Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 28810 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 144(@200wpm)___ 115(@250wpm)___ 96(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 28810 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 144(@200wpm)___ 115(@250wpm)___ 96(@300wpm)
Sir, you promised that you would never show up to my place unless it was an emergency.
This IS an emergency…
The moment I walked into Benjamin’s apartment, I instantly regretted not making him meet me at the office or at my penthouse suite.
“You’re in your late thirties, Benjamin.” I leaned against his kitchen table. “I think it’s time to stop wearing fuzzy onesies to sleep…”
“This man is in my house,” he muttered to himself. “He’s in my house, uninvited and talking about my pajamas…”
He has a point.
“My apologies.” I tried to ignore his bright red butt flap as he paced the floor. “Tell me everything you know about Slow Burn.”
“Well, it’s a very popular trope in the romance genre,” he said. “Those stories have a lot of angst and yearning for hundreds of pages and the spicy payoff at the end. We stock thousands of them.”
“I’m talking about the Slow Burn bookstore, Benny.” I crossed my arms. “The one you said I underestimated in my notes, remember?”
“Oh.” He nodded. “Oh, yeah, that… You might be okay after all.”
“I will be okay. I just want to know why there would ever be any doubt.”
“Romance readers are shifting back toward smaller, more intimate spaces,” he said. “Independent shops. Neighborhood stores. Places where the employees know what they read and can recommend something without checking an algorithm.”
“Our employees recommend books all the time.”
“That's not the part you were supposed to focus on.”
“We’ll have plenty of intimate spaces for them to read at Sinclair Street.” I shrugged. “There are two entire floors dedicated to romance books, reading pods galore, and multiple beverage stations.”
“And ten additional floors for the other genres.”
“What's your point?”
“You're not exactly intimate, sir.” The look on his face gave me pause.
“If Slow Burn survives the rest of this year and the first two quarters of next year, she'll be positioned perfectly for the shift. Publishers will send her more events, more exclusives, more authors. Readers will follow.”
“And?”
“And eventually some of them stop crossing the street to you.”
“I see.” I clenched my jaw. “So, all I need to do is make sure that Slow Burn can’t keep up with me for the rest of the year?”
“If you want to be vicious…”
“I want to be a winner.”
“Then, yes, sir.” He nodded. “You’d need to do that.”
“You could’ve said that this morning,” I said, moving off his table.
“Compile our best marketing and promotional team and tell them I want the most aggressive opening one hundred eighty days we've ever planned.”
“How aggressive?”
“I want readers to forget there's another bookstore across the street.”
“Will do. Anything else?”
“Yeah, actually.” I cleared my throat. “I need the tech department to find a way to get all the security footage from the Parker Hotel between nine fifteen and nine twenty-four.”
“Why?”
“Because there was a woman in the grand ballroom.”
“There were thousands of them.”
“Well, there’s only one I need to see again.”
He gave me a blank stare.
“She was talking to me during those specific minutes,” I said. “Get all the still frames of us together, and have my researchers find out who the hell she is.”
“You pay me to handle your book business, Mr. Sinclair,” he said. “Not play Cinderella games.”
“I’ll give you a twenty thousand dollar bonus for handling this as soon as possible.”
“I’ll figure out who the glass slipper belongs to by tomorrow evening.”
“Make it noon.”
THE INDIE
SUMMER
Ilay in bed staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep.
I had one hand behind my head, the other beneath my panties, replaying every second I'd spent with that damn billionaire cosplayer.
Ever since I’d come home, I’d been wishing I’d borrowed five minutes of Jenny’s shamelessness and told him exactly who I was.
I’m Summer Connors. I own Slow Burn.
Maybe he would’ve said, “Let’s go back to my place so I can make you scream my name,” and fucked me like one of the filthy fictional billionaires he was pretending to be…
Maybe he would’ve saved me from sitting through a panel about saving struggling indie bookstores, listening to experts suggest every damn thing I’d already tried.
Host more events.
Build a stronger community.
Cut unnecessary expenses.
Gee, how insightful…
BAH-RINGGG! BAH-RINGGG!
My four o’clock alarm shattered whatever was left of my fantasy.
Reality was here, and it was far too soon.
By five, I was dressed for my latest attempt at saving Slow Burn.
With any luck, I’d have my new double life in place by the end of the week.
Slow Burn by day. Someone else’s employee by night.
Maybe then no one would ever have to know my bookstore was becoming exactly what its name implied.
A dying ember.
I stepped off the subway in Manhattan an hour later, smoothing my interview dress and hoping I looked like someone who was serious about getting hired.
When I made it two blocks down, my phone buzzed in my purse.
Jenny
Hey! I came to your store super early this morning. Where the heck are you?