by Olivia Hayle
Swimming gives me time to think. It always has, even when my life runs at a million miles per minute, and all I have is this hour for myself in the water.
My thoughts today have drifted from the new investment my firm is considering to my little sister and back around again to Between the Pages.
Because inevitably these days, all my thoughts seem to lead back there, and especially to the bookstore clerk with fire in her veins.
I should get her out of my mind. She’d realized what I wanted and said no. She’d even outlined why it would be a bad idea. She’d been right, too. It would be unprofessional. Complicated. Messy.
And yet, the time I spent with her was some of the most fun I’d had in months. Not once had she tried to suck up to me; to drop hints about monetary needs or expensive restaurants she wanted to try. The women I’d tried to date in the last few years invariably did, as if I’d become terrible at choosing or if the choices available to me had narrowed with success.
Skye held my success against me. It’s hard not to smile at the memory of her anger. She’s entitled to it, but the way she argues and fights is… well, it’s admirable. She’s refusing to go down without a fight, and damn it if that doesn’t make me want her more.
I finally pull myself out of the pool when the giant clock on the wall reads 7:30 a.m. I’ve already overstayed my usual hour in the water.
Bryan and Tyra are waiting for me when I arrive at the office thirty minutes later. They’re the picture of competence; Bryan has his laptop under his arm and Tyra a smartphone in each hand. The key to good business strategy, which I’ve been asked a thousand times, is always this; hiring the best of the best. Your business will go absolutely nowhere if you can’t delegate.
But that’s never the answer business panels and newspapers want to hear. They want me to say things like inner drive and ambition. Either you have it or you don’t. It’s all bullshit.
“Good morning,” Tyra says. She hands me a coffee and I take it in stride, sinking into one of the chairs in my office. “The Cowell project is on schedule. They just phoned in their latest numbers.”
“Good.”
“Your interview with The Inside Tribune is out today,” Bryan says. “Should be circulating already. I’ll have a copy of the interview on your desk in an hour.”
“Perfect.” I don’t know if I want to read it. Melissa Edwards had asked leading questions, and the story will inevitably be spun in a way I’ll barely recognize.
Bryan sees my frown. “It’s great for publicity. And what’s great for publicity—”
“Is great for business,” I say. “I got it. What else?”
Tyra hands me a thick binder. “The finalized hotel development plans. And, per your instructions, there are two options for the lobby. One that includes Between the Pages, and one that excludes it.”
I thumb through the glossy papers. It’s a document made for investors, not developers, so the graphics look stellar. I have to give props to the graphic artist, too, for managing to make the inclusion of the small bookstore work with the ultramodern look of the hotel.
It doesn’t look bad, but it doesn’t exactly look right, either. I’ll have to schedule a meeting with the head architect for the project.
“There’s this, too.” Bryan hands me a printed invitation to a book reading. It’s well-designed, with the logo of Between the Pages at the top. “It’s tonight. Mrs. Stiller from the bookstore emailed it over to our office.” He clears his throat. “I think it’s meant as a joke, or a taunt.”
“They’re not going down without a fight,” Tyra notes. “I doubt it’ll be enough, though.”
My eyes scan through the invite. Seven p.m. All welcome. Marks the beginning of our mid-season sale.
“It was sent to our office email?”
“Yes,” Bryan replies. “I was CC:ed.”
In the bottom right corner there’s a small symbol, like a stamp. I have to lean in close to read what it says. Buy local, support your community, say no to big business.
I want to laugh.
Instead, I put the invite on my desk and lean back. “Anything else?”
Bryan and Tyra run through the morning report. I’m listening, but mentally I’m already changing my plans for the evening. There’s a dinner I can easily cancel; I wasn’t the main guest anyway.
It’s been over a week since I last spoke to Skye in the bookstore and she called me out on my proposal, and said no. But she’d sent this invite to our office. Karli might have been the sender, but Skye was the instigator—no doubt in my mind.
Charles drops me off outside Between the Pages a quarter past seven. It’s lit up from the outside; fairy lighting hangs in the window display.
I open the door to a crowd. It’s packed in a way I’ve never seen it before, the large reading room table moved to make room for chairs. People are gathered around it in a semicircle, people in all shapes and sizes.
Karli is sitting in one of the main chairs next to an older woman reading from a red book. I retreat to one of the corners, melting into the crowd, and scan the crowd. The author is reciting a passage about spring, something about seasons and buds and flowers, but I’m looking for a certain bookstore employee.
I find her in the opposite corner.
Skye is in a bookstore T-shirt and a flowy skirt, her long hair loose today. It falls in waves down her back and frames her face, currently frowning as she fiddles with a microphone system. There’s a healthy flush to her skin.
I want to smile. She’s the architect of this whole thing, but of course she’s not on the makeshift stage to take credit next to Karli, but working away behind the scenes.
Judging from the crowd, it’s a popular event, too. People are listening in rapt silence. All around us, handwritten sale signs hang over dark-wooden bookshelves. The place looks spectacular.
The author finishes her passage with a dramatic pause and the audience erupts into applause. Karli accepts a microphone from Skye, her frown turned into a wide smile now. It makes me want to smile too.
“Testing, testing,” she says, to a few laughs. “All right, we’re back up and running. Many thanks to Nigella for coming out and sharing her book, The Seasons, with us here today. We’ll be back shortly with a Q&A session—prepare your questions! Please feel free to mingle, look at our sale section, and grab a bite to eat in the meanwhile. Your support means the world to us. Thank you.”
More applause. I watch as Skye takes the microphone and darts around the shop to the back, returning with a tray overflowing with aperitifs. They’ve really gone all in with this thing.
I lean against one of the built-in bookshelves and wait for her to notice me. It takes a while, giving me ample opportunity to see the softness in her features as she talks to one customer after another. Her serviceable smile, her pealing laughter. I know that’ll be gone the second she sees me.
And then she finally does, her gaze sweeping across the bookstore but stopping dead when it lands on me.
I wink at her.
Her eyebrows rise, and then she’s advancing, hands on her hips. “You came to our book reading?”
“My office received an invitation. It would’ve been rude to decline.”
To my surprise, she gives me a beaming smile. She’s always been beautiful, but with that joy on her face, she’s breathtaking. “Well, I’m glad you’re here. Look around—see all these people? Watch it and weep, Porter. Our sales are already up compared to last quarter.”
“Oh, I can imagine.” I nod at one of the sale signs. “You took my advice, too. Again, I might add.”
The smile on her face disappears, replaced by the challenging expression I’m used to. “I’d be insane not to accept advice from the most eligible billionaire bachelor in Seattle.”
I groan. “Don’t tell me you read today’s article too.”
“Oh, yes. How could I not? You were on the front page.”
I silently curse Melissa Edwards and my PR team for thinkin
g it was a good idea. She’d taken my words and run with them, and I’d barely recognized the man I read about in the article.
“I was talked into it,” I say. “And in my defense, journalists always exaggerate.”
“So you’re saying you’re not the most eligible bachelor in Seattle? Why, Cole, if you’re not careful you’ll come across humble.”
I give her my trademark smirk. “The title was accurate. It was the content that skewed on the ridiculous.”
“Well, I thought it was very informative,” Skye says, leaning closer. “I hadn’t realized just how ruthless you can be in business.”
The smile on my face freezes as I realize what she’s referring to. The exact passage I’d wanted omitted, about my former business partner and his now-wife. It had ended up in the article anyway, as it always did, because it made for a good story. Cole Porter, asshole extraordinaire.
Seems it had reached Skye too, not that she needed another reason to dislike me. “Ruthless, efficient,” I say. “It’s all just semantics.”
“It was motivational,” she says. “I’ll have to out-ruthless you on this project.”
“Well,” I say, looking around the packed store, “it looks like it’s working. You’re a worthy opponent, I’ll give you that.”
Skye purses her lips. There’s a feverish look in her eyes, and up close, her flushed skin is pronounced. “Is that why you’re here tonight? Corporate espionage? We still have five weeks left to turn this around.”
“Am I that obvious?”
“Yes,” she says. “You should have worn a trench coat and a newspaper with holes in it.”
I nod, playing along, but I’m really just looking at her. There are circles under her eyes.
“I’ll think about that for next time. Have you been organizing this on your own?”
She looks across the room again—at the milling guests, Karli entertaining the author, the plate of sandwiches quickly emptying. “No, Karli and I did it together.”
“Hmm. But you made the invitations and flyers, I’m guessing? I appreciated the little addition in the bottom right corner.”
She smiles. “I only added that to your invitation. Not very subtle, I know.”
“Well-played. Have you had anything to drink?”
“No.” She frowns. “We’re not serving alcohol.”
“I mean water. You look a bit… are you okay?”
She pushes her hair back behind her ear. “Yes, I’m great.” A voice across the room calls her name—“Skye!”—and she turns from me. Karli is holding the mic up high. “It’s time!”
I watch as Skye sets up the mic system again and hands Karli a set of questions. As the question and answer sessions starts, she’s off again, clearing off the tray of food and talking quietly to customers throughout the store.
I stay in my corner, out of sight and out of mind, occasionally answering emails on my phone. Skye is in the opposite corner, across the crowd, the both of us boxers preparing to square off. She sways slightly on her feet, and as I watch she reaches up to furtively wipe her forehead. She’s clearly not doing very well.
After the author’s Q&A session is done, Skye heads to the register. The line is long—it curves through nearly the entire store, obviously not equipped for this many people.
“Excuse me,” I say, pushing my way through throngs of people to reach her. She looks like she’s ready to collapse. “Pardon me.”
“Hey!” someone calls. “No cutting in line!”
I raise a hand. “I work here!”
The look Skye sends me is furious. “What are you doing?”
“Let me help.” I nod toward the waiting masses, moving to her left side. “You handle the payment, I’ll pack.”
There’s a pause, infinitesimal, where Skye has to decide between her pride and her need. The latter wins. “Fine,” she murmurs, turning to the next customer with a beaming smile.
“Thanks for coming tonight,” she says.
The man gives her an uncertain smile back. “My pleasure. I’ve walked by this shop a thousand times and never gone in. Can’t imagine why.”
“It’s easy enough to do.”
“Well, that’s changing now.”
I hand him the bag of books. Judging from the weight, he really enjoyed Between the Pages’ new sale. “You’re welcome back any time. Thanks for your support.”
Skye and I work in tandem, her with payment, me packing. Money is flowing into the register—a much-needed boost to the business. And as the line empties out, so does Skye’s small talk. I glance over only to see her hands shake.
“Let me,” I murmur, but she shakes me off. This close it’s clear she has a fever. Stubborn woman.
As the door shuts behind the final customer, Skye slumps against the register. “Wow,” she breathes. “We’ve never had a line before!”
“Having a sale worked”
She rolls her eyes at me. “Yeah, yeah, I know it was technically your idea.”
“That’s not—”
“Skye!” Karli calls, still in the adjoining room together with the author. She hasn’t noticed that I’m here, but she will soon, with the store emptying out. Skye shoots me a conflicted look. Her skin, which had been flushed just an hour ago, is now pallid. “Thanks for helping.”
It’s a clear dismissal, and I know I should leave, but… “You look awful.”
She frowns. “Well, thanks for that too, I suppose.”
“No, you look sick.”
“I might have a cold. I’ll be fine.”
In the other room, Karli offers the author a ride home, her voice carrying across to us. Skye sighs, looking like she’s about to keel over.
“She’s leaving?” I murmur. “You’re to clean up and close shop alone?”
“She has an early parent-teacher conference tomorrow. I offered to handle the late night.”
“Does she know you’re sick?”
“I have the sniffles, and no.”
I cross my arms across my chest. “You can’t do everything alone, Skye.”
“Watch me.”
“If you’re pulling these numbers, you two should hire—”
“Stop arguing,” she says, and with more force than I thought she could muster, she pushes me into the adjacent storage room. “And be quiet.”
In the darkness, I’m standing next to boxes and boxes of books. How much inventory do they have? I lean against a few of the boxes and openly eavesdrop on the conversation on the other side of the curtain.
“Oh, there you are, Skye! We’re heading out. Thanks for tonight,” Karli says. They exchange pleasantries and goodbyes, a door finally closing. The bookstore is quiet once again.
“I’m coming out now,” I declare loudly.
There’s no response. When I emerge, Skye is holding on to the counter with both hands, taking a few deep breaths.
I’m at her side in seconds. “Skye?”
“I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”
“Come on. Have a seat.” I wrap an arm around her waist and help her over to a chair in the reading room. The fact that she doesn’t protest tells me everything I need to know about just how sick she is.
“Let me take you to a doctor.”
“No, no. I just need to finish here and then lie down for a bit.”
“You’re burning up.”
She sinks into the chair, boneless. “Mmm. Maybe.”
“How could you not tell Karli this?”
“I needed the event to go well. It had to be a success,” she murmurs, looking around the room with glazed eyes. “There’s so much to clear out.”
“Tell me what to do.”
She gives a weak laugh. “You’ll help?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Well, we need to stack the fold-up chairs. The plates need to be cleared away. I can… I should close the register. I can do that.”
We work in silence. It doesn’t take me long to clear away the chairs and the trash—the bookstore
isn’t that big. From the corner, Skye works with painfully slow movements at the register.
And she’d said that she had a cold. The woman has no instinct for self-preservation. “All right,” I say finally, “the place looks immaculate. Can we go now? You need to rest.”
She sways at my side, but doesn’t respond.
“Skye?”
“Yes,” she mumbles. “That’s me.”
I touch her forehead again and her eyes drift closed in response. “You’re cool. Your hand is, I mean. It feels good.”
“Okay, we’re getting you home right away.” I help her to the front door. “Do you have your purse?”
She nods, pointing to the bag tucked under her arm. “All set.” She’s a warm weight against me, not protesting my supporting arm.
“Where’s your car?”
She shakes her head but stops abruptly, frowning in pain. “Ow. My head.”
“Do you often get this sick?”
“No. The flu. My nephew had it last week. Must have caught it.”
“Your car?”
“I walked to work today,” she says, and I want to curse. Of course she did, and had planned to walk home after she closed up shop, late and in the dark. It’s almost ten.
She takes a step away from me and sways, but stays on her feet, fumbling with the clasp of her bag. “I’ll call a taxi,” she mumbles. “I can get home. Thanks.”
“No way am I putting you in a taxi right now. Tell me your address, and we’ll get you home, and tomorrow you’re going to a hospital.” I wrap my left arm around her and use my right to dial Charles.
“We’re ready.”
“I’ll be there in five,” he says, hanging up.
Skye shivers beside me, despite the late summer warmth and her high temperature. “Who did you call?”
“My driver. Will you tell me your address?”
Skye looks up at me, but her eyes aren’t narrowed in suspicion or her usual challenge. There’s gratefulness there instead and something else, a bone-deep tiredness. “14 Fairfield Point. It’s close.”
By the time we get into the backseat of my car, Skye has her eyes closed and her head back against the seat.
