Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 35305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
"Excuse me." A woman in a miniskirt and heels higher than my blood pressure steps up to the counter, holding a special edition of Fourth Wing in her hands. Where she got it from, I don't know. I thought we sold out of them last week. "Is this really sixty dollars?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Cool," she whispers, staring at the book like it's the Holy Grail. "I want it." She thrusts it out toward me.
"You'll have to wait in line." I nod at the line of customers waiting to check out.
"Oh." She beams at me. "But I'm a regular."
"And we adore you for it," I say with a forced smile. "But so are a lot of them. Please wait in line, and I'll get you checked out just as soon as I can."
"Ugh. Fine." She rolls her eyes and then stomps away, muttering under her breath.
Awesome. I'll probably have a bad Google review tomorrow. Oh well. That's a tomorrow problem. Today, I need a stiff drink, a whole line of Oreos, and a long soak in the tub.
"We're out of tissue paper," Olive announces beside me.
I was wrong. I don't need a line of Oreos. I need the whole pack.
"Check the back."
"I already did."
"That'll be thirty-seven dollars and nineteen cents," I murmur to the sweet old lady in front of me before turning to Olive. "Can you take over here, and I'll go look?"
"You want me to run the register?" She eyes the screen like she's worried she'll break it.
"You'll do fine. All you have to do is scan the barcodes and follow the prompts." A toddler could operate the register, so I'm absolutely confident that Olive—with her advanced degree in biochemistry—can handle it.
"Okay," she says with a shrug. "But if I break something, it's your own fault, and I probably won't be very sorry."
I just shake my head and leave her to it, hurrying toward the back.
"Next time we do a reading, we're hiring extra help," Jazz swears, her arms loaded with bottles of wine.
"We hired Olive and Loralei to help out."
"Fine. We're hiring extra, extra help," she retorts. "This is a madhouse."
"Maybe we overcommitted," I mutter.
"Maybe?" Her brows shoot up. "I'm pretty sure we broke the fire code thirty people ago, Lilah! This is wild."
She isn't wrong. I did not expect this kind of turnout. It's like half the women in Santa Maria turned up to meet Cassia Murphy tonight, drink wine, and try to win that basket. Or maybe half the women in Santa Maria turned up to ogle Cassia's husband, Cord. Either way, half of them are in my store, drinking copious amounts of wine, and buying everything. It's not a complaint. I promise. Just a note to self to hire extra reinforcements next time we book a cowboy author married to a real-life hot cowboy.
"Five hundred more nights like this, and I might actually be able to afford to buy this place," I murmur.
"You need to call your dad," Jazz says, the same thing she's said half a dozen times since Lincoln Hanover—the devil—waltzed in and ruined my day.
"It's not his job to bail me out," I say, the same thing I've said every time she brings it up. Besides, my parents already set up a trust fund for each of us kids. They gave us one million each to get us started in life. It's not their responsibility to step in and give me more now. Unlike a lot of people who make what my dad does, my parents actually taught us the importance of hard work and the value of a dollar.
I want to make them proud.
"You think Grant would be upset about helping you?" Jazz looks at me like I'm crazy. "Your dad adores you, Lilah. He'd probably kill for you guys without hesitation if he thought it was necessary. And it's not like what you need for the building will break him."
"That's beside the point," I mutter.
"Then what is the point?" she demands. "Because you're about to lose the store you've dreamed about your whole life, because you're too stubborn to ask for help."
"The point is that he already gave me a million dollars. How many twenty-five-year-olds are given a million dollars to use however they want? Not many, but they still make it work," I say. "And if they can do it without the safety net I had, then I need to learn to do it, too."
Jazz stares at me for a long moment and then shakes her head like I'm a lost cause. Maybe I am, but I can't just ask my dad to bail me out every time life throws a curveball my way. If I can't make this dream work on my own, maybe it's not meant to work.
"We're so not finished discussing this," Jazz says. "But I have wine to deliver before they riot out there."