Chapter 1

Chapter One

Emma

I bebopped my head to the obnoxious 80’s pop rock song blasting through the bookstore’s speakers while arranging the already perfectly aligned tomes on the front table for the fifth time. The music was loud and upbeat, just the way I liked it.

I enacted a little slide to the end of the table, my chunky boots not hindering my dance moves in the slightest. Reaching out, I chewed the tip of my tongue as I squinted and adjusted another book a millimeter to the left.

Golden morning sunlight spilled through the front windows, catching dust motes dancing in the air. A soft smile curved my lips as I breathed in the familiar scent of aged paper and freshly brewed coffee. My little shop might be a bit hodgepodge, but it was home. It was everything.

Business was dead this Tuesday morning, leaving me with nothing better to do than compulsively tidy and dance around the room like a weirdo—and dread the upcoming electric bill.

Slow days weren’t unusual during the winter months in Seashell Cove, a picturesque little beach town just thirty minutes outside of Miami. Floridians could handle the blistering summers, but give ‘em even a whiff of winter and they bundled up like it was subzero outside.

Myself included, as evidenced by the knee-high boots, worn but warm jeans, and cozy slouch-neck sweater I wore. Only the brave ventured outdoors and walked the main street of our tiny town in the middle of Florida’s so-called “winter.”

Lost in my own little rhythm, a sudden bark jolted me back to reality. “Well, look who’s awake!” I turned to see Porky, my lovable Goldendoodle, stirring from his sun-soaked slumber on the floor. His goofy curls bounced with each sleepy shake of his head, and his tail thumped against the hardwood like a metronome gone wild.

“Decided to join the party, did you?” I grinned, kneeling down to ruffle his floppy ears. His warm brown eyes met mine with that endless adoration only a dog—or maybe a really good slice of cheesecake—could muster. My heart melted into a puddle.

“Hey there, buddy,” I cooed, scratching that spot behind his ear that made his leg twitch. “Isn’t it just the best being home?” He answered by flopping over onto his back, paws in the air, shamelessly begging for belly rubs.

“Oh, you big ol’ softie,” I laughed. “Fine, you win.” I gave in to his not-so-subtle demands, running my fingers through his fluffy fur. Moments like these were exactly why Beachy Keen Reads was my little slice of heaven.

Here, I could be unapologetically me, instead of some wind-up doll caving to my mother’s demands. Left to her devices, I would have been carefully groomed to become the next Stepford Wife of some crotchety old billionaire.

As I stroked his soft curls, a thought nudged its way into my mind. Funny how different life could’ve been. Back in that other world, dogs were accessories—a photo op on a jeweled leash, toted around at gala events like the latest designer handbag.

Not disheveled goofballs who snored louder than a freight train and thought mud puddles were the height of fashion.

I cringed, memories sneaking in like uninvited guests. Me, plastering on a polite smile for strangers who saw me as nothing more than a pawn in their social-climbing chess game.

A prize to be won or a deal to be brokered.

I shook my head, trying to physically dislodge the lingering anxiety. It’s amazing—annoying, really—how easily the past tries to pull you back.

Porky had drifted back to sleep, his paws twitching as if chasing squirrels in his dreams. A silly grin tugged at his jowls, and a tiny snore escaped his nose. I couldn’t help but chuckle.

That right there—that was the freedom I craved. A life untouched by the gilded cage of wealth and expectations. One filled with spontaneous moments, silly indulgences, and the unabashed joy of being exactly who I wanted to be.

No strings attached, no masks required.

“Sweet dreams, Porky,” I whispered, giving him one last pat before standing up. The sun poured through the windows, casting a warm glow over the rows of books lining the shelves. My little kingdom. And for the first time in a long while, I felt completely at peace.

My best friend, Silvy, sat in one of the overstuffed chairs in the corner, bopping her own head, snapping gum, and sorting through a recent delivery of books, arranging them alphabetically for shelving later.

She wore attire similar to mine, though her color choices were splashy and loud. I guessed that was the blessing of being blonde and tan.

Silvy could wear anything and make it look good. In contrast, I leaned toward more muted colors that complemented my bright red hair and— significantly —paler skin. My gaze roved over her with affection. That girl was my rock, always game to offer a listening ear and helpful advice.

Or a shovel and rope, depending on the situation.

She caught my gaze and blew a bubble at me. “Any hot dates lately?” she teased, making conversation. I rolled my eyes and shook my head with a laugh.

“You’re one to talk,” I remarked. “Last I heard, you were trying to set your momma up with the hot yoga instructor. How’d that work out?”

Silvy blushed, popping her gum. “Hey, gotta look out for my momma’s love life, you know?” She winked. “Besides, it’s not like you’re actively trying to snag a man either, Miss ‘I’d rather stay home with my dog and a good book.’”

“There’s nothing wrong with a little independence,” I retorted, grabbing a nearby stack of newly arrived paperbacks. “Besides,” I said, placing a well-worn copy of Pride and Prejudice on top, “Mr. Darcy never judges my taste in pajamas.”

Silvy snorted and made a face at me. “Yeah, well, Mr. Darcy also doesn’t snore or hog the blankets.”

I threw a crumpled-up receipt at her, which she deftly caught. “Ha-ha, very funny.” I paused, tapping my chin thoughtfully. “My last real relationship was... hmm... I think it was with that pepperoni pizza I devoured last Friday night.”

A slow grin spread across Silvy’s face. “Ooh, spicy. Was it a passionate affair?”

I pretended to ponder this for a moment. “Let’s just say things got pretty heated in the oven.”

We both burst into laughter. This was one of the things I adored about Silvy. She got me and my humor. Though it was true—my love life was about as quiet as Beachy Keen Reads on our slowest day.

Couldn’t say I was sad about it, though.

I’d had my fair share of relationships, and truth be told, some men were just more work than they were worth. I liked my independence. Besides, Porky was plenty man enough for me. I cast a fond glance over at the dog in question, lying on his back with his paws and junk in the air, soaking up a puddle of sunshine through the window.

The cheery ding of the door chime made me turn with a dazzling, professional smile that dimmed when I saw the polished, grandiose duo that entered. I instantly recognized them as snowbirds from the wealthy enclaves further down the coast, here to grace us with their presence for the winter. They weren’t the first that week. Apparently, this particular winter was snob season.

The older couple wore distinct grimaces as they glanced around at the worn wood floors and comfy chairs strategically placed for readers to sit a spell and enjoy a brief respite in the day with a good book, if they so chose. Both of which, admittedly, had seen better days.

Or decades.

I’d had well-meaning people mention maybe I should consider some upgrades, but I refused to even entertain the idea. I preferred to think of my little slice of heaven as shabby chic instead of old and in need of refurbishment.

Perspective was everything, or so Grammy used to say.

Sure, I wasn’t rolling in dough, and yes, some days were hard. But I had my bookstore, my freedom, and the knowledge that I was living life on my own terms. No one could take that from me.

Though the older couple that just entered obviously didn’t share my views, if their wrinkled noses and haughty expressions were anything to go by. It was clear they found my pride and joy sorely lacking.

I shrugged off the tiny chip to my confidence, refusing to let two strangers’ vibes or potential opinions mess with my day. Beachy Keen Reads might not look slick and shiny like bigger bookstores, but it had character and style in spades, and books a-plenty. In fact, in the five years since I’d taken a leap and chosen to chase my secret dream, it had done better than I ever could have hoped. I just knew Grammy was watching over me, proud as a peacock, and that was enough.

The woman and gentleman perused the books available as they crept along the first shelves, and I tried not to stare in fascination at the lady’s spindly heels. They looked ready to snap at any moment. She must have spotted me looking their way, because she waved a hand in my direction and trilled in an imperious tone, “Excuse me. Do you have the new Jack Macintyre thriller, darling?”

I fought not to visibly cringe at the condescending term of endearment. Biting back a snide “darling” of my own, I replied, “Under M, if we do.” I nodded toward the aisle with the large “M” hanging above it. The woman released a hoity-toity sniff as she dragged the man along in her wake, tottering precariously on her impossibly high heels.

As soon as they turned away, I mimicked the woman’s nasal tone and mouthed “darling” to Silvy behind their backs. She covered her mouth, stifling a laugh.

Childish? Yes. Satisfying? Most definitely.

As the couple picked their way among the shelves, an obvious look of stank face coloring their features, I couldn’t help but overhear them. My shop wasn’t large, after all. Snatches of their hushed commentary floated over to me: “Quirky.” “Smells musty.” “Needs an upgrade.” “My girls would never set foot here.”

My smile dimmed another watt. I sucked in a sharp breath, resisting the urge to suggest that maybe a big-box store might be more their speed. Or kick them out altogether. They didn’t deserve one of my precious books. I took a few deep inhales, trying to calm my hair-trigger nervous system. I couldn’t afford to refuse any more business this year.

Porky must have sensed my agitation, because he woke up from his nap, ears perked as he let out a low growl. I quickly hushed him. “Hush, Porky,” I whispered sternly. The doodle dropped his head back to his paws and cast me a grumpy look. “Oh, don’t give me that face. You’re all bark anyway, and you know it.” Porky slid his eyes to the left, clearly ignoring me now.

Shaking my head with an indulgent smile, I sighed, turning my attention back to tallying receipts. I refused to dwell on my financial woes. I knew that somehow, my little shop would squeak by just fine this month, as it had every month since I hung my “Open for Business” sign. Even in my leanest year, with some tears and a hefty dose of prayer, I’d managed to make this place turn a tiny profit.

Enough so that I could pay Silvy, cover my own living and business expenses, and even have a small sum left over for the occasional fancy coffee or dinner with friends. And of course, a never-ending supply of food and toys for my beloved Porky.

I didn’t need much. I enjoyed my simple life. Silvy asked sometimes if I mourned the loss of my inheritance, but I didn’t—not in the way she probably meant. Sure, I missed the sense of comfort and security the money lent me.

More so, I mourned the fact that my Grammy wouldn’t be happy that I didn’t have access to what was rightfully mine. But if it meant I could escape the meddling interference of my parents trying to control my decisions, I was glad to give up every last red cent.

As the snooty couple perused my shelves—noses so high they might scrape the ceiling—I felt the prickling tug of memories I’d long since packed away. Memories of that other life. The one with endless society events where I had to smile until my cheeks ached, where conformity was mandatory, and every move was dissected under a microscope.

A distant nightmare now, thank God.

Shaking off the lingering ghosts, I refocused on the present—my little bookstore, my haven, the life I’d built with my own two hands. It might not be everyone’s idea of paradise, but it was real, it was mine, and that was more than enough.

When the distasteful couple finally made their way to the front of the store and dumped their selections on the scarred but gleaming wooden countertop, I rang them up, irritation seeping into my chipper tone.

Uh-oh. Rein it in, Emma girl.

“Find everything you need?” I bagged their books with short, jerky movements, chewing the inside of my lip as a distraction, my blood boiling just beneath the surface of my attempts to remain polite. Attempts that flew right out the window at the couple’s next comment.

“Yes, we did, though your little shop is rather... eclectic,” the man observed, wrinkling his nose at the line of gently used classics that lined the wall behind me. I ripped the receipt from the machine so fast, it barely finished printing.

“Well, we do aim to disappoint the pretentious snobs that come through,” I chirped, slapping the slip of paper onto their bag and stapling it in place with a sickly, saccharine smile. “Do come back and slum it again soon, yeah? Have a lovely day.” I shoved the bag across the counter.

The couple’s eyes widened like saucers when they realized they were being insulted, and the woman’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, two spots in her cheeks turning a bright, angry red. The man looked like he swallowed a lemon.

The woman snatched up her purchases, and as a unit, they turned and flounced toward the exit with haughty glares and obnoxiously loud huffs of indignation, the man shepherding the woman like a sheep.

As the door slammed closed behind them, I shouted, “Careful! Don’t let our quirky door hit ya on the ass on the way out!”

I could hear a faint squawk of indignation from the woman through the glass, while the man attempted to calm her as she waved her arms furiously. They both stormed down the street.

Well, the man stormed.

The woman more like wobbled.

Silvy collapsed into a mess of giggles behind her little armchair fortress of semi-sorted books. I shot her a dirty look, my lips twitching despite the disappointment with myself for letting those condescending snoots get under my skin.

She gave me an innocent look. “What? You know that was funny! You just can’t help yourself!”

I threw up my hands with a half laugh, half groan. Silvy was right. It was a character flaw, this temper of mine. Momma always said it would be my downfall. Maybe it was true, though I hated to admit my mother was right about anything, ever.

Perhaps it was my flaming red hair. Wasn’t there some cliché about redheads being more temperamental than the rest of the population?

Maybe there was some substance to that one.

Still, mild regret seeped in. Losing my cool might feel satisfying in the moment, but it never serves me well in the long run. I probably just drove away two new customers for good.

I sighed.

Better tame that fiery temper, Emma. Otherwise, it’s gonna drive you right outta business.

My temper was one of the reasons I fled city life and escaped to this tiny town. Sure, I could hobnob like a wealthy elitist with the best of them—I used to be one. But that whole scene grew so tiresome and draining.

Pasting on a smile, rubbing shoulders with disingenuous people only out for themselves, pretending interest in the parade of prestigious bachelors my family trotted past me every week in hopes I would settle down and marry. And every time some old geezer acquaintance of my parents got handsy, I had to fight not to erupt in rage.

One day, I decided I no longer wanted any part of it. Of course, dear Momma cut off my inheritance in a fit of rage and retribution, which is why I couldn’t exactly afford to turn away customers, no matter how many elitist jokers came through my doors.

And there was no way I’d go begging my parents to reinstate my financial privileges, even though I knew Grammy would turn over in her grave if she knew what Momma did. I’d eat dirt before I begged my parents for anything.

I huffed another sigh and glowered through the window at the bustling street outside my shop. My mood had darkened despite my best efforts to brush off the negativity.

I crossed my arms and rubbed them briskly, the chill from the door opening creeping through my sweater. Though the town of Seashell Cove was small, it was a popular getaway for rich and poor alike who wanted a slower pace than Miami.

Which meant there were still quite a few brave souls meandering up and down the sidewalks, chilly or not. Which also meant the chances for more snooty customers to show up and judge my beloved misfit of a sanctuary were high.

Wee. Just let it go, Emma, I coached myself.

I was working on my inner self-talk. And honestly, it didn’t matter, really. If any of my customers—past, present, or future—expected me to change my store to suit them, they had another think coming. My whimsical bookshop had survived the last five years just fine catering to outcasts and oddballs, and that was exactly how I liked it.

Wealthy upstarts be damned!