His Juliet: An Age Gap Hurt Comfort Mafia Romance (Empire of Royals Book 2)

I lay in bed until even my alarm was irritated with how many times I’d hit snooze. My bones felt as heavy as my heart. Getting up each morning was growing harder and harder.

Running the bookstore was the only thing keeping me going, but I still went through each day with the sensation of being trapped. Trapped in my boring life, trapped in my head. The rare times I let myself think about the future, all I saw was a dark abyss.

My mind flitted to a certain dark-eyed Italian man, and I groaned as I swung my legs off my tiny bed. When Romeo left the bookstore two days ago, he took the magic of that night with him. Those hours with him were already firmly tucked away into the recesses of my mind. Being with him had felt special… had made me feel special. But now, the memory of him made my heart squeeze with pain. It was a reminder of how empty the rest of my life was.

I finished getting ready in the world’s tiniest bathroom and grabbed my jeans from the small chair in the corner of my dingy studio apartment. I put my feet through the pant legs and jumped up and down as I tried to get them over my hips. These were old, like all my clothes, and didn’t really fit anymore. But getting new clothes would require me to either shop online, where everything I bought would inevitably look horrible on me, or go to an actual store.

Not happening.

So I was stuck doing my best with my ill-fitting clothes.

I put on my shoes, grabbed my bag, and headed down the three flights of stairs to the small lobby, taking a deep breath before stepping out of the apartment.

There were ten steps from the door to the entrance of the bagel shop next door. I counted each one. Kim, behind the counter, gave me a distracted wave as she started on my order—plain bagel toasted with strawberry cream cheese. We were around the same age and never talked, but it felt nice to know that someone would at least notice if I disappeared.

Bagel in hand, I stepped back onto the Lower Manhattan street and walked the same route to the bookstore I took six days a week: seven blocks, one right turn, one left turn. Then I was unlocking the front door, my fingers trailing along the faded Olive Branch Bookshop lettering on the glass.

It was already 9:30 a.m., giving me thirty minutes to set everything up and eat breakfast. The last time he’d been in town, I’d asked Arturo, the store owner, if I could push the bookstore’s hours so we opened at ten instead of eight. He’d gently patted my cheeks and said it was really my store now and I could do whatever I wanted. I’d taken that as permission to expand the already large romance book display. Arturo was more into historical books on World War II, but I’d brought in a lot of money with our expanded romance section. I’d always felt that Arturo gave me this job out of pity. Increasing store sales made me feel like I was worthy of his trust, like maybe I wasn’t totally useless.

I pulled a stack of books out of a box I hadn’t had time to unpack last night when I’d gotten caught up on inventory—this time with a pack of ramen instead of pizza. My eyes had definitely not flitted to the door the entire evening, hoping someone would walk through.

I flipped the sign to open and made a few social media posts of the new book displays, including our spotlight on indigenous authors in preparation for Thanksgiving just a week away.

Arturo hadn’t known what social media was when I first started here as an intern. My friends—Breanna, Vivian, Daniela—and I had been part of a program that paid for our associate’s degrees when we aged out of foster care. I’d had no idea what to study, so I’d chosen business like my advisor suggested. The program included an internship, and I’d been assigned to work at the bookstore.

It had changed my life.

Arturo treated me like more than just an employee. He encouraged my ideas for the store, brought me endless tupperware containers of food, and gave me a reason to keep living after everything that happened two years ago.

I missed him now that he was living it up in New Jersey. He deserved an easy retirement after working at the store with his father since he was a kid.

“This cover is super cute,” a college-aged girl said to her friend, picking up a popular book from the romance table.

Her friend gasped. “Oh my god, I read that and it was dirty. You would never know from the cover.”

I grinned as I reorganized some books on the sci-fi shelf. I’d had the same reaction when I’d read it. For the millionth time, I thought about starting a romance book club at the store, and yet again, the idea overwhelmed me with anxiety. The bookstore was my safe place. My anxiety was usually well-controlled here, but the idea of a bunch of people coming for a book club where they’d be staring at me? Expecting me to make it interesting? I was sure to disappoint them.

I circled back around to the checkout counter, but when there wasn’t anyone waiting, I headed to the tiny employee area to make myself an espresso. Even though Arturo hardly ever came into the store anymore, drip coffee was still firmly banned since no self-respecting Italian would deign to have American drip coffee in their establishment. Fancy espresso was lost on me since I filled my cup mostly with milk and sugar anyway, but I’d adapted to drinking it in the mornings.

The day crawled by. I couldn’t even pass the time with a book because my current read featured a mysterious dark-haired man and I found myself stopping every other page to daydream about the other night.

The way we’d laughed together.

Being held in his strong arms.

Feeling safer than I had in years, even though it didn’t make sense.

“Is this included in the ten percent off sale?” A deep voice startled me from yet another fantasy.

A bald man with a gray beard and a large scar on his cheek stood in front of me, holding a book. His sheer size made me do a double-take. He must have been at least six and a half feet tall and was so broad and muscular his arms stuck out slightly from his thick torso. He held up a book titled The Tracks That Never Sleep: New York’s Subway Through Time. That must have been one of Arturo’s picks.

“It is,” I said, smiling. “Would you like to get it?”

He nodded and I rang him up.

“This is a nice store. Has it been here long?” he asked.

I tried to place his slight accent. Maybe some sort of Eastern European?

“The store is coming up on its one-hundredth anniversary,” I said.

“Family business?”

“Yes, it is. The owner’s grandpa started it.”

“Not your family?”

I handed him the book and his receipt. “No, I’ve just worked here for a couple of years.”

He raised his chin and headed out of the store, passing our mail carrier on his way out.

“Hey, Susan,” I called out with a wave. “Do you need any help?”

“Nah, girl, I got it. You’ve only got a couple of packages today.” Susan dropped a few padded envelopes and a rubber band-bound stack of letters onto the desk.noveldrama

“Want an espresso?” I asked.

“You know it.”

I grinned as I made her one and brought it out in a small paper cup. She held it up in a toast and headed back out on her route.

I sifted through the letters. Most of it was junk, but one envelope caught my eye. I bit my lip as I saw the Empire Properties logo on it. I used Arturo’s vintage letter opener, the one that always made me feel like I was in a Jane Austen book, to slice it open.

I shouldn’t have.

Because what awaited me was a letter notifying us of a rent increase. A significant one.

I stood, frozen and stunned as I looked at the numbers.

Effective next month.

Right in time for the holidays. Thanks, landlord. Really appreciate that.

I needed to tell Arturo. My hand hovered over the store phone before I remembered he was about to leave to visit his extended family in Italy. Maybe I should wait to bother him. Maybe I could figure out a way to bring in more revenue to cover the increase.

I rested my head in my hands, allowing myself a few moments of self-pity until a couple of new customers walked in and I had to pull my shit together.

I put the letter back in the envelope. It was a problem for future me.