3. Self-Sufficient

3

Self-Sufficient

Hayley

Emma, Alice, and I are currently sitting in our living room, watching endless "how to paint" videos and hoping we'll manage to figure this out on our own. Emma also asked her followers for "book recs where they paint rooms or do remodeling," but so far, very few hits. The guy I'm watching on my phone is about to demonstrate the prepping process when my mom's face appears on the screen.

Bracing myself, I pick up and retreat to my bedroom. One of the best things about this apartment is that, on top of being located above our in-progress bookstore, we all have our own rooms. A family used to live upstairs so the space was livable. It's almost like it was made for us. Great location in Brooklyn on a pedestrian street, not far from the water, and there's even a patio downstairs behind the bookstore. Sure, it's run-down and hasn't been used in years, but still. Potential . And it's a place for us to live without any additional charge.

Once I reach my bedroom, I say, "Hi, Mom."

"Hayley, how are you? You haven't called in ages."

I wince, sitting on my bed. I love my mom—I do—but her constant worry that I'll end up alone, mixed with her compulsion to set me up with guys from the country club, has urged me to keep my distance. "Sorry, I've been busy. I'm good, how are you?"

"Fine. How's your little project going?" Though I can't see her, I'm pretty sure her lips are pinched and her shoulders tensed.

"You mean the opening of the bookstore?" I ask purposely. You'd think that, as an educated WASP, my mother would be proud of my entrepreneurial path, especially in a field as noble as literature. Well, think again. She's been treating this whole endeavor like a little hobby that's just going to end up wasting my money, my time, and my prestigious Ivy League education. Which is why I didn't ask her for a dime. As with magic, money always comes with a price. I will make this store a success, show her that I did this on my own and that it's not just a pastime. Maybe then she'll be proud of me.

"Yes, the bookstore. How is that going?"

"Great!" I lie, springing to my feet to aid my dynamic tone. "We're almost done with the renovations. Then, we'll move on to the furnishing and decorating."

There is absolutely no way I'm telling her the truth. Not until we have exhausted every resource to make this work.

"Okay. Well, I wanted to remind you that my birthday party is next week. You are still coming, right?" she asks, her voice tensing.

"Of course I am, Mom." Not that I'm overjoyed about it. An entire afternoon of being scrutinized by middle-aged women as they badger me about my single status isn't exactly my idea of the perfect day. And that's if I'm lucky. If I'm not, they'll come armed with a list of guys for me to go through. Or even worse, as I recall from her birthday two years ago, an actual suitor—yes, that's the term she used.

"Perfect. By the way, I ran into Ryan at the store the other day. He sends his love."

Here we go. I knew we couldn't have one conversation without her trying to set me up. At least she hasn't made a comment about my pink hair or the fact that I inherited my dad's body. Yet . The conversation is still young.

"Mom, I don't need your help finding a guy. I'm perfectly capable on my own."

"I know, honey. But I worry about you. That's what mothers do. I just want you to be happy."

I scoff. "I am happy. I'm opening a bookstore with my best friends. Nothing could make me happier."

"Yes, of course. But wouldn't you like to have a man by your side? Maybe if you let your hair grow out—"

Knew it.

"I have to go. Please, stop worrying about me, okay? Everything is going great. I'll see you next week."

She pauses, then sighs, not hiding the frustration in her tone. "Yes, honey. See you then."

As I hang up, my heart clenches. Nothing would make me happier than to see the glow of pride in my mother's eyes one day. Maybe if I wish for it hard enough, it'll come true.

I lie back on my bed, eyes closed.

Maxime's face appears behind my eyelids, and I quickly open them again. What is he doing in my head? The only men allowed in when I close my eyes are fictional ones. The flawed but perfect guys who can't hurt me. The ones I know will deliver on their HEA promise. Not the real-life ones whose flaws are unredeemable and who will dump you because you're too strong .

Seriously? That would never happen in a book. I'm better off with fictional boyfriends.

Do I even need a man? Absolutely not. No woman does.

Would it be nice to have a man who takes care of me and whispers how beautiful I am in my ear?

Heck yes. But that's not real life. Men don't want strong, confident women who can fend for themselves. You're just too independent, Hals. I don't feel like you need me. Those were Trevor's words when he broke up with me just before college graduation. He should have been happy that even though I am independent, I chose to be with him. It still makes no sense to me, even today.

So, yeah, I don't need a man. I'm not going to apologize for being self-sufficient.

My heart constricts in my chest as the memory of that day plays out, but it's soon replaced by Maxime's face again. Physically, he's definitely book-boyfriend material. Dreamy chestnut hair with gorgeous waves, intense hazel eyes, a mischievous smile, and a perfect body. Too bad he's real, which means he probably breaks hearts with his hockey stick on the regular. Not to mention he's way too hot for a girl like me.

Maxime texted Alice yesterday that he'd be coming with his entire team to help us with the store today, and I got goosebumps just thinking about it. I mean, who does that?

They're professional athletes, and I'm sure they have bigger fish to fry than helping a bunch of bookish girls with painting and building shelves. Alice didn't seem as surprised as Emma and I were. Apparently, hockey players are usually decent people. For athletes, of course. Maybe that's why hockey romances are so popular right now? But for me, unless they sparkle in the sun or have shifting abilities, I'm out.

We're stepping onto Warlington Lane with heavy armloads of extra supplies—how could they help if we only had enough tools for one person?—and I'm eager to get back to our building. Not that I'm a complete indoor cat like Emma, or even Alice, but this weather is crazy hot, and I'm ready for fall to settle in.

Only a handful of people are out and about on our charming little street. When we bought the abandoned-but-still-worth-a-lot-of-money building last spring, the street was mostly empty. But the city has been promoting it as a new, quaint neighborhood for leisure, and shops are starting to pop up. Right off the bat, we got a florist, a couple of hairdressers, a tattoo parlor, and a pizza place. So far, everyone we've met has been all smiles and kind words, and the atmosphere in Warlington Lane now feels more like a small town than a big city, with everyone saying hello and helping their neighbors out.

That was my plan B, by the way. Asking our fellow business owners for help. Most of them are already deep into remodeling their own spaces since the entire street has been pretty much dead for years. But even if they have plenty of work to do, I'm sure some wouldn't have minded lending us a hand. Luckily, we scored a whole hockey team, so there are plenty of hands now.

"Did you receive Brittany Owen's newsletter? She's opening up her ARC team again," Alice says, her words bringing me right back to the present.

"Really?" I slide the heavy bag down my forearm to check my phone. She's one of my favorite authors, and she's never opened her Advanced Reader team in the four years I've been following her. "I didn't see that. I have to apply."

"I got a NetGalley approval for Shannon Webster," Emma announces with one of her rare and precious full smiles .

"Congrats," Alice and I say. There are few things as special as ARC reading for our favorite authors. Even if it takes some of my time, and I can't always deliver my review on the release date, I wouldn't stop for the world.

"I was thinking," I muse. "Once we're open, we should post ARC applications on a board in our store. There are so many opportunities out there, and it's just a fun thing to share with our customers. It wouldn't really impact business since not everyone would be chosen, and not all authors open up their ARC teams anyway."

"Or they have strict conditions to apply," Alice adds. "I like it."

Emma nods. "Me too. We can separate them by genre and heat level, like we're doing for the rest of the store. So it doesn't muddy the water."

When we embarked on this crazy journey of opening a bookstore together, a few things were always clear to us. First, the store would be romance-focused. We all read under the umbrella of the romance genre. Second, just like our Insta feeds, we would offer mostly indie books. Since we're voracious readers, reading indie novels is a must. And with so many releases every day, our Tbr piles are always full. Plus, we love the idea of showcasing authors who don't make it into typical bookstores across the country .

Lastly, we decided to only feature Closed Door books. The three of us bonded over our love for low spice romance and we wanted to create a space for those underserved readers. It's always such a struggle to find books with no spice, especially in bookstores, so we're excited to bring that to our customers.

I refrain from squealing with excitement at the idea of this becoming a reality soon. I've never been more eager to succeed in my entire life. This is going to be amazing.

When we arrive at the store, we lay all the supplies out on the floor. Mr. Darcy prances over to sniff our bags, gets a few head scratches, and then settles back into his favorite corner.

Sweeping my gaze around the room, I suddenly wish I had the ability to see the future so I could know how it all turns out. Even if there's nothing here yet, I can picture it so clearly already. The white bookshelves framing the room, featuring thousands of uncracked spines of crisp novels begging to be opened. The cozy reading corner that'll be impossible to resist. The plants we'll arrange to bring life and color to the space. The cute themed window we'll carefully put together every week or so. The crisp scent of newly printed books mixing with the warm, earthy aroma of polished wood and the faint smell of leather emanating from the leather-bound books we'll carry. A safe place.

I've just finished applying to Brittany's ARC team when the front door swings open, and a mass of towering, broad-shouldered men flood the suddenly tiny space.

"Hey," Maxime says, stepping forward. He looks even better than yesterday. His hair is slightly tousled, making my heart bounce a few inches. "Reinforcements are here."