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He’s about to tease me when a customer comes up and asks for help. With a wink my grandfather leads them away and I get back to stocking the new inventory. It brings a smile to my face because the new books we bring in are something mygrandfather has trusted me with. He doesn’t even balk when I show him the new alien romance I’ve stocked.
You’d think a man of his age would twist his face or tell me it’s indecent, but he doesn’t. He believes there is a reader for every book and the perfect book for every person. He taught me that and it’s something I’ve lived by for as long as I can remember. There is no shame in what people choose to read, only joy.
It’s not easy being a brick-and-mortar bookstore anymore, especially one that’s not a chain. We have enough business and have been a staple in the neighborhood, but there is part of me which isn’t sure how much longer it can all last. Everyone is reading on their phones or another device, and people are ordering more books online. I’m guilty of using my phone to read, even though I prefer the physical book in my hand. I don’t have the space to have all the books I go through.
I can only hope that people will always need bookstores because of the connection they give you to books, or maybe just because of nostalgia for the way it used to be.
I would hate it if the store my grandparents put so much into were to go under. We’re in a tight knit borough. If we were trying to survive in Manhattan, I’m sure we would have gone under decades ago. I can only hope this store stays in place and people appreciate it.
I would lose part of myself if this store were to go under.
When I make my way up to the counter again, Grandfather smiles at me before telling a customer goodbye as they leave. I need to figure out a way to get more customers in here. Maybe I shouldn’t be so down on social media; it could help us get business. Possibly.
When the door chimes again, I look up at the same time Grandfather does to see a man walk in. He’s tall and dressed in a slick suit, something you don’t see around here in the middle of the day very often. He looks out of place in the store and the way he casts his eyes around, as if the whole thing is distasteful, sets me instantly on edge.
“Good afternoon,” I try and insert as much cheer into my voice as I can, even if I’m not feeling it. When his eyes sweep over to me, he seems to take all of me in with a single look which has me wanting to shiver. Not in a good way. I force the greeting past my lips, “Welcome to Turning Pages.”
The man plasters a pleasant enough smile on his face, but there’s something…else about it too. Smug? Oily? Whatever it is, it makes me feel a little dirty and uncomfortable.
Those alarm bells most women have are going off in my head. If I were coming across this man in a dark alley, I would want to run the other way. The fact that he’s wearing an expensive suit and his shoes probably cost more than I even want to think about doesn’t make me feel more comfortable, in fact, I think it’s making it worse. He’s like one of those rich villains in superhero movies with too much glitz.
There’s something like interest in his gaze, which makes me clench my jaw and I force myself to not take a step back when he moves closer to the counter. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier to have a counter between myself and a customer before. I can feel the tension coming from my grandfather and he’s the most laid-back guy I know.
“You have quite a fine place here,” the man’s words are smooth, but there’s no sincerity there. Every single syllable rings false.
“Thank you,” my grandfather’s tone makes his words sound more like ‘fuck you’, and I bite the inside of my lip to stop myself from laughing.
I’ve never been great in high pressure situations. This is not the right time to have a case of the giggles, but I almost can’t help myself. The man’s eyes flash with a warning of violence and the gravity of the situation washes over me and makes me swallow hard.
“My name is Lucius Lang,” the stranger says with expectation written all over his face. If he thinks we should know who he is, he’s going to be sorely mistaken. When neither of us fawn all over him, the look on his face tells me he thinks we’re too provincial to have heard of a man like him. What a fucking asshole.
“I’m Marcus Leto,” my grandfather’s voice has a chill to it, one I’ve never heard before. “What brings you in today? Are you looking for a specific book that we can help you find?”
Mr. Lang’s beady eyes take in my grandfather, and I’m tempted to step in front of the only family I have left in the hope of protecting him. “My office has tried to set up a time to meet with you several times, Mr. Leto. I figured, since you keep refusing, it’s time for me to come down myself.”
My grandfather’s spine goes rigid. “I told your office that I have no interest in meeting with a real estate developer, Mr. Lang,” there’s a venomous sneer in my grandfather’s voice and I feel my eyes start to almost pop out of my head at what is being said.
I had no idea a developer had contacted my grandfather. Is this about the store? They want to buy it? There’s been a lot of gentrification in the borough over the last few years. More andmore people want to buy property here, tear down buildings that have been around for a long time to build new ones, and then jack up the cost of living. I hate it even though some would say it’s all about progress.
Progress at the expense of what?
“You really should reconsider. I’ll give you far more than this place is worth.” Mr. Lang looks around again and I swear I can see the dollar signs in his eyes.
“I’m not interested in selling,” there’s a finality in my grandfather’s words.
When Mr. Lang sees he’s not going to get what he wants—supplication, I’m sure—he flashes my grandfather a smile. If he thinks it’s congenial, then he is sorely mistaken. Fucking yikes. His eyes, dark with a danger I can’t even begin to process, swing to me and he smiles at me.
“What is your name, beautiful?”
“Marigold,” slips from my lips before I’m able to stop myself, the manners that have been imbued into me coming out and biting me on the ass because I instantly regret telling him.
“It suits you. A flower like you should be protected and given everything to make sure you bloom,” his words seem sweet, but they feel dirty. “How about I take you out for a nice dinner, Marigold?”
My brain freezes for a moment and before I can answer, Grandfather steps in front of me. “No, Mr. Lang, my granddaughter won’t be going out to dinner with you.”
“We’ll see,” Mr. Lang’s lip curls slightly after he whispers the words before he turns and leaves the shop.
I can only hope that he doesn’t come back, but the way my grandfather looks at me, a bit of fear in his eyes, tells me that hope is probably misplaced. Great. I wish I could crawl into a book and never leave. It’s so much safer between those pages.
