Booked with the Billionaire

The paper trembled in my hand. At first, I blamed the old ceiling fan turning lazily overhead, stirring the warm afternoon air, but then I realized the shaking was coming from me. I read the paragraph again, and then once more. The words didn't change. Kane Properties and Holdings The company letterhead sat at the top of the page, crisp and expensive, and beneath it were six words that seemed to tilt my world off its axis: Proposed acquisition of the Hawthorne Building. I blinked hard and read the sentence again, as if the letters might rearrange themselves into something less devastating. They didn't. The edges of the paper bit into my fingers. I loosened my grip, only to tighten it again as a chill worked its way down my spine. No. There had to be some mistake. The bookstore was quiet around me, the kind of quiet I usually loved. Dust drifted through the late-afternoon sunlight pouring in through the front windows, and the kettle I'd forgotten to turn off clicked softly in the back room. Mr. Pickles lounged in his armchair, one orange paw dangling over the edge, blissfully unaware that my world had just come apart. Everything looked exactly as it had an hour ago, and somehow that made it worse. I lowered my gaze to the document again. Pending redevelopment plans. Affected tenants will receive formal notice. The words seemed to snag somewhere inside me. Affected tenants. That was me. My bookstore. I sank into my chair, the old wood squeaking beneath my weight as the meaning of the letter finally settled in. They weren't simply buying the building. They were taking it, and with it, the bookstore my grandmother had left me. I didn't need the proposal to tell me what came next. Companies like Kane Properties didn't buy old buildings to preserve them. They tore them down and built something shinier in their place; another luxury hotel, another upscale restaurant, another monument to money. My throat tightened. I pressed my thumb against the edge of the paper until it hurt. This place wasn't just a*****e. It was my grandmother teaching me to alphabetize shelves when I was ten, reading beneath the front counter during slow afternoons, and her laugh drifting through the aisles. It was every birthday, every Christmas, every memory that mattered. It was home. A sound escaped me, something between a breath and a laugh. I picked up the document again and forced myself to read it, even though the words had already seared themselves into my memory. Kane Properties and Holdings. As my eyes moved over the logo, a horrible thought began to take shape. Ezra knew. ‘How could he?’ A chill worked its way down my spine. Of course, he knew. He was a Kane. This was his family's company, his family's business, and suddenly every conversation we'd had over the past few weeks replayed itself in my head with a different meaning. Every time I'd worried about rent, every time I'd admitted sales weren't what they used to be, every time I'd confessed that losing the bookstore was my greatest fear. He'd listened, held me, and kissed my forehead while promising that everything would work out. My fingers tightened around the paper. Had he known all along? Had he sat across from me, listened to all my fears, and said nothing because he already knew what was coming? Worse, had any of it been real, or had I simply been foolish enough to mistake his kindness for something more? The realization settled heavily in my chest. The bell above the front door chimed, and I jerked. "Hey, nerd." His voice floated through the store, warm and teasing and achingly familiar. "If it isn't my favorite bookstore owner." I closed my eyes. Footsteps crossed the hardwood floor. "I brought those cinnamon rolls you like, and I'm fairly certain the woman at the bakery thinks I'm proposing next week." He stopped. Silence settled between us. "Wren?" I couldn't turn around. Not yet. I heard the rustle of a paper bag being set on the counter, followed by another set of footsteps. "What’s wrong, baby?" There was something different in his voice now. Concern. I turned. "What is this?" I asked. My voice sounded strange, too soft somehow. He didn't answer. I crossed the room and shoved the papers into his chest. "What is this, Ezra?" He caught them automatically and glanced at the first page. The color slowly drained from his face. "Wren…" I took a step back. No. No, no, no. Wren… this isn't what it looks like. Just let me explain, okay?" A laugh escaped me, thin and shaky. "Explain?" "It's not what you think." "What do I think?" I asked, my voice rising. "No, tell me. What exactly do you think I'm thinking right now?" He ran a hand through his hair. "I don’t know, but you have to listen." "Listen to what, Ezra? You knew about this the whole time." "I was trying to figure out a way to…" "You knew." He exhaled, and that was answer enough. I looked away because I suddenly couldn't bear to look at him. The clock above the register ticked, a car passed outside, and Mr. Pickles yawned from his chair. The whole world had the audacity to keep moving. "You knew how much this place means to me." "Wren, listen…" "You knew." My voice cracked, and I hated it. I hated crying in front of him, and I hated even more that some pathetic part of me still wanted him to say something that would fix this. "You knew I was struggling." "I can talk to them. I'll figure something out." I looked at him. He sounded so sure, as though money and influence could solve everything, as though this was just another problem to throw resources at. "What happens to me?" I asked quietly. He blinked. "What?" "If they buy this building, what happens to me?" "We'll figure it out." We'll. The word landed like a blow. As if there was still a we. As if he hadn't kept this from me. As if he hadn't walked into my life carrying a secret big enough to destroy it. "I can make this right," he said. I shook my head, something inside me going frighteningly calm. "Don't." "Wren, please." He took a step toward me, and I immediately stepped back. The hurt that flashed across his face almost undid me. Almost. "Please," he said softly. I couldn't do this. I couldn't stand there and listen to him explain why he hadn't told me, why he'd let me trust him, why he'd let me… No. "Get out." He went still. "Wren." "Get out." "Please, just listen…" "I said get out!" I grabbed the nearest book from the counter and threw it. It hit the floor near his feet. Another followed, and then another. Tears blurred my vision. I wiped angrily at my face, but more kept coming. "Leave!" Silence stretched between us. Then, quietly, he said, "Okay." He looked devastated. I didn't care. At least, I told myself I didn't. He stood there for another second, as though he wanted to say something, and then he turned and walked to the door. The bell chimed softly overhead, and a second later, he was gone. I stood there staring at the empty doorway until a tear slipped from my chin onto the acquisition papers scattered across the floor. Then I sank among them. The pages crinkled beneath me. Somewhere in the store, the kettle clicked again. I covered my mouth with my hand, and finally, with my grandmother's bookstore all around me, I broke.