Billionaires Dollar Series

“I realized I don’t actually know.” I take a sip of my whiskey, reluctantly amused. “I’d imagine you scare them off.”

“I’m nice when I need to be,” he says, a wolfish grin spreading across his features. “But that’s unimportant. Tell me, how has your little problem progressed?”

I groan. “Don’t call her my little problem.”

“Well, that’s what she is.” He takes a sip of his own whiskey. “You never told me her name.”

“And now there’s no need to. It’s over. And I’d greatly appreciate it if everyone just fucking stopped asking me about her.” I run an agitated hand through my hair.

“You hit the expiration date?”

“Yes,” I say. “I’m tearing down her business. It’s final.”

He nods, as if he understands perfectly, as if this was a conundrum men find themselves in regularly. He takes a moment, but when he speaks, his voice is low. “Are you sure the development is worth it?”

I run my hand along the table. “Are you really the one asking me this? Nicholas Park?”

“Fuck. You’re right. Ignore what I said, and go after the money.”

“That’s what I thought.”

He shakes his head at me, but it’s thoughtful. “But that’s me, Cole. Not you. And this is the first time you’ve been out of sorts over a woman in years.”

“God, don’t remind me.”

“But I will, regardless.” He leans over the table. “What are you doing to Ben and Elena about the article?”NôvelDrama.Org is the owner.

“Nothing.”

“Fuck nothing. What are you going to do?”

I take a sip of the whiskey and it burns down my throat. “My lawyers are looking into a potential breach of the non-disclosure agreement and slander.”

“That’s right. The snake.” Nick shakes his head. “I never liked him.”

“No, you never did.” They’d been unable to be in the same room at certain points. Privately, I’d always thought they were each other’s complete opposites. Nick, with a rough background and ambition and no bullshit. Ben, privilege and charm and not much else.

I know by now which friend I’d rather have; give me harsh truths over well-intentioned lies any day.

“That reminds me,” I say. “What is your problem with Blair, anyway? I mentioned your name the other day and she practically recoiled. What’ve you done?”

Nick’s features harden. “Nothing, man. Your sister and I are just different people. You know we’ve never been close.”

“You don’t have to get along. But you can at least be civil to each other,” I say.

“I am,” Nick mutters, and I don’t miss the emphasis on the first word. Maybe I need to have the same conversation with her. But why? Blair is lovable. Free-spoken, perhaps, but there’s no one she meets who she can’t charm. Except, it seems, the man in front of me.

I shake my head and take another sip of my whiskey. It’s not a conundrum I can figure out, not now, at least.

When I finally arrive home that evening, my apartment is dark and empty. There’s no hallway table to toss my nonexistent key on. There are no bookshelves filled with photo albums and old yearbooks. All my old stuff is in storage, packed up by the movers. I still haven’t opened a single one of those boxes.

I make my way through the empty living room-it’s big enough that my footsteps echo-and into my bedroom. Unsurprisingly, it’s as empty as the rest of my apartment. The only personal touch is the books on my bedside table, piled high. I haven’t touched them since Skye was here last. Somehow, I haven’t been able to read, despite the sleepless nights.

I lie on my back and stare up at the ceiling. I count all the spotlights-seven of them-before familiar thoughts come creeping in, unbidden but relentless. What is Skye doing right now? How is she handling news of the demolition? Is she having trouble sleeping, too?

I shouldn’t wonder. I should try to stop caring. That had been my MO for years, now. Caring gets you hurt and it makes you weak. My current predicament is the perfect example of that.

Caring for Skye has gotten me nowhere.

It took grit, and perseverance, and everything she had, I write, but in the end, the store opened. It opened its doors to a community starved for stories, and in return, its stories were read.

I end the paragraph with a smile on my face. For the first time in months-in years-the writing is practically flowing out of me. Word after word, chapter after chapter, the story living in me, like it’s bubbling beneath my skin. It should be difficult, considering the uncertainty in my life. I should probably not be writing at all, hunched over my desk in the evening darkness.

But ever since we got the demolition news, I haven’t been able to stop.

And the best part is that my writing isn’t about Cole at all. It’s not even really about Between the Pages itself, but more about what the bookstore represented. About what Eleanor was to me-and to Karli-and to so many others who needed a quiet place of reflection.

When I glance at the clock, it’s past midnight. I’ve been writing for hours again. It’s funny, that. For years I thought I didn’t have the words in me, and now they won’t stop flowing.

I close my laptop and stow away the folder on my desk. It contains a set of printed CVs and a list of potential employers. Brooks & King is at the top of the list, including the business card I received from the department head Edwin Taylor.

I climb into bed and try to still the spinning of my mind. Tomorrow will be another day of closing up shop. Packaging books and packing away memories. I turn over on my side, and in the stillness, my mind circles back to the one place I don’t want it to go. When the words stop flowing, the thinking begins, it seems.

He sat right there, on the other side of my bed, leaning against the headboard while I was sick. Somehow, that’s the image I can’t get out of my head, night after night. His sleep-deprived eyes. The murmured conversations, where my fever removed all attempts at pretense or wit. When it was just the two of us-without a game or an agreement between us.

Our casual relationship had been an adventure, and it came to an end. Just as it should’ve-just like all ill-considered adventures do. He’d been quick to say that it was over the last time we spoke. And since then, he hasn’t contacted me, nor I him.

On my nightstand, my phone is lying innocent and quiet. Like most nights, the impulse to text him is strong. And like most nights, I fight it. Not that I’d know what to say, anyway.

I turn over on my back. “It’s over,” I say out loud. If I hear it enough times, maybe I’ll start believing it. “He’s tearing down Between the Pages.”

That should be the final page of our book, the little gold lettering of a fairy tale stating the end. And yet… I don’t know if I’m ready for that yet. For the finality of it.

The next day, Karli comes through the front door with a package of homemade cupcakes. “Look,” she says, holding them up for my view. “Some carbs for comfort.”

I hold up the portable speaker I brought. “I couldn’t agree more.”

We turn on some ’90s pop and work in silence. Shelf after shelf of books get put into moving boxes, all of them clearly marked with author and genre. An entire store packed up, a legacy dismantled.

“Are you sure John is okay with this?”

Karli snorts. “No. He said just yesterday that he liked the garage as it is. But where else can we store the inventory?”

I sigh. “Nowhere. But hopefully a few bookstores will respond to my email and take some of it off our hands. If not, I already have an idea for selling them online. We should be able to recuperate most of the purchasing cost.”

“Thank God,” Karli says. “I might be able to sell some of the children’s books to my son’s school, too. They always need more books.”

“That’s perfect.” I look down at the book in my hand, at the Art Deco font and the beautiful cover. An American classic, set in the roaring ’20s.