In love with a billionaire

002

The bookstore door opened with a plaintive creak, and Sebastian Hooper burst in, soaked to the skin, his patent-leather shoes leaving muddy puddles on the worn floorboards. A rusty bell jingled overhead, a faint, discordant sound almost lost in the roar of the thunderstorm outside. He stopped dead in his tracks, blinking away the water dripping from his eyelashes, and scanned the interior. The room was small, barely larger than a maid's parlor, with walls lined with rickety shelves sagging under books with threadbare covers. The smell of damp paper and musty wood hung in the air, mingled with a faint scent of burning oil from a solitary lamp on a counter at the far end. The flickering light of the lamp cast dancing shadows on the walls, giving the place an almost unreal feel, like a setting straight out of a Dickens novel.

Harold Grayson, the chauffeur, followed in, shaking out his soaked coat like a dog after a bath. "Jesus, sir, this isn't the Ritz," he muttered, wiping his dripping face with his sleeve. He took another step and tripped over a threadbare rug, swearing under his breath. Sebastian shot him an annoyed look. "Shut up and close the door, Harold. It's like an open barn." Harold obeyed, grumbling something about "rich people giving orders even in the rain," and the door slammed behind them, slightly muffling the din of the storm.

Sebastian stepped forward, his footsteps echoing on the creaking wood, and shook himself vigorously, sending drops of water flying in all directions. "What a dump," he muttered to himself, adjusting his sodden collar as if that might restore an ounce of dignity. He was used to the hushed salons of Mayfair, to Persian rugs and crystal chandeliers, not to this kind of place that seemed to be miraculously standing. But as he scanned the room, his gaze fell on a figure at the far end, near the counter. A young woman, sitting on a rickety stool, looked up from a book she was reading by the light of the oil lamp. She didn't move, didn't speak, just stared at the two intruders with an expression that oscillated between wariness and mild irritation.

Adeline Smith, 25, had brown hair pulled back in a loose bun, a few stray strands framing a fine but severe face. Her deep green eyes shone in the dim light, and her gray cotton dress, worn but clean, betrayed a simplicity that contrasted sharply with Sebastian's ruined elegance. The book in her hands—Jane Eyre—was open at a dog-eared page, and a pencil tucked between her fingers suggested she had been marking the margins. She set the novel down on the counter with a deliberately slow gesture, as if marking her territory, and crossed her arms.

"Are you lost?" she asked finally, her voice clear but tinged with a subtle East End accent, a mixture of defiance and mockery. Sebastian, surprised by her tone, squared his shoulders, momentarily forgetting his own sorry state. "Not lost, no. Just… temporarily lost by this infernal storm," he replied, trying to compose himself. He ran a hand through his wet hair, pushing it back in a gesture that, in other circumstances, might have passed for flirtatious.

Harold, still by the door, chuckled softly. "Lost, eh? I'd say drowned like rats." Adeline looked over at him, one eyebrow slightly raised, and Harold lowered his head, suddenly embarrassed by her piercing gaze. "Is that your servant?" she asked Sebastian, a hint of irony in her voice. Harold immediately became indignant. "Servant? I'm a chauffeur, miss! And a damn good one, even if this damned car decided to prove me wrong today."

Sebastian raised a hand to cut off Harold's protests. "Whatever he is. We're here because my Rolls-Royce had the bright idea of breaking down in this storm. I don't suppose you have a phone to call a mechanic?" He approached the counter, his shoes slapping on the floor, and placed a hand on the scuffed wood, leaving a wet trail. Adeline stared at him for a moment, then shook her head. "No phone here, sir…?"

"Hooper. Sebastian Hooper," he replied with a confidence that belied his disheveled appearance. He almost expected his name to provoke a reaction—after all, the Hoopers were a well-known dynasty in London's industrial and social circles. But Adeline just shrugged impassively. "No telephone, Mr. Hooper. And no mechanic either. You're in the East End, not Kensington."

Harold burst into a throaty laugh. "She's got you good, sir! No fuss here, eh?" Sebastian glared at him, but couldn't help feeling a twinge of amusement at the young woman's poise. "Very well," he said, crossing his arms as well. "Then I suppose we'll have to wait for the storm to pass. Do you have somewhere I can sit without ruining your... furniture?" He glanced around skeptically, seeing only a rickety chair by a bookshelf and a stool occupied by a pile of old newspapers.

Adeline sighed, as if their presence were a chore she reluctantly accepted. She stood up, revealing a thin but sturdy figure, and grabbed a threadbare rag hanging from a nail behind the counter. "Here," she said, tossing it to Sebastian with casual precision. He caught it in midair, surprised, and unfolded it to reveal a threadbare piece of fabric that must once have been white. "What's this for?" he asked, puzzled.

"To dry you, of course," she replied, a faintly wry smile on her lips. "You're dripping all over my floor." Harold chuckled, leaning against the wall to dry his face with his own sleeve. "She's right, sir. It looks like a broken umbrella." Sebastian glared at his driver but began to rub his hair and face with the rag, which smelled faintly of dust and oil. "Charming hospitality," he muttered, loud enough for her to hear.

Adeline sat back down, picking up her book as if nothing had happened. "If you want tea and cookies, you've come to the wrong place. We sell books here, not comfort." Sebastian, stung by her remark, moved closer, intrigued despite himself. "And what are you reading in this... charming retreat?" he asked, glancing at the novel. She looked up, visibly annoyed by his sarcastic tone. "Something you wouldn't understand, I imagine. Too many words and not enough numbers."

Harold burst out laughing again, louder this time. "Oh, I like that one! She's got you all shut up, Mr. Hooper!" Sebastian gritted his teeth, but an involuntary smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You're pretty impertinent for a bookseller," he said, placing the damp cloth on the counter. Adeline didn't blink. "And you're pretty arrogant for a man who looks like a wet cat. We're even."

A tense silence fell, punctuated by the patter of rain against the windows and the distant rumble of thunder. Harold, sensing the tension, cleared his throat. "Well, I'll see if there's anything I can do about the car. I'll be right back, sir." He opened the door again, letting in a cold gust of wind, and disappeared into the storm before Sebastian could protest. "Coward," he muttered, finding himself alone with Adeline.

She stared at him for a moment, then resumed her reading, clearly dismissing him. But Sebastian, far from being discouraged, leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. "Aren't you going to ask me who I am? What I do?" he asked, trying to get the conversation going again. Adeline turned a page without looking at him. "I don't care. You're here because of the rain, not by choice. When it stops, you'll leave. That's all that matters."

Sebastian remained silent, unsettled by her indifference. He was used to being courted, flattered, having his name and status acknowledged. But this woman—this Adeline Smith—treated him like an intruder, and it piqued his curiosity more than he cared to admit. Outside, the storm continued to roar, and for the first time that evening, Sebastian found himself not wanting it to end too soon.