Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 132097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 660(@200wpm)___ 528(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 660(@200wpm)___ 528(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
Hmmm.
What would Jane Austen do?
Not sit around moping and waiting for things to happen, that’s for sure.
With a lion-sized yawn, I finish taping another box of reverse harem fantasy books, then add it to the corner where the finished boxes are.
I’m overdue for a coffee break.
It’s nearly ten a.m. and I’ve been at this since seven.
Mom should be here soon.
That’s one huge silver lining since the ugly breakup. After seeing me hurt, Mom is acting like everything a mom should be.
No more digs about my weight.
No more pushing swamp juice.
She keeps sharing fresh ideas for the bookstore, articles about mad successes across the world and cute little Pinterest boards with décor ideas.
Some of her ideas are out there, because hey, it’s Mom.
Her latest brainworm is having a yoga section in the back room, surrounded by books about wellness and meditation.
Of course, she included a mile-long list of titles by yoga gurus and fitness freaks to stockpile.
Not quite the direction I’m aiming for, but I appreciate her enthusiasm.
My vision feels more universal, and if I’m lucky, it’ll pay off too.
It’s going to be a shrine to popular genres, especially the ones loved by my fellow ladies, the biggest readers of them all.
Romance, thrillers, historical fiction, fantasy.
I want to promote the hell out of successful women authors, too.
There’ll be a shelf for local writers, a Booktok/Bookstagram section, and eventually, an outreach program for young adult readers.
I want my book shrine to jive with Portland seamlessly, locals and happy tourists alike.
In time, I want my store to make a difference. To matter to folks who want a human face and a fun conversation with a fellow reader whenever they come searching for their next true love between the covers.
If I can help get folks genuinely excited about reading again, the money will come.
I just know it.
No more barriers.
No more staged influencers who only promote the popular books for views.
No more detached online orders where an AI algorithm shoves your next book in your face.
I want to deliver nostalgia. The full experience of roaming the shelves and feeling the print in your hands.
I want customers drowning in the smell of books, new and old, and have them free to flop down in cozy chairs and let the books hook them right in the store.
If I can achieve that—if I can spark a few miracles—it’ll all be worth it.
Adrenaline feeds the giddiness in my blood.
Oh, yes, I want payback for Ethan and his heartbreaky ways. But more than that, I want meaning.
I want to hook people up with the books that will inspire them for years to come.
I want wisdom to flow like inked words, true and beautiful, the moral compass that never disappoints.
Unlike so many people.
With a little cold brew from the fridge in hand and reenergized, I finish packing my last box and eye the door.
Time to get these babies down to the parking lot so Mom can transport them to the bookstore.
At least the elevator works today—that’s never guaranteed in this building.
I bend down and lift the first box, groaning at the weight.
My knees tremble.
My tired arms threaten to dislocate from my shoulders.
I know, I know.
I need to start a gym routine, or at least do a few kettlebells at home.
Slowly, I stagger down the hall to the elevator and dump the box in the small lobby.
It’s a quiet building, especially this early, so I’m not worried about anyone taking them.
Now, for the next box.
And the next.
By the time I’ve lugged down eight boxes of over four hundred paperbacks, my back is ruined.
I stretch out in the elevator, bracing one hand against the wall as I tap the button for the lobby.
Mom greets me as I’m carrying the last box outside. She’s wearing pretty olive pants and a white tank top today.
“Hi, Mom,” I grunt, half-bowed over by the weight of the books. “Are your seats down?” I let her guide me with one hand on my arm to the car.
Between us, we wrangle the first box in.
“Only three hundred and fifty more books to go,” I mutter.
“What?” Mom’s mouth parts in horror. “Tell me you’re kidding, Hattie.”
I smile sheepishly.
“It goes faster than it looks, especially with your help.” I turn, reluctantly ready to get the next box, when a car screams into the parking lot.
Margot.
She lurches to a stop across three parking spaces and cuts the engine. When she opens the door, Ares jumps out.
“Is he here?” Margot demands, her eyes looking around wildly.
Ares bellows excitedly and runs at me, banging against my knees as his tail swishes the air.
Wow.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen this old dog move so fast.
His happy hand licks bring back bittersweet memories. Like how Ethan used to think the dog was such a burden, only to wind up with a new best friend.
…but why is Ares with Margot?