Wednesday afternoons at Gatsby’s Place are always a little slow. The bookshop is still far from being a thriving business. Some months, I barely break even. But I love it because it's mine. It's something I've built that I can be proud of. At Gatsby’s Place, I’m surrounded by my favorite things. Books and the people who love to read them.

Reading has always been my escape. When I was young, my mom used to cry about money. She never knew when my dad was coming home, or even if he was coming home. I used to lock myself in the shed outside and pretend that my life was different. When I opened the pages of a book, it really was different.

I found father figures in Aslan and Atticus Finch, and I realized that I didn’t need my own anymore. As I grew into my awkward frame, my solace in the world of fiction only cemented. It didn’t matter if I had glasses and zero social skills because I could be anything I wanted to be when I read. I fell in love with Narnia and Nancy Drew, and I knew it would be a lifelong bond.

I wasn't wrong.

This bookstore has always been my dream. The one thing I’ve held onto when everything else was disposable. It’s small and quaint and in need of some renovation, but it’s mine.

The shop gets a mixed bag of customers. Young and old, new readers, avid readers, and then the genuinely obsessed like me. I love to watch them come in and look around. I love to wonder what they'll pick. It's a feeling I can't quite explain, knowing that literally anyone could walk through that door at any moment and we can form a connection over a simple love of reading. It's a magical feeling.

Until it isn't.

Until Daire walks through the shop door and poisons everything around me. He doesn't come here. Ever. And I prefer it that way. I can only imagine what he must think when he scans the storefront with his shrewd business minded eyes. This must be such a joke to him.

"What are you doing here?" I ask.

"Just came by for a visit.” He swipes a mint from the bowl on the counter and pops it into his mouth. "Kosher?"

"But it's a Wednesday.” I slide the bowl of mints from his reach. "In the middle of the afternoon. Shouldn't you be like... stealing the souls of your new employees or something?"

Britt returns from the back room and mouths OMG behind him before waving to get his attention. I roll my eyes.

"You asked for my help," Daire says. "No time like the present."

He’s got me there. But that still doesn't explain what he's doing here. Daire doesn’t do things out of the kindness of his heart, and he never goes out of the way to help anyone, even if he does feel obligated. And now I feel like this was a horrible idea because his eyes are roaming over me in my orange and blue gypsy dress with the non-matching yellow bangles.

"You need new clothes.”

His words are meant to wound, and they do. But I refuse to give him the gratification of a reaction. I’ve dealt with my fair share of bullies in life, and I know that’s all they really want.

I smooth my hands down my skirt. "Probably."

My sense of style isn’t the kind you’ll find in a magazine. I'll never be one of those well put together Pinterest girls. At least, not without Daire's help. So, I accept it. Because this is in fact what I asked for.

He walks around the counter and makes himself at home in my space, removing my purple framed glasses. His fingers brush over my skin, and for a minute I forget how to breathe. He studies my face, paying close attention to every detail before settling in on my eyes. It’s unnerving being the focus of his attention because Daire notices things that other people can’t. He might act aloof, but he wouldn’t be so good at what he does if he didn’t have a keen eye for detail.

He’s reading me right now, and as much as I want to pretend I don’t care, I’m curious what he thinks. I can't recall being this close to him in years. He smells good. And he's much taller when he’s right in front of me. His hands are warm even though I always assumed they’d be ice cold. When I shiver, it’s involuntary, and Daire doesn’t miss that either. It triggers my vulnerability to him all over again, and I hate that feeling.

"I can’t decide whether contacts would improve the situation here or worsen it."

I can’t believe I even had to wonder what he was thinking because this is Daire. He’s a prick. The entire time I’ve been wavering under his scrutiny, he’s been wondering how to improve my face. I snatch back my glasses in dramatic childlike fashion.

"I hate contacts, and I’m not wearing them."

He shrugs. "Hate them all you like, but you will wear them."

It isn’t a question because that would be beneath Daire. He doesn’t ask questions. He makes demands. And he knows the amount of energy it would require for me to argue with him about anything and that I usually just give in.

"Whatever," I mumble.

"That’s good, Lola," he praises. “You do everything I say, and this might actually work.”

I nod and then he grasps my chin in his fingers.

“Now tell me what you did wrong.”

I stare at him in confusion. He just told me I did good, and now he wants me to tell him what I did wrong?

“I have no idea.”

“Think, LB.” He taps me on the forehead. “Think really hard about what I would have done if that situation were reversed.”

A bitter, strangled laugh erupts from my chest. “You’d say something mean. You’d never do what I…”

My lips slam shut when he smiles at my stupidity. And it is stupidity. Because I asked him to make me like him, and here I am, doing the exact opposite. But still, I can’t stand that annoying smile on his too-perfect face.

“So next time I should tell you to fuck off?”

His amusement dies a swift death. “Let me make something clear to you, LB. If you ever tell me to fuck off, I will beat your ass red… with my bare hand.”

My arms explode in goosebumps, and I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me. I shouldn’t like Daire when he acts this way. I shouldn’t like him at all. And if I had any sense about me, I would have walked away from this dysfunctional relationship years ago. But my brain is programmed to want all the things I’m not supposed to have.

Chocolate. Candy. Assholes.

“You didn’t answer me,” he says.

I count to three in my head and release a breath. “What would you like me to say?”

“You do what I tell you. That’s how this works. The only exception to that rule is if we are playing a role in which I specifically tell you otherwise. If you can’t understand that simple concept, then this stops here and now.”

Now all I want to do is pry his fingers off my face and knee him in the balls. I hate him, and if I ever thought for a second I could forget that this is the cold, hard reminder.

“Message received,” I seethe. “Loud and clear.”

He releases me and takes a step back.

“Good. Now let’s move on to the important topics.”

"Such as?"

"Your business."

"What does my shop have to do with my dating life?"

Daire squeezes the bridge of his nose and looks around my sanctuary like it’s one of the nine circles of hell.

"You might find this concept difficult, Lola, but men want the whole package. Even if they just want to fuck you for one night. At least they can say they fucked the hot lawyer, or yoga teacher, or in your case… the hot librarian."

I’m still trying to figure out if he was serious when he called me hot as I trail behind him to the back of the store. He makes himself at home in this space too, sitting in my chair and rifling through my things. I sit beside him and watch in silence while he reviews my business records with his razor-sharp eyes. I can’t stop tapping my foot or second guessing this whole situation.

Daire grabs my thigh and squeezes. “Stop fidgeting. It’s not an attractive quality.”

I mutter an expletive under my breath, and he glares up at me.

“You want to bag a man, Lola? Then you act poised. Closed off. Mysterious. If a man thinks you’re nervous, he’ll know he has the green light to walk all over you. He’s going to fuck you and then fuck you over with a lame excuse as he sneaks out of your apartment the next day.”

I don’t want to admit that he’s right, but I know it’s true. Because I’ve heard those lame excuses before.

“I’ll work on it,” I tell him.

Daire draws my attention to one of the lines in the ledger that caught his interest. "Am I going blind, or does the value entered here say cookies?"

"Yes," I answer. "It does."

"In the payment line," he clarifies.

"It's Mrs. Woods," I explain. "She bakes me cookies in exchange for a new book every week. And then I share them with the customers."

He's staring at me like I'm insane. "So just to reiterate, you allow her to pay you in cookies."

"Yes." This time, I sound less sure, but I don't know why.

"And what about this one?" he asks, pointing to a separate line.

"Oh, that's Rebecca. She's on a payment plan."

"A payment plan?" He sounds horrified by the idea.

"Yes," I answer firmly.

"LB, let me ask you this. Does your rent give you a payment plan?"

"No?"

"So, can you afford to be giving customers payment plans?"

"She's on a fixed income. I'm just trying to help her out. And she always comes through with the payments."

He shakes his head and closes the ledger altogether.

"This store is quaint. It's cutesy. People eat that shit up. But you’re a sinking ship."

I glare at him, and he shoots me another warning glance.

"You need to take the business online. That's where everything's at these days. You want profit, that's where it's at."

"I don't want to take it online," I argue. "That's the whole point. Brick and mortar stores are dying. It isn't about the bottom line for me. It's about the experience. People come here and smell the books and fall in love with them."

"They smell the books?" he mocks. “That’s what you think is keeping you afloat here?”

"Yes. That's a very real part of it. You wouldn't understand."

I'm getting frustrated, and he senses it, but Daire never backs down.

“I’m not going to sugar coat bullshit and spoon feed it to you. You are hemorrhaging money on this little hobby you like to call a business, and if you keep it up, you’ll be lucky if you aren’t bankrupt in the next two years.”

It hurts to breathe, and I don’t want to acknowledge what he’s saying, but I already know it’s true. My financial advisor has told me as much many times over. Avoidance can only work for so long. The shop is stagnant, but I’m too paralyzed with fear to change it.

“I don’t want to lose it.” I almost choke on the words. “I just don’t know how to fix it.”

“The market is online,” he repeats. “It is what it is, Lola. You either pull yourself up by your bootstraps, or you drown. Nobody is going to throw you a life preserver, so you better be damn sure you learn how to swim.”

My eyes sting from the bleakness of his truth, but I won’t cry in front of him. I won’t.

"We'll plan accordingly," he continues. "But for now, let’s talk about your social calendar."

"What about it?"

He's got my planner now, paging through it. His eyes glaze over at the messy scribbles and post-it notes. It's literally bulging at the seams, and I'll be the first to admit, it's not the most organized thing I own.

"Bullshit." He skims through the chaos. "Bullshit. More bullshit. You're picking up your neighbor’s groceries for them. Babysitting children that aren’t yours and planning showers for all of your so-called friends. When do you have time to date?”

"It’s not that black and white. I’ve cut back on a lot.”

“What is this?” He stares at another page in the planner. “Does this say what I think it does?”

“Yes.” I am not ashamed. “It’s my weekly cosplay group.”

Daire looks genuinely concerned about the state of my mental health.

"You don't take care of yourself."

"That isn't true," I argue, but deep down, it feels like he’s right again. My schedule has been crazy. When you have a difficult time saying no to people, you end up with a lot more on your plate.

"Cut this in half." He tosses the planner in front of me. "Start crossing things out. Anything that doesn't benefit you in some way."

"That seems selfish.”

"It is. That's the whole point." He hands me a pen.

"You mean right now?"

He glances at his watch. “You have ten minutes.”