The Mistletoe Motive(13)
“I’m open to it,” Mrs. Bailey says carefully, meeting her husband’s eye. Mr. Bailey nods in agreement. “Bottom line is, we need more customers and more sales to offset what we’ve lost to Potter’s. If not, we’ll have to take a long, hard look at the bookshop’s future and whether we open our doors again after the new year.”
My world tips sideways. I clutch my cup so hard, I expect hot cocoa to geyser up to the ceiling.
“We’ll have to get creative,” she continues, “about how we broaden our reach, and we need record high sales this month. And, of course, we’ll make some more cuts in expenses.”
Getting creative? That’s my wheelhouse. My mind whirs with possibilities. A big sale right before we close, live music, holiday crafts, pastries, hot beverages. Might get a bit messy, but that’s what all-purpose cleaner is for. Maybe a book club would draw some new customers? I’m not great at group settings, but if it’s only once a month and everyone buys the book from us, it could be worth it.
Of course, just when my ideas are really picking up steam, Jonathan crushes them like a number-crunching piano fallen from the sky.
“Due respect,” he says, a deep furrow in his brow, “there are no expenses left to cut. The past year, I’ve made sure we’re as lean as possible, trimmed our overhead every place I could. Outside of management, we’re down to one part-time employee—well, we were, until he quit, and now it’s just—”
“Us,” I say faintly.
My heart plummets. When it comes to cutting expenses, all that’s left to cut is…one of us. My worst nightmare just came true.
Mrs. Bailey sighs and sips her spiced latte. “That’s the bad news. During an already stressful, demanding time of year, we’re tasking you with even more so the place can stay open for years to come, Potter’s Pages be damned.”
“And…the good news?” I ask weakly.
“The good news…” Mrs. Bailey smiles between us. “I have every faith your efforts will be a success.”
Chapter 4
Playlist: “Little Jack Frost, Get Lost,” Bing Crosby & Peggy Lee
“Well, that was grim,” I say through a smile, waving goodbye to the Baileys.
Jonathan stands beside me, arms folded across his chest, as we watch their cab pull out into snowy traffic. He says nothing, but I see those gears turning in his head. As if he’s sensed me watching him, his pale green eyes snap my way. He stares at me for a long minute, softly falling snow and the slushy sound of tires rolling down the road filling the silence between us, stoic and chilly as ever.
How can he be so calm right now? Oh, that’s right. He saw this meeting coming. Unlike me, he hasn’t had the occupational rug pulled out from underneath him.
Finally free to carry out my revenge, I start with something that’s guaranteed to piss him off. It has every other time I’ve done it. Smiling up at Jonathan, I start to hum.
Little Jack Frost, get lost, get lost!
His eyes narrow. His jaw ticks. God, it’s satisfying.
“Too bad you don’t go by Jack,” I tell him, doing a little jazz square before I repeat the refrain. “I mean come on. Jack Frost? Does it get any better than that?”
Muttering to himself, he wrenches open the door and herds me across the threshold.
I don’t like being corralled, but I’m not eager to stand out in the cold any longer than I have to in only a knee-length rose-pink sweater dress and no jacket. I dart inside, shivering as the store’s heat envelops me. Then I turn to face Jonathan as he shuts the door and locks it, a bitter reminder that I’m stuck here with him in already strained professional circumstances that just took a turn for the worse.
“You know what this means,” I tell him. “What the Baileys said.”
Strolling past me, he sweeps up a stack of holiday romances that I set on the feature table and tucks them under his arm. “It means this independent bookstore is on the brink of financial collapse after years hemorrhaging money via outdated business methods, a deplorably inefficient HVAC system, zero online presence, and a flagrant disregard for competitive pricing.”
“Well, yeah, but that’s not what I meant.”
He stops and turns, cool wintergreen eyes landing on me. “Then what did you mean, Gabriella?”
His sharp, condescending tone pops the lid off my pressure-cooker anger. Fuming, I close the distance between us and wrench the holiday romances from his grip, backtracking to the feature table. “Like you don’t know what they were saying when they talked about cutting expenses. Unless a financial miracle happens, one of us isn’t making it to the new year.”
Jonathan sweeps up a stack of the wintertime paranormal thriller that just came out and drops it on the feature table with a thud, knocking over my holiday romances.
“Of course they’re saying that,” he snaps. “I’ve known that since I started, Gabriella. I’ve been planning for it since day one.”
I angrily stack up the romances again, setting them in the front and shoving his winter thriller toward the back. “How nice for you, Jonathan. Some of us, however, have been too focused on our daily duties at the bookshop to spend time calculating professional sabotage.”
“Ah, right,” he says coolly. “Of course. I’m the hard-ass evil capitalist who came in and cruelly made a business efficient, while you’re the innocent victim of my ruthless machinations, who never once wished me gone, whose love of books and whose gorgeous smiles for dwindling customers was magically going to keep things afloat.”