Chapter 8 - Tyler - The Boy In The Book Store
1653 Words
“Some people inherit money. Others inherit expectations. Unfortunately, I inherited both.”
Most people think money buys freedom.
They’re wrong.
Money buys choices, but it also comes with expectations attached to every one of them. The right university. The right career. The right friends. The right person to date.
Apparently, when your last name is Hunt, wanting a simple life is considered a lack of ambition.
That’s why I like opening the bookstore.
At seven-thirty every Saturday morning, I unlock the front doors before the first customers arrive. The lights slowly flicker to life, the café begins filling the air with the smell of coffee, and the store settles into a peaceful silence.
Books don’t care who my father is. They don’t care how much money sits in my family’s bank account or whether I plan to take over Hunt Enterprises after graduation. They only ask to be opened.
“Good morning, Mr. Hunt.”
I glance toward the café and find Leah, one of my coworkers, grinning at me.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Why not? Your family owns half the county.”
“Closer to a quarter.”
She laughs. “My mistake.”
I start straightening the Staff Picks table. “And technically, my parents own it. I just happen to share their last name.”
“You say that like it’s a burden.”
“Sometimes it is.”
Leah watches me for a moment before tying her apron around her waist. “You know you don’t have to work here, right?”
“I’m aware.”
“Your dad could probably buy this entire store.”
“He offered.”
Her eyes widen. “Seriously?”
I nod.
“What did you say?”
“That buying the bookstore would ruin the point.”
She shakes her head. “You rich people are strange.”
“Completely fair.”
I continue arranging the display until every book sits exactly where it belongs.
My parents don’t understand why I work here. Dad says I’m wasting time that could be spent preparing for a position at the family company.
But this job is mine.
I filled out the application. I completed the interview. I learned the register, memorized the store layout, and worked enough weekend shifts to earn the trust of my manager. Nobody handed it to me because I was a Hunt. That matters more than my father will ever understand.
The doors open at eight
.
Our first customer is Mrs. Whitaker, an elderly woman who visits almost every Saturday. She walks toward the information desk carrying a floral handbag and an expression of determination.
“Tyler, sweetheart, I need your help.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Whitaker. What are we looking for today?”
“A mystery novel.”
“Do you remember the author?”
“No.”
“The title?”
“No.”
“Anything about the plot?”
She thinks carefully. “Someone was murdered.”
I bite back a smile. “That narrows it down.”
“And the cover was blue.”
“Of course it was.”
For the next fifteen minutes, I walk her through the mystery section while she rejects every blue cover I show her.
Finally, she gasps.
“That’s it!”
She reaches for a novel with a green cover.
I stare at it. “Mrs. Whitaker, that isn’t blue.”
“It looked blue online.”
“Technology has betrayed us again.”
She pats my arm. “You’re such a patient young man.”
“Only before noon.”
She laughs and hugs the book to her chest.
As I escort her toward the register, my phone vibrates.
Dad Calling
I let it ring twice before answering.
“Morning.”
“Are you at the bookstore?”
He doesn’t bother saying hello.
“Yes.”
“I arranged another meeting for you at Hunt Enterprises on Monday.”
My shoulders tense. “I have class.”
“The meeting is at four.”
“I work at four.”
“You can miss one shift.”
“I don’t want to.”
Silence stretches between us.
“You don’t need that job, Tyler.”
“I know.”
“Then quit.”
I glance around the store. Leah is helping Mrs. Whitaker at the register. A father reads to his daughter in the children’s section. Someone laughs softly near the café.
“I like it here.”
“You’re capable of more.”
The familiar disappointment in his voice settles heavily in my chest.
“Maybe my potential looks different than yours.”
He exhales. “We’ll discuss this at home.”
The call ends.
I slip my phone into my pocket and return to the Staff Picks table.
Leah watches me from behind the register. “Everything okay?”
“Perfect.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’ve been told.”
She walks over and begins rearranging the books I just straightened.
“So,” she says casually, “did the pretty girl ever text you?”
I know exactly who she means.
“Kennedy?”
“You know another pretty girl who bought three romance novels and looked ready to escape through the floor when you complimented her?”
I smile at the memory.
Kennedy Brooks had looked at me as though I’d spoken another language when I called her beautiful. Not because she disliked the compliment.
Because she didn’t believe it.
“No,” I say. “She hasn’t texted.”
“Are you going to text her?”
“I don’t have her number.”
“Social media exists.”
“She said she’d let me know.”
Leah leans against the table. “And if she doesn’t?”
“Then she doesn’t.”
“That’s it?”
“I asked. She answered. Now it’s her choice.”
Leah studies me. “You’re surprisingly normal for a rich guy.”
“Thank you. I think.”
The bell above the entrance jingles.
I glance toward the doors—and there she is.
Kennedy walks inside wearing an oversized blue hoodie, her curls pulled into a loose puff and a canvas bag resting against her hip.
Levi Bowman follows her.
Of course he does.
I’ve known Levi since we were twelve. We’ve competed over everything: baseball, grades, attention, and who could make the other lose his temper first. He usually wins football. I usually win everything else.
Today, neither of us appears to be competing.
Kennedy immediately heads toward fiction while Levi looks around the store like a man who has accidentally entered another country.
I walk over.
“Welcome back.”
Kennedy smiles. “Hey, Tyler.”
It’s a small smile, but genuine.
“I have a book on hold.”
“I’ll grab it.”
Levi nods at me. “Hunt.”
“Bowman.”
Kennedy looks between us. “Do you two always greet each other like rival cowboys?”
“Yes,” we answer together.
She laughs.
The sound catches me off guard.
Not because I haven’t heard her laugh before.
Because she looks different doing it now.
Lighter. More comfortable.
Levi watches her with a smile he probably doesn’t realize is there.
Interesting.
I retrieved Kennedy’s reserved book and bring it to the register.
Levi studies the cover. “Another romance?”
“You say that like it’s a problem.”
“I’m just impressed you can read that many stories about people making terrible decisions.”
Kennedy pushes her glasses up her nose. “You play football. You spend every weekend watching men run directly into each other.”
“That’s strategy.”
“That’s repeated head trauma.”
He laughs.
So does she.
They aren’t flirting.
Not exactly.
But something about them feels easy.
Leah appears beside me after they leave.
“You okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
She nods toward the window.
Kennedy and Levi stand outside, still arguing about football. Kennedy says something that makes him throw his head back and laugh.
“You like her,” Leah says.
“I barely know her.”
“That wasn’t a denial.”
I watch Kennedy smile at Levi.
She smiles differently around him.
It isn’t the nervous smile she gave me when I asked her out. It isn’t polite or uncertain.
It reaches her eyes.
“Does that bother you?” Leah asks.
I consider lying.
Instead, I tell the truth.
“Only because I wish I had been the reason.”
Leah’s expression softens.
I turn away from the window before I could keep watching.
Kennedy doesn’t owe me a chance simply because I asked for one. Levi doesn’t owe me distance because we’ve spent years competing.
And maybe they’re only friends.
Maybe there is still a possibility Kennedy will text me.
But for the first time, I wonder whether liking someone means accepting that their happiness may have nothing to do with you.
Later, while closing the store, I find a romance novel abandoned in one of the café chairs.
I pick it up and read the back.
Popular athlete.
Quiet bookworm.
A relationship that begins with a secret.
I stare at the summary.
“That seems dramatic.”
Leah looks over my shoulder. “You should buy it.”
“I don’t read romance.”
“You work in a bookstore.”
“That doesn’t mean I have to make bad decisions.”
She points toward the novel. “Maybe it’ll teach you something.”
I glance down at the cover again.
Then I carry it to the register.
As the store lights switch off around me, I tuck the book beneath my arm and smile.
Maybe not every story is about getting the girl.
Sometimes it’s about becoming the kind of man who understands that she was never something to win.
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