eat the profits!”
“They are samples for quality control. You’re one of my best marketers, the way you send all your customers my way. Besides, the Three Bs need to stick together!”
The “Three Bs” was a nickname some of the townspeople had given us. At first, we were horrified, thinking they meant the Three Bitches. Turned out it was for our shop names: Betty’s Biscuits, my Borrowed Time, and Hailey’s Blowing Bubbles. It was the first time any of us had felt like we belonged.
At least, that was, until the crash.
Shaking off the looming dark clouds in my mind, I said, “As soon as I have enough money to buy the espresso machine I want, we’ll talk about you supplying me with pastries for the cafe counter.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
The buzzer to her oven in the back went off.
With a quick wave goodbye, she headed into the kitchen, while I left with my gift.
Passing the closed storefront to Hailey’s artisan glass shop, I pulled the keys out of my purse and unlocked the door to my bookstore.
Hailey wouldn’t open her shop for another few hours, one of the perks of being an artist.
I liked to capture the sidewalk traffic, so I opened earlier.
Tossing the pastry box onto the cashier counter, I moved around the store turning on the lights. A soft golden glow spread across the shaded interior, highlighting the neat rows of books, reaching the over-stuffed chairs in the corners.
This bookstore was my sanctuary.
It was hard not to feel that nothing bad could happen to me as I walked between the carefully curated bookshelves.
Turning on the ancient iPod I had hooked up to stereo speakers for ambient music, I flipped over the “Closed” sign to “Open” and snatched up the stack of leather-bound copies of “The Complete Sherlock Holmes,” volumes I and II, that I hadn’t had a chance to shelve last night.
Heading upstairs, I crossed to my favorite area, a massive bay window with cushioned seats. A gnarled tree branch partially blocked the sun, making it feel as if you were sitting among the leaves as you read.
The window was so large, there was room for shelves on either side of the nook. So of course I played favorites by making it the 221B book nook area.
The inherent drive toward solving a mystery was probably in every orphan’s bones. I loved the idea of having a place with cozy little corners to curl up in and read about nefarious criminals and the clever detective who caught them.
After placing the last book on the shelf, I was straightening the framed silhouette print of Benedict Cumberbatch’s Sherlock when the bell over the front door chimed.
I skipped down the stairs toward my first customer of the day but paused at the small landing.
Backlit by the sun, three shadowed figures crossed the threshold.
One immediately detached from the group and headed for the rear of the store.
Gripping the banister until my knuckles whitened, I trudged down the remaining stairs toward the police officers.
There was no reason to be nervous.
I had done nothing wrong.
There had been an investigation.
They knew I hadn’t been the one driving when Jameson and I crashed.
Would I ever be free of the innocent mistake of dating a Worthington?
“Hello, officers. Can I interest you in the latest James Patterson?”
“No thank you, ma’am. Are you Madison Hastings?”
I coughed in an attempt to swallow past my instantly dry throat. “Yes, why?”
He reached for his tactical belt, extracting a pair of handcuffs.
I raised my palms and slowly retreated. “What are you doing?”
“Ma’am, please put your arms behind your back.”
“Wait, stop! Why am I being arrested? What is the charge?”
“First-degree murder.”
My mouth dropped open. Who did they think I murdered? The only death I’d even been near was Jameson’s, and they knew I wasn’t at fault. “What? Wait! Wait! I wasn’t the one driving. I was cleared.”
“Ma’am, please put your hands behind your back.” The officer reached for me again, his hand biting into my shoulder.
“You have to believe me. It wasn’t my fault!”
Talking over me, the officer recited the Miranda warning. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in court.”
The cold metal of a handcuff ring slapped around my left wrist.
Breaking free, I bolted for the back door...and ran straight into a wall.
No, not a wall.
Strong hands clasped my upper arms, steadying me. Tilting my head all the way back, I stared into a pair of intense silver-gray eyes. The same eyes that haunted my dreams every night.
Pierce Worthington slowly smiled down at me. “You’re mine now.”
CHAPTER 5
PIERCE
Ihadn’t expected her to be so beautiful.
I had seen her at my brother’s funeral, of course.