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“Why else would you be here?” I roll my eyes with a snort, wanting him to stop. But he doesn’t, so I try harder to repel him. “Don’t tell me you’re feeling sentimental over a quick fuck. You don’t even know me to care about me.”
It doesn’t work. He’s standing in front of the register now.
“I’m no saint. I don’t do charity work, and I don’t spend my valuable time on things I have no desire doing.” He leans in, hands bracing the counter, and I want to jerk away. But I keep my smile pasted on my face. “Listen to me, Eloise. You will be out of here before the end of the year if you don’t come up with some sort of miracle.”
“We’ve been making it so far.” My shrug has him straightening, his brows drawn as he assesses me.
There’s a moment of silence between us, and I wonder what’s going through his mind. If he thinks I’m this helpless young woman who will fall for anything he’s saying. If he does, it’s my mission to show him otherwise.
“Who wants a life like that?” he questions, brows still drawn, words a little harder. I watch him unravel for a moment beforehe pulls himself back together. “Let me help you. I’ll take the burden off your shoulders, and you can have as much freedom as you have now.”
His offer sounds like everything I need. Like it could take my life and turn it into a fairytale.
But I’ve read enough of them to know they stay right where I experience them: in books.
“You are a liar and a manipulator, and I would be afoolto get into business with you,” I tell him, trying to convince myself of the same.
“But you weren’t when you got into bed?—”
“We fucked against a bookshelf. There was no bed, and there were no feelings.” Now I’m the one leaning forward, hissing words that I’m glad no one else can hear.
“Seems like I’m not the liar here,” he murmurs, his gaze settling on my lips.
Danger.
This is dangerous.
I need him as far away from me as possible before we mistake verbal sparring for foreplay.
The heat coursing through my body has my hands shaking, and I lean back to keep it from taking over the moment. “You certainly are the only person keeping me from closing up and going home.”
His stare lingers, running over my white T-shirt, my polka dot high-waisted shorts, and my jittery hands. They twist in my lap, giving away my anxiousness at his close proximity.
I nearly sigh when he turns away, bringing my legs together.
“It’s James,” he tosses over his shoulder, moments before the shop door slams shut, the bell above it jangling tauntingly.
Ezra James.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I NEED MONEY
ELOISE
Duckingthe bank isn’t something I’m proud of doing. Ignoring calls and emails that I tell myself I’ll get to as soon as…
“As soon as” is the kiss of death. It kills all my good intentions these days.
But the sight of Benjamin Filucci—the bank loan manager—at the end of the line formed at the register makes me antsy.
I’m slowly working my way through each blessed transaction, hoping it’ll be enough but knowing it won’t be. A new release came out today, and we were lucky enough to snag a contract with the popular indie author to sell them in the store.
I spent the morning trying to work out a signing with her, but she won’t be heading this way until the end of the year.
Searching for ways to get readers in here has started to become quite the task.
Instead of readers, bank representatives and people who want to buy the property have been loitering, making it impossible for me to remain calm.
