Billionaires Dollar Series

She only laughs on the phone when I point this out, on my second day of sick leave. “Skye, you’re sick. Take the time for yourself.”

“But-”

“No buts!” Her voice softens. “Look, I know what this place means to you. It’s the same for me. But we’re not going to run ourselves so ragged that we get sick in trying to keep it afloat. Eleanor wouldn’t have wanted that.”

I slump on the couch at her admonition. Eleanor, who had been Karli’s grandmother, but had never wanted to be called anything but her name. It’ll age me, honey, I’d heard her say more than once.

Eleanor, who had always cheered on my dream of being a writer, even when my own family didn’t understand it. I missed her so much it ached, sometimes.

“You’re right.”

“Besides, we’re still on a high from the book reading. Thirty-four individual purchases in one evening. Can you believe it?”

“Hardly.” I stretch my legs out on the couch. “Did you get a call back from Chloe?”

“Yes, she agreed to be our new accountant! I’ve sent her all the reports on our finances today. So far it’s looking fairly good, I think. We’re not profitable yet, not… not in the way Porter Development wants. But we’re getting there.”

Something in me squeezes painfully tight at the words Porter Development. It’s confusion, and anger, and something else I can’t quite name. “Awesome,” I say. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. I already feel a lot better. I’m creating an Instagram profile now, for Between the Pages.”

“Skye! You should be resting!”

I smile at her concern. “I will be. Soon. I promise.”

Karli is a good friend. I lie back on the couch, my head spinning faintly, and stare at the cracked plaster that runs through my ceiling. She’s been with me through thick and thin. A sister, even if she isn’t one by blood.

The contrast with my sister Isla is too clear. When she’d called yesterday and asked me to babysit Timmy, and I told her I was sick, she harrumphed and told me to get better soon. We all need you, she had told me sweetly, the subtext all too clear.

Karli isn’t like that. Nor, it seems, is Cole.Content © provided by NôvelDrama.Org.

The CEO and owner of Porter Development had been here, earlier this week, putting cold compresses on my feverish forehead all night. Cancel my meetings, he’d said on the phone. He’d seen me at my weakest. And, my vain heart is quick to point out, at my decidedly most unattractive. I’m not sure what to make of that.

One thing is clear, at least. He might be trying to tear down the bookstore, but I can no longer conveniently pretend that he’s a bad person to boot. I stare up at the ceiling and let the realization flood through me.

It doesn’t change much, in the end. We’re still at odds, firmly in opposite camps on an issue, and we haven’t spoken since he left my apartment a few days ago. Don’t overthink it, I tell myself, and open our text conversation. The last thing I sent was a plain thank-you after he gave me the doctor’s details.

Skye Holland: Here’s Between the Pages’ new Instagram page, in case you want to follow our rise to the top more closely.

Silly.

I regret it almost immediately after I send it, despite the rush of adrenaline pulsing through my veins. I want him, and I want him to not be who he is-the developer trying to destroy my job and my friend’s store-and I can’t reconcile those two things.

An hour passes without a response. I take a shower. Open the manuscript I’m trying, and failing, to write.

When I get a text, it’s from Mom, who wonders if I’ll come by for dinner on Saturday and to please bring Isla and Timmy along. I want to sigh. Rare are the times she wants to have dinner just to hang out, but I type an obliging of course and forward the details to Isla.

My phone finally buzzes with the response I want.

Cole Porter: Glad to see you’ve finally hired a PR consultant. Those twenty-seven followers will really help you.

I roll my eyes at the response.

Skye Holland: You forgot your thermometer at mine. I was going to return it, but now I think I’ll keep it.

Cole Porter: Oh no. That was my favorite one.

Skye Holland: Really? It’s not even gold-plated.

Cole Porter: The horror. Do you feel better?

I blink at my screen for a few seconds. Before I can type a response, another message from him pops up.

Cole Porter: I’d hate for my main opponent to be benched. Makes winning less special.

Skye Holland: Restored to perfect health, thank you. Maybe I was just allergic to you?

Cole Porter: We both know that’s not true.

Yes, I think. We both do.

Something uneasy rolls through me. It’s not guilt, exactly, but it’s close. He’d gone out of his way at the book reading, showing up initially to check on our progress, but staying and helping.

Three things I remember clearly.

1) The way his body felt against mine.

2) The reason I went to the hotel bar in the first place, all those weeks ago. It had been to live. To push boundaries. To be reckless.

3) The kiss we shared in the bookstore a week ago.

He’d admitted that he wanted to sleep with me again. That he wanted a repeat of the night at the hotel, when we’d spent the entire night doing… well. My cheeks flush at the memory. It had been more animalistic and honest and open than any sex I’d had with previous boyfriends. No limits, full communication, and Cole’s sly smile put to good use.

Maybe it’s time to be reckless again. I glance over at where my laptop sits, innocent-looking, on my coffee table. When I’d told my sister I’d started writing a novel, months ago, she’d chuckled. What do you have to write about, Skye? she’d asked, before seeing the look on my face. Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it like that.

But she had.

And the worst part is, she was right. I’m twenty-six. I’ve lived my whole life-including my college years-in the same city. My group of friends are scattered, my job limited to stacking books. A major in English Literature and a minor in Creative Writing isn’t necessary for that.

It’s not a comfortable thought. I turn over on the couch, seeking another of the blissful naps I’ve been taking all day, but this time it takes a long time for sleep to claim me.

I feel a lot better the next day. So much better, in fact, that I’m back at the bookstore fifteen minutes before my shift starts. Karli laughs at me.

“So eager, huh?”

I shoot her a blinding smile and get right to work. Customers filter in and out, and I give them all my new, invigorated smile. Four weeks are gone, and we have four weeks left before the deadline is up.