Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 104821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Why was she so determined to keep it?
“Because I haven’t.” On that final note, I pushed away from the kitchen counter and headed for the front door.
He had a key.
With any luck, he’d lock the door on his way out…then put the damn key through the mail slot.
Twenty-Five
Dahlia
Books.
There were books everywhere. Books on the chairs, books on the tables, books on the bar.
I delayed opening. I didn’t want anyone to come in here while books took over almost the entire bar. That was asking for careless little bastards to spill stuff on them, and they were too precious for that.
They were my mom’s, and they’d been on those shelves for too long.
I’d updated them occasionally. Of course, I had. I didn’t have a choice. Books were timeless, but patience wasn’t.
The books were a symbol of my mom, of the legacy she’d left behind. I’d never wanted to remove them, but it was time. Time to replace the battered corners and folded pages with sharp, crisp edges. Time to replace the cracked and wrinkled spines with flat, shiny ones.
They were all special. Every last book. Beloved tales from fictional lands that told of mystical creatures, past decades, and everlasting loves. But still, it was about time it changed.
These books belonged on my shelves at home where I could see them every day. My mom would still live on in this bar because at its core, it was hers. Built for her love of books and literature and love itself.
Taking the books she reread more times than I could ever count wouldn’t hurt it.
The bonus? I got to go shopping for more.
I wasn’t going to lie to myself and say that idea was terrible. There was no place like a bookstore. Multiple bookstores were even better. Kind of like orgasms.
Happiness was where the books—and orgasms—were, after all.
I stroked the spine of Little Women before I tucked it into the box next to an old book of classic poetry. I folded the corners of the box flaps until they were steady, taped the top, and then shoved it over to the side of the thankfully empty table.
Then, I reached for another box. More books. More packing. More tape. More boxes. More books. More packing. More tape.
It was oddly therapeutic. As if I were packing a piece of the past away, but not in a bad way. As if I was making the bar mine in the simplest way possible.
Knocks at the door broke through my rhythmic movements.
“Sorry, we’re closed until later!” My voice echoed through the empty bar.
“It’s me,” Damien’s gruff reply came.
I held the old copy of Outlander to my chest and walked to the door. I unlocked it with a click and opened it.
He stood there wearing dark jeans, a white shirt, and a light blue jacket. One of these days I’d figure out how he constantly coped wearing those damn jackets, but today was not that day.
I dragged my gaze up over his body to where the tiniest amount of short hair peeked out through the open collar. “Yes?” I said, finally meeting his dark gaze.
His lips twitched up. “Good afternoon to you, too.”
“Good afternoon?”
Damien held out his hand, pulling his sleeve up, and showed me his watch.
Afternoon it was.
“Then, good afternoon,” I said with a smile. “Can I help you?”
His eyes twinkled. “In more ways than one. Are you busy?”
“Er…” Looking over my shoulder at the mess of the bar, I sighed. “You could say that.”
He leaned to the side and looked past me. “What the—what the hell are you doing in there?”
“A re-do?” was my lame answer.
“A re-do,” he said flatly.
“A re-do.”
“You’ve got to explain better than that.”
I sighed and dragged him inside. “You’re letting all the cold air out. Plus, I feel hot just looking at you.”
“If you want me, all you have to do is ask.”
“Not right now. Just wear some climate-appropriate clothes, you lunatic. This isn’t Canada, it’s Vegas.” I put the book I was holding into a box while he laughed. “And I’m replacing the books.”
His laughter cut short. “You’re replacing the books? Why?”
I shrugged a shoulder and picked up a few more. “I feel like it’s time. These books have been collected over the years. They’re all my mom’s favorite books or authors. It’s time to replace them with mine.”
“You’re not keeping any of them?” His eyebrows shot up and he picked up a Jackie Collins book. “You’re starting completely fresh?”
“Yep.” Slowly, I nodded. “This was her bar until my dad died. Now it’s mine. Everything they created won’t change. Just the books. And the lights in the ladies’ bathroom.”
Damien put down the book he was holding. His fingertips trailed over the covers of the books on top of each stack. Every few steps he paused to read the titles, moving the odd ones out the way so he could see what was underneath.