DESIRÉE DOYLE
I reluctantly tossed the novel—Rina Kent's Throne of Power—in my hands into my locker, letting out a frustrated sigh as I retrieved my uniform and apron.
I slipped out of my mufti, and threw on the black dress, knotting my white apron over it. My touch lingered on the book for a few more seconds, and I wished I could read one more chapter before I went about my chores for the day.
But then, who was I kidding? If I retrieved the book from the locker and dared read one more chapter, I would be propelled to finish the book in one sitting. Her book had that much of a compelling effect on her readers. I knew how much trouble that would put me in, so I cast a glare at my locker, and slammed it shut.
I snatched my notepad off the desk and sauntered into the store to jot down a
