Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Wade

The verdict was in. I’d definitely lost my damn mind.

Standing outside Beachy Keen Reads at 8:45 AM on a Saturday morning, armed with a fresh box of scones and three cups of coffee (one for Emma, one for her assistant Silvy, and one for me), I was seriously starting to question my life choices of late. The “Story Time” banner fluttered in the morning breeze, and through the window, I could see Emma arranging cushions in a reading circle.

She’d explicitly told me not to come. In fact, I believe her precise words were, “Don’t even think about it, Playboy.”

Which was exactly why I was here.

I shifted the coffee tray to balance against the scone box and reached for the door handle, then froze as a familiar growl emanated from inside.

Porky. The little demon dog himself, no doubt lying in wait. I thought we were finally reaching an understanding, but the way he kept selling me out during trivia night proved otherwise.

“Easy there, buddy,” I muttered, pushing the door open. The bell chimed cheerfully, a stark contrast to Porky’s low warning rumble. “I come bearing gifts. Gifts you actually like,” I added, shooting him a pointed look.

Emma’s head snapped up, red hair cascading over one shoulder. Her eyes widened, then narrowed dangerously. “Wade. What are you doing here?”

“Supporting local business?” I held up the coffee and scones like a peace offering. “Also, I heard there might be story time.”

“Wade.” The way she said my name was half exasperation, half warning. “I told you?—“

“That this requires actual commitment?” I set the coffee and scones on the counter, carefully watching Porky, who had risen to his full height. “I’m here, aren’t I? At an ungodly hour, might I add.”

“It’s nine in the morning.”

“My point exactly.” I pulled out a scone and tossed it to Porky, who caught it mid-air. The traitor immediately stopped growling and sat down to enjoy his treat. “See? Even your floofy guard dog approves.”

Emma crossed her arms, but I could tell she was holding back a smile. “You can’t just bribe your way into everything with baked goods.”

“Watch me.” I grabbed her coffee and held it out. “Triple shot oat milk mocha latte, extra hot, no foam, extra chocolate. Just the way you like it.”

She blinked. “How did you?—“

“I pay attention.” More than she knew. More than I probably should. Also, I might have asked Sandy to spill the beans.

Her fingers brushed mine as she took the coffee, and I tried my best to ignore the little zing that shot through me at the contact. Morning wood time is over, James. Cool it.

“Fine,” she sighed, taking a sip and closing her eyes in bliss. “You can stay. But one wrong move, one inappropriate comment—or attempt to kiss me—and you’re out. These are kids, Wade.”

“Says the woman who kissed me back senseless in front of the entire town at the chili cook-off,” I teased.

Her cheeks flushed pink. “That was a failure in good judgement. And you started it.”

“I’m wounded.” I pressed a hand to my chest. “I’ll have you know I’m excellent with children. And perfectly capable of keeping my hands to myself. In public. Most of the time.”

She arched an eyebrow. “That last part is debatable, Playboy. And do tell. When was the last time you actually spent time with a child?”

Before I could answer, the bell chimed again. A woman with two young girls entered, both kids clutching worn picture books to their chests.

“Miss Emma!” the smaller one squealed, rushing forward. She stopped short when she saw me, suddenly shy.

Emma’s whole demeanor transformed, softening into something that made my chest weirdly tight . Damn. Ryker was right. I’ve got it bad.

“Sophie! Hannah! I’m so glad you made it.” She crouched down to their level. “What books did you bring today?”

As the girls eagerly showed off their selections, more families started trickling in. The reading circle Emma had set up quickly filled, and kids spilled onto the nearby bean bags and floor cushions. I counted at least fifteen children, ranging from toddlers to what looked like third or fourth graders.

Silvy appeared from the back room, her usual confident demeanor looking slightly rattled. “The Williams family just called. They’re bringing their twins’ whole playgroup.”

“What?” Emma’s eyes widened. “That’s another eight kids. We don’t have enough?—“

“I’ll grab more cushions from storage,” I offered, already heading toward what I assumed was the back room.

“Third shelf on the left,” Silvy called after me. “Behind the Christmas decorations.” She shot Emma a knowing look that I pretended not to see, but my lips curved in a satisfied smile.

The storage room was organized chaos, exactly what you’d expect from a bookstore. I found the cushions easily enough, but paused when I spotted something else: a box labeled “Story Props.” Inside were various hats, scarves, and what looked like puppet-making supplies.

A plan started to form and the smile on my face grew wider.

When I returned with the cushions, the store had transformed into controlled mayhem. Parents lined the walls, coffee in hand, while kids jostled for prime spots in the reading circle. Emma stood in the center, looking mildly overwhelmed but maintaining her composure like a champ.

I distributed the cushions, then caught her eye. “Need a hand?”

She hesitated, then offered a slight nod. “Could you... maybe help keep the younger ones engaged while I read? Sometimes they get restless.”

“Leave it to me.” I settled cross-legged on the floor near a cluster of toddlers. Porky, to everyone’s surprise, flopped down beside me with a contented huff. I shot the dog a considering look and he gazed back at me, entirely unperturbed. Maybe my scone bribes were finally making an impact.

Emma picked up the first book – “Where the Wild Things Are” – and began to read. Her voice was perfect for storytelling, rising and falling with the rhythm of the words, bringing Max’s adventure to life.

But I noticed some of the younger kids starting to fidget. Time to put my plan into action.

“Hey,” I whispered to the closest toddler, a little boy with untied shoelaces. “Want to help me find the Wild Things?”

His eyes lit up. I made a show of peering around corners and under cushions, encouraging the other restless ones to join our quiet “hunt.” Soon, I had a small crew of monster-seekers, all staying engaged with the story while burning off energy through our subtle game.

Emma shot me a grateful look over the top of the book. I winked back, ignoring the way my heart skipped when she smiled.

The morning continued like that – Emma reading, me running interference with creative games and quiet activities. When she picked up “The Three Little Pigs,” I couldn’t resist. I grabbed a scarf from the prop box and transformed into the Big Bad Wolf, earning delighted giggles from our audience.

“I’ll huff, and I’ll puff,” I growled playfully, making the scarf dance in the air.

“And I’ll blow your house down!” the kids chorused back.

Emma rolled her eyes, but she was fighting back a laugh. I caught her watching me during quiet moments, something unreadable in her expression.

As the morning wound down, we moved into craft time. I found myself at a small table with four kids, helping them turn paper bags into puppets while Emma led another group in creating bookmarks. Silvy manned the glitter station – a decision I suspected we’d all regret when cleanup time came.

“Mr. Wade,” a little girl with missing front teeth tugged at my sleeve, “can you make mine roar like your wolf?”

“Let’s see what we can do.” I helped her attach red yarn for hair, watching as she meticulously glued on googly eyes. “What should we name her?”

“Sophia,” she declared. “Like me.”

“Excellent choice.” I caught Emma watching us again, that same unreadable expression on her face. When our eyes met, she quickly looked away, focusing intently on the bookmark in front of her.

By the time the last family left, the store looked like a craft supply store had exploded. Glitter covered every surface – including Porky, who now sparkled like a fuzzy disco ball – and scraps of paper littered the floor.

“I told you the glitter was a bad idea,” Emma muttered to Silvy, who just grinned.

“Worth it. Did you see little Tommy’s face when his dragon sparkled?”

I started gathering scattered cushions, trying to restore some order to the mess. “Need help cleaning up?”

“You’ve done more than enough,” Emma said, but Silvy cut her off.

“Actually, I need to run. Dentist appointment.” She did some gun shooting hand-gesture thing, grabbed her bag, and shot Emma a look that clearly meant something I couldn’t decipher. “You two can handle this, right?”

Before either of us could respond, she was gone, the bell chiming in her wake.

“Subtle,” Emma muttered, then louder, “You really don’t have to stay, Wade, thanks. You’ve done a lot already.”

“No worries. I want to.” I started wiping down tables. “Besides, someone needs to help you de-glitter Porky before he takes all the glitter home to your cottage.”

She laughed – a real laugh, not her usual guarded chuckle – and the sound did something to my insides. “Fine. But this doesn’t mean anything.”

“Of course not.” I grinned. “Just two people cleaning up after a hurricane of kindergarteners. Totally normal Saturday.”

We worked in comfortable silence for a while, occasionally breaking it to share observations about the morning. How Sophie had practically memorized “Where the Wild Things Are.” The way Tommy’s dragon puppet had breathed actual fire (thanks to some creative use of tissue paper).

“You were good with them,” she said finally, straightening a stack of picture books. “The kids, I mean. I wouldn’t have expected...”

“A billionaire playboy recluse with no soul to know how to connect with children?”

She had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. “Something like that.”

I shrugged, trying to keep my tone light despite the weight settling in my chest. “I used to read to my sister a lot, when we were young. Before...” I trailed off, not interested in going there. “Anyway, kids are easy. They don’t care about stock portfolios or corporate mergers. They just want someone to play along with their imagination.”

Emma was quiet for a moment, studying me. “There’s more to you than meets the eye, isn’t there, Wade James?”

“I could say the same about you.” I met her gaze. “Why books? Why here?”

She tensed slightly, then relaxed. “It’s... complicated.”

“I’ve got time.” I gestured to the still-glitter-covered floor. “We’re going to be here a while anyway.”

Emma sank into one of the reading circle cushions, absently running her fingers through Porky’s sparkly fur. After a moment, I sat across from her, giving her space but staying close enough to show I was listening.

“Books were always my escape,” she said finally. “Grammy used to say that stories let us try on different lives, imagine different paths.” She gestured around the store. “This place... It’s mine. Every decision, every book, every story time. I built it myself.”

The pride in her voice resonated with something in me. “No small feat, starting a business from scratch.”

“Worth every struggle though.” She smiled, but there was something wary in it. “What about you? Tech entrepreneur hanging out in a small-town bookstore... There’s a story there.”

I shifted, careful with my words. “Sometimes you need a place where you can just be yourself. No expectations, no pressure. Just... you.”

“And who are you, when you’re just being yourself?”

“Still figuring that out.” I met her eyes. “But I think I’m closer to knowing here than I’ve ever been anywhere else.”

She nodded slowly, like she understood exactly what I wasn’t saying. “It’s peaceful here, isn’t it? Away from... everything.”

“Is that why you chose here? The peace?”

“Partly.” She looked around her store, her expression soft. “But mostly... this feels real in a way nothing else ever has. Even when it’s hard, even when it’s messy, it’s mine.”

I watched her, this woman who clearly had her own stories, her own reasons for choosing this quiet life. “You know what’s funny? I think I’d get more actual work done sitting in your reading nook than I would in my fancy office in Miami.”

“Must be the glitter,” she teased. “It’s magical.”

“Must be.” I looked at her, covered in sparkles and completely at ease with herself. “Or maybe it’s the company.”

Something changed in the air between us, and I found myself thinking about another time, another conversation. “You know, you remind me of someone I knew in college.”

“Oh?” Her tone was light, merely curious.

“There was this girl...” I watched her carefully, but her expression showed only polite interest. “Red hair, brilliant mind. The kind of person who could light up a whole room just by walking into it.”

“What happened?”

“Wrong timing, I guess.” I shrugged, fighting down the urge to tell her more. To make her remember that night, our philosophy arguments into the wee hours of the night, the way she’d challenged every thing I thought I knew about my future. “Sometimes I wonder if that’s why I can’t seem to fit into the life my family expects me to want. Nothing quite measures up to my memory of that connection.:

Emma tilted her head, something flickering in her eyes before disappearing. “I had a night like that once, actually. Junior year I think it was. There was a guy who...” she trailed off, shaking her head. “It’s funny how some memories stick with you, even when the details get fuzzy.”

My heart hammered, but I kept my voice casual. “Maybe sometimes the people we meet are meant to remind us there’s more out there than what’s expected of us merely because of who we are or where we come from.”

“Maybe.” She brushed some lingering glitter from her shirt, breaking the moment. “Though right now, what’s expected of me is to get this store back in shape and ready for the afternoon crowd.”

I stood, recognizing deflection when I saw it, but letting it slide. She wasn’t ready to remember, and frankly, I wasn’t ready to push. I didn’t know how she’d react and I didn’t want to risk our tenuous friendship.

“Need any help?”

“Are you kidding me? Don’t you think you’ve done enough enabling for the day with Silvy and her glitter shenanigans?” she teased. “She’s been calling it her ‘sparkle revolution.’”

“Revolution might be the right word,” I said, brushing the stubborn stuff off my jeans. “I’m pretty sure this glitter is staging a hostile takeover of the entire building.”

“Says the man offering to voluntarily help clean it up.” She started gathering up scattered craft supplies, then paused. “You know, for someone who claims to need space to just be yourself, you seem pretty invested in our little bookstore’s success.”

I swallowed hard, my fingers itching to touch her as I watched her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Maybe I just like seeing someone build something real.”

“And what are you building, Wade James?”

The question hung between us, loaded with potential. For a moment, I considered telling her everything—about that night in college, about how a passionate debate with a fierce-minded philosophy major made me question everything I thought I knew about success and legacy. About how her words had given me the courage to build something of my own instead of following my family’s carefully mapped path.

Instead, I offered a roguish smile as I knelt to sweep some glitter into a dustpan. “Well, for starters, I make a mean damn chili. In fact, I’ve built quite the reputation around Seashell Cove, I’ll have you know. And as of right now?” I glanced up with a wink. “I’m building a life where cleaning up glitter feels way more important than board meetings and acquisitions.”

She tilted her head, a half-smile playing at her lips. “I see. Well, gotta say, never thought I’d see a billionaire tech mogul on his hands and knees cleaning up arts and crafts.”

“Never thought I’d enjoy it so much, either. Perhaps I missed my calling.” Standing, I dumped the mound of glitter in the trash with a flourish and set the broom in the corner before heading for the door. When I reached it, I turned back and caught her staring at me with a bemused look on her face. “Hey, Emma?”

“Hmm?” She blinked and met my gaze.

“Sometimes the right path finds us twice. We just have to be brave enough to take it the second time around.”

Something flickered in her eyes—recognition, confusion, possibility—before she shook it off. “That’s surprisingly profound for a man covered in glitter.”

“What can I say. I contain multitudes.”

“Get out,” she laughed, but her eyes were soft.

I stepped out into the afternoon sun, lips already forming a whistle, the bell above the door chiming behind me. My phone buzzed—probably another message from my assistant in Miami, going batshit in my absence—but for once, I didn’t feel an urge to check it immediately. Instead, I found myself thinking about fate, timing, and how sometimes the universe gives you a second chance to get shit right.

Even when one person doesn’t remember the first chance at all.

At least not yet, anyway.