Elle waited in the lobby of the executive office, the decor surprisingly plush given the generic nature of the store. She was surprised she’d gotten this far, and her stomach twisted at the thought of the confrontation that lay ahead.

She’d assumed she would be turned away at the outset. That someone would make excuses for Malcolm Glover, claim he was in meetings or had already left. Instead she’d given her name, said she was from the bookstore across the street, and had been promptly escorted to the back of the store by an employee whose name tag identified him as the Store Manager. The manager — a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a paunch that overflowed the store’s regulation chinos — had unlocked a steel door at the back of the store and deposited her in a wood-paneled waiting room.

She fidgeted on the waiting room chair, her eyes catching the gold sandals she’d chosen to wear with the Moroccan print dress that flowed around her knees. She should have planned better. Should have worn something more appropriate. How did she expect someone like Malcolm Glover, someone who ate competitors for breakfast, to take her seriously? She felt like a child posing as a grown-up, wearing her mother’s clothes.

“Eleanor Matheson?” She looked up to find a smartly dressed young man in a suit staring at her from the doorway. “You can come with me,” he said.

She got up, followed him down a carpeted hall past several closed doors and an open one that seemed to be the conference room. They stopped at a set of wood-paneled double doors at the end of the hall. Her escort knocked.

“Come in.” The voice was deep and authoritative.

The young man opened the door, stepped across the threshold, and stood to the side so she could enter. She hesitated, then walked into a huge office lined with rich mahogany paneling. Several pieces of fine art hung on the walls, each illuminated by a tiny brass light. The wood floor was covered with a massive, intricately patterned carpet.

“Please, come in.”

She followed the voice to the man standing behind a massive desk, its clean lines a perfect foil to the more traditional furnishings scattered around the room.

Malcolm Glover was tall and slender, his expensive suit tailored to fit his lanky frame. He was younger than he’d looked in the pictures online, although still quite a bit older than her. She placed him in his late-forties, his dark hair just starting to gray around the temples, the lines around his eyes making him look dignified rather than old.

She walked toward the desk and extended her hand. “I’m Eleanor Matheson. I own Matheson and Matheson, the bookstore across the street.”

There was no warmth in his smile but he shook her hand, nodded at the young man who had escorted her to his office. The assistant stepped back into the hall and closed the door quietly behind him.

“It’s a pleasure meeting you, Eleanor.” She felt silly hearing her given name spoken aloud. She’d used it to give her presence weight, but now it just felt like part of the sham. No one called her Eleanor except her father. “Please, sit.”

She lowered herself into one of the chairs opposite his desk and waited as he did the same, unbuttoning his jacket in one motion the way men like Glover seemed born to do.

“I’m always happy to meet our neighbors,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

She hesitated. What could he do for her? Shut down the bookstore initiative that had probably already cost Bolton’s millions? Give up all that profit so she could keep hers?

She drew in a breath, tried to center herself.

“I’m here to discuss the bookstore initiative,” she said. “I know you’re opening soon — ”

“A week from today,” he said, his eyes gleaming. “We’re all very excited.”

It felt like an unnecessarily mean thing to say, like he was twisting the knife, and she blinked back her distaste.

“I’m sure.” She hesitated. “I guess I’m wondering what sort of initiatives the company is taking to offset damage to indie businesses in the vicinity.”

His mouth turned up at the corners. Was it meant to be a smile? It didn’t feel like one.

He lifted his eyebrows. “Initiatives?”

“To offset the loss of business.” She hurried to explain. “Don’t get me wrong, I understand that Bolton’s is in the business of profit. At the end of the day, we all need money to stay in business. I get that.”

He turned his hands over, raised his palms to the ceiling. “So?”

She drew in a breath. “I’ve been reading up on Bolton’s corporate policy, and it does seem like you have green initiatives to offset your impact to the environment, labor initiatives to ensure your employees are treated fairly…”

“Those were put in place by my predecessor,” he said. “They’re under review.”

“Under review?” She hated herself for repeating him, but she was too surprised by his response to do anything else. She needed time to get her head around what was happening, because she was beginning to have the feeling that the person sitting across from her was no ordinary man.

And not in a good way.

He leaned back in his chair. “As you said, we’re in the business of profit. It is my intention to follow the letter of the law, beyond that…”

“You don’t feel a responsibility to your neighbors?” she asked. “To the community that supports your business?”

His mouth turned down in a sneer. “Customers don’t support our business. They spend their money here because we make it affordable and convenient. It's a mutually beneficial business arrangement. And one of the ways I plan to keep things affordable is to do away with unnecessary policy.”

“But surely you know how strongly this community feels about corporate responsibility.” She hesitated over her next words. She wasn’t a confrontational person. She preferred compromise to conflict. “They might not appreciate a company like yours taking advantage of the small businesses in the area, not to mention the elimination of the other initiatives you mentioned."

He smiled, and for the first time it seemed sincere. “Are you threatening me?” He almost sounded pleased by the prospect.

“I… no.” She sighed. “I’m not threatening you. I suppose I was hoping we could come to some kind of agreement. There’s plenty of business for everyone. 100% of your current book business is based on bestsellers. Of course, that will inevitably expand into other areas with the opening of your full-service section, but surely there are certain genres you’d be willing to steer clear of to benefit indie bookstores like mine. Perhaps I could expand my offerings in those areas, create a niche in some of the less popular sub-genres.”

“I don’t know the details of our planned inventory off-hand,” he said. “But I can assure you it does not — will not — have anything to do with what you may or may not be selling.”

She looked at her hands in her lap. She thought about her father. His strength. His kindness. She wished he was with her now. He would know what to do.

“Mr. Glover, I’ve worked hard to keep my business going, to develop the clientele I have now. I’m just looking for neighborly consideration. Your full-service book section won’t just hurt my business — it will hurt The Big Bean across the street, too. Zach worked two jobs for ten years to save enough money to open his coffee shop.”

Malcolm Glover steepled his hands in front of him. “I suppose you’ll have to innovate like the rest of us. My business is making money. It’s what I do. What I’ve always done.” He stood. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have another appointment.”

She stood, forced the appropriate words from her mouth. “Thank you for meeting with me.”

She extended her hand even though touching him was the last thing she wanted to do. He took it, held it a beat too long, let his eyes drop slowly to her chest, not even trying to hide the fact that he was checking her out. Her dress wasn’t revealing. Not really. But she felt suddenly naked, wished she’d already retired the summery garment for fall.

“I’m sure you’ll be just fine, Ms. Matheson.” His eyes pierced hers. “I’m sure you have… other talents. Should the bookstore thing not work out, I mean.”

It took her a few seconds to work past her shock. When she did, she yanked her hand from his, slipped the strap of her bag onto her shoulder and hurried from the room, wondering if it was her imagination that his eyes were on her body along the way.

She pulled open the door so fast she almost stumbled, then rushed into the hall and out the door leading to the store. She hardly registered the brightness of the lights, the low hum of conversation as shoppers went about their business. She kept her gaze focused on the front of the store, weaving through the crowd, past the toiletries and cash registers. Then she was pushing through the front door, sucking in the fresh air like someone long deprived of oxygen.

She was shaking, a swell of unidentifiable emotion rising inside her like a hurricane. She was almost to the corner when she realized it was anger.

She stopped at the light post, the white light indicating it was her turn to cross the street already blinking, marking down the time before it would turn red. She suddenly saw everything that led to this moment with such clarity, it was like watching her life play out on a movie screen.

Her parents getting the notice from Hathaway Holding that their building had been bought, that the lease would be increasing threefold.

The nights when she’d been home from school for Christmas and had walked in on them running numbers at the kitchen table, cups of coffee growing cold while they tried to find a way to keep the store.

Her father, the lines on his face etching deeper by the day, his skin sallow and pale in the hours before he fell over at the kitchen island, dead in moments of a massive heart attack.

And finally, the closing of Matheson and Matheson. The store her parents had opened together when they’d been barely out of college themselves. She would never forget that day: the sad boxing up of twenty years worth of memories.

None of that was Malcolm Glover’s fault, but it was the fault of people like him. Lachlan’s parents hadn’t cared about anything but money either. Maybe it was the way the world worked now. Maybe she was just naive.

But she was also breathtakingly angry.

Who did that asshole Glover think he was? It was one thing to blow her off. He didn’t owe her anything. Asking for some kind of negotiation had been a long shot.

But he’d been a total dick. Had treated her like a child, then like a piece of ass he could demean and ogle. He was probably used to getting what he wanted.

Used to taking what he wanted.

She didn’t know how people like him became the way they were, but she was willing to bet they hadn’t been told no very often. That people tip-toed around them, kissing their asses and letting them get away with murder because they were rich and powerful.

Well, she didn’t have much, but she had a voice. She could let him know that she wouldn’t go quietly.

She turned around, the anger building, spreading out from her chest, up her neck until her face felt flushed. By the time she reached Bolton’s, adrenaline was surging through her body, the words she planned to say welling inside her throat.

But she was so intent on her mission that she threw the door open too fast, right as someone else was pushing from the other side. She crashed into a cotton-clad brick wall so wide it blocked out everything else, stopped her momentum cold.

She stumbled backwards a little, felt a hand clamp firmly but carefully around her upper arm as she wobbled on her feet. Then she was looking up into familiar eyes, glowing like chips of amber as they stared down at her, a mix of shock and fear in their depths.

For a moment, she could only stare at him, her breath stuck in her lungs, every system in her body shutting down in his proximity. She was still searching for words when he spoke.

“Elle… jesus… Are you all right?”