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The reading nook was nestled into the front of the shop, in the curve of the bay window, where it always caught the warmth of the sun. Gingerbread, Min’s cat, was asleep on one of the comfy wing-backed chairs. He opened a lazy yellow eye, fixed it on Quentin, and immediately all the hairs on the back of his neck bristled. With a small hiss, he got up, jumped off the chair and stalked off.
Min guessed Gingerbread didn’t like Quentin either.
Once they were both seated, she looked over the paperwork again, trying not to let her panic show. “Why is the lease terminating?” she said finally.
Quentin gave a little shrug. “I guess with the death of your father last year, the Council felt…” He hesitated.
“What? That I couldn’t run the shop on my own?”
“Not at all. Just that this was an opportune time to put the property on the market.”
Min’s eyes widened behind her glasses. “The market. You mean sell it?”
Quentin fidgeted. “You are, of course, welcome—encouraged, even—to put in a bid. And you have a month to consider whether you want to.”
“A month?” she parroted. It was all she could say with the numb disbelief pervading her body.
“I’m sure with you being the last of the Westwind family, your offer will be looked on favorably. But we do have to be fair and competitive.” Quentin sat back in the chair, steepling his fingers. “The lands close to Motham are much more sought after than when your father first signed this lease, Minerva. You could say it’s prime real estate these days.”
She gave a bitter little laugh at that. “I never thought I’d hear someone from Tween say the Motham Perimeter was prime real estate.”
He shook his head. “Personally,” he glanced out the window, “I wouldn’t call it that in a million years, but…”
Min followed his gaze. Past the pretty garden of the shop, the rubble of Motham’s city wall was clearly visible from here. The big boulders had been left where they fell more than a decade ago, forming a gaping hole between monster and human worlds. The part of the city behind the rubble was now imaginatively called The Hole In The Wall District, a conglomeration of shops and offices, a few modern high-rises, but mostly a hotch-potch of monster architecture. It was the spot where humans and monsters now traded openly, and the hole had certainly made the bookshop more accessible to monster customers in recent years. Even so, it wasn’t a profitable enterprise. Far from it.
Min tried to gather her scattered thoughts. She’d always envisaged growing old here, becoming an eccentric spinster with Gingerbread and a string of other cats for company. But now… what?
She’d be homeless in a month, unless she could come up with the finances. Her father’s bookshop and everything he’d worked for would be gone.
“I’m sorry, Minerva,” Quentin said, sounding more smug than sorry. “Please believe me, I did fight for you to have extra time to work this out. But the Council were adamant. They don’t want to tie up the land for any longer.”
“I see.” Min tried to stop her hands from trembling. She wanted to tear the document into shreds, scream, chase Quentin out of the shop like a mad banshee, but of course she wouldn’t.
She wouldn’t let this smug high-breed human know he’d got to her, even though her heart was about to crack into pieces. Because the Westerly Bookshop was much more than a business. It was her home. She’d been born here and lived above the shop with her father since her mom died when she was a baby. She’d played here, studied here, worked here all her life.
Following her father’s tragic death in a car accident last year, Min had assuaged her grief by pouring more love into The Westerly. Refining the shop’s set-up, with clearer categories, giving it a lick of new paint and spending time in the garden, making it as pretty as she could, imagining her dad looking over her. She’d had only Gingerbread for company, and her friend Bonnie, a gorgon, who helped out in the shop from time to time.
Sensing Quentin’s gaze boring into her, she tried to keep her face expressionless as her mind whirred. She had a dwindling trust fund from the Westwind family, which helped keep the shop afloat, and topped up the rent, because the Westerly didn’t make anything resembling a profit. Her father had died almost penniless, having spent what was left of his inheritance on maintaining the shop and donating money to monster causes.
Face it Min, you are flat broke.
Quentin’s words jerked her out of her thoughts. “I’m sure your offer would be looked upon favorably by the Council.”
“Even though my father tarnished the family name?”
He smirked. “Nothing could tarnish the Westwind name, Minerva.”
Was she supposed to be grateful that Tween folks tolerated her father’s eccentric ways because of the supposedly heroic deeds of her ancestor?
Pull yourself together, Min. “Thank you, Quentin. I will go over the paperwork and get back to you, very shortly.” She stood, desperate for him to leave so she could process all this. Alone.
Or at least, she would be after the woman in the peacock coat left.
Quentin’s gaze roamed from her hips to her waist and then her breasts, before finally reaching her face. His tongue flicked over his lips and his pale eyes gleamed.
As he got up, he took a step toward her. “If there’s anything I can do to help, just call me, Minerva.”
Min smiled tightly and stepped back. “Thank you, Quentin, I’ll bear that in mind. Now, I must get back to work, I have a customer who may need assistance.”
