"Fine. We're hiring extra, extra help," she retorts. "This is a madhouse."
"Maybe we overcommitted," I mutter.
"Maybe?" Her brows shoot up. "I'm pretty sure we broke the fire code thirty people ago, Lilah! This is wild."
She isn't wrong. I did not expect this kind of turnout. It's like half the women in Santa Maria turned up to meet Cassia Murphy tonight, drink wine, and try to win that basket. Or maybe half the women in Santa Maria turned up to ogle Cassia's husband, Cord. Either way, half of them are in my store, drinking copious amounts of wine, and buying everything. It's not a complaint. I promise. Just a note to self to hire extra reinforcements next time we book a cowboy author married to a real-life hot cowboy.
"Five hundred more nights like this, and I might actually be able to afford to buy this place," I murmur.
"You need to call your dad," Jazz says, the same thing she's said half a dozen times since Lincoln Hanover—the devil—waltzed in and ruined my day.
"It's not his job to bail me out," I say, the same thing I've said every time she brings it up. Besides, my parents already set up a trust fund for each of us kids. They gave us one million each to get us started in life. It's not their responsibility to step in and give me more now. Unlike a lot of people who make what my dad does, my parents actually taught us the importance of hard work and the value of a dollar.
I want to make them proud.
"You think Grant would be upset about helping you?" Jazz looks at me like I'm crazy. "Your dad adores you, Lilah. He'd probably kill for you guys without hesitation if he thought it was necessary. And it's not like what you need for the building will break him."
"That's beside the point," I mutter.
"Then what is the point?" she demands. "Because you're about to lose the store you've dreamed about your whole life, because you're too stubborn to ask for help."
"The point is that he already gave me a million dollars. How many twenty-five-year-olds are given a million dollars to use however they want? Not many, but they still make it work," I say. "And if they can do it without the safety net I had, then I need to learn to do it, too."
Jazz stares at me for a long moment and then shakes her head like I'm a lost cause. Maybe I am, but I can't just ask my dad to bail me out every time life throws a curveball my way. If I can't make this dream work on my own, maybe it's not meant to work.
"We're so not finished discussing this," Jazz says. "But I have wine to deliver before they riot out there."
"Yeah, yeah." I wave her off, already hunting through boxes of books for the tissue paper I'm absolutely sure is back here. There's no way we're out of it already. I just reordered it two weeks ago.
"Lilah!" Olive shouts from the front.
Crap. I give up the search and grab a box of Kraft paper, deciding to wing it for now and find the monogrammed tissue paper later, when we actually have time to search for it.
I scurry to the front, expecting a disaster. What I get isn't that. It's six-odd-feet of gorgeous irritation, still wrapped in expensive Italian silk.
"You aren't welcome here," I growl, dropping the paper onto the counter beside Olive while scowling daggers at Lincoln. "You need to leave."
"I came to talk," he says quietly, and then grimaces. "I just didn't realize you were holding a party."
"It's not a party. It's a book reading, you know, one of those things where an author reads from his or her book?" I pop a hand on my hip, still glaring at him. "Of course, you don't know what that is since the last thing you probably read was the contract you signed with Satan when you sold your soul."
His lips actually twitch. "You think I sold my soul?"
"No, actually. I'm not sure you had one to begin with." I eye him up and down. "Where do you hide the horns and tail?"
"If the devil looks like him, I ain't done nearly enough sinning in my life," the middle-aged woman Olive is checking out says, eyeing him up and down. Her comment sends her friend into hysterical laughter.
Olive hides a smile behind her hand.
Lincoln finds the situation less funny. His almost-smile falls, his eyes narrowing on me. "I see you're still being difficult."
Oh no. I know he didn't.
"Difficult?" I hiss, pretty sure steam is coming out of my ears. "If you don't get out of my store right now, I swear to God, I'm going to show you difficult, Lincoln Hanover."
"Is that a threat or a promise, sweetness?"
The sound that leaves my mouth is fifty percent indignant squawk, fifty percent growl, and one hundred percent unhinged. If there weren't two hundred witnesses, I'd strangle him with his own expensive tie right here and now. Unfortunately, half the damn store is watching us like we're acting out their favorite billionaire romance and will be getting down and dirty in the next five seconds.
