King: An Enemies to Lovers Story

1

It was obvious the man pacing back and forth outside my door was desperate. It was also obvious, at least to me, that he was the realtor who'd been pestering me for weeks to sell the store to his client. For one thing, he wore a suit on a hot summer afternoon, complete with jacket and tie. For another, he didn't remove jacket and tie, despite sweat making his high forehead shine and his neck blotchy. Considering I'd ignored all his letters and phone messages, I should have expected this meeting.

Maybe I should just slink back to my car and wait for him to leave. Too late, he turned and saw me.

Miss Prescott? He pulled out a folded handkerchief and patted his damp brow. My name is Peter Fiorenti, from Fiorenti and Clowes.

I wondered if he heard my groan because his toothy smile slipped a little. Or perhaps it was just too hard to keep up the fakery in this heat.

You are Miss Prescott, aren't you? Miss Stephanie Prescott? I recognize you from your picture. He thrust out his hand and renewed his smile with even more force.

My picture? How the hell did he get a photo of me? And why?"

Yeah, it's something we do at Fiorenti and Clowes. It's just business.

Huh? I must have sounded stupid, but I felt stupid right then. I didn't get what he was saying.

He lowered his hand and wiped the palm on his trousers. It makes it easier to do business with people if we know what they look like. You know how it is.

I had no goddamn idea. Then again, I was a librarian, not a businesswoman. I suddenly wished I'd taken at least one business class in college in between literature and history. Maybe it would have been helpful in fending off smarmy realtors.

Look, Mr. Fiorenti, I said, eyeing the door to the store I'd inherited from Grandpa a month ago. If only I could edge past this jerk and get inside, I'd be fine. Let's not waste each other's time. I don't want to sell. I'm not selling. I'm not even considering selling. Now, if you'll excuse—

Come now, Stephanie. May I call you Stephanie?

I narrowed my gaze as he blocked my path to the door. Asshole. He turned on that fake smile again and my insides recoiled.

My client has offered you a very generous sum for the property. He jerked his head at the store window, all shuttered up. Extremely generous, if you ask me. Far above what I advised him to offer.

And as I said in my first response, please thank him for the offer, but I'm not interested.

He sighed and shook his head as if he couldn't believe I was turning down all that money. Very well. He's advised me to add another fifty percent, despite my—

No, thank you. Now, if you don't mind, I only have a short amount of time before I have to get back to work.

He licked dry, cracked lips. Come now, Stephanie, we both know it's your afternoon off.

I stepped back, smacking into the light pole. I gaped at him and wished I had a weapon larger than my set of keys. Wh…what?

He chuckled and held up his hands in surrender. My client does his research very thoroughly. That's why he's so successful. That, and he's as ruthless as they come.

I don't care how ruthless he is. I side-stepped around him, keeping him in my line of sight, but he saw what I was trying to do, and blocked the doorway. I am not selling, I told him through my clenched jaw. Now, please get out of my way.

He sighed again and muttered something under his breath that I couldn't quite hear. Name your price.

I don't have a price. I'm not selling.

Come now, Stephanie, you work in a library. I know your salary isn't much—

Your client find that out too? I snapped.

He chuckled. "Everyone knows librarians don't earn much. The money my client is offering for this quaint little store and the apartment above is more than generous."

His lips curled ever so slightly into a sneer as he said 'quaint'. I suspected that was because my store, along with the other four in the small block in the oldest part of Roxburg, was anything but. Once, when I was a kid and used to come to my grandfather's bookstore after school, it could have been called quaint, or cute, or charming. But retail had suffered in the last twenty years, especially old style shopping strips. Mega-malls and online retail giants had all but killed off Old Town Books, the store I'd inherited from Grandpa, as well as the other stores on either side of it. The red door had faded to a rusty orange, and it was difficult to read the sign painted above it. The frayed edges of the awnings outside Mrs. Mopp's Teashop flapped in the breeze, driving away birds and customers with the noise, and Mr. Jones couldn't afford to repair the front window of his giftware store after vandals broke it the week before. The next day, he'd sold it anyway. It was after talking to him about it that I learned all four of the other buildings in the terraced block had been sold off. I was the only one who'd knocked back the offer. It turned out, all of them had sold to a man known as Matthew King, and all for generous amounts. Amounts that no one had been able to refuse, despite their wish to stay. With business dying a slow and tortuous death, none felt they could turn down Matthew King's offer.

Except me.

And I was getting damned tired of fending off his property manager's letters and phone calls, and now his visits. I just wanted to go inside, have a cup of coffee, and sit down with my feet up and read a book. Unfortunately Mr. Fiorenti was in my way.

I squared up to him and turned on my own fake smile. Thinking he'd got me all buttered up nicely, Peter Fiorenti beamed back. Peter—may I call you Peter?—will you do something for me, please?

Of course, Stephanie. Anything you want. He laid his hand on his chest, over his heart. Cad. I am at your disposal.

Thank you. You're being very sweet.

His face reddened, but I wasn't sure if he was blushing or the heat was getting too much. He broke the smile to lick his lips before turning it on again.

"Peter, please tell Mr. King that he can take his offer and shove it where the sun doesn't shine. Now, I'd like to get to my door. Move!"

All the folds and flesh on his face sagged like a deflated balloon. He licked his lips again. I…I'm afraid I can't do that.

You can or I will scream.

I mean I can't tell Mr. King what you said. He'll fire me and hire another agent.

I don't care. I edged closer to my door, but he moved too so I couldn't reach the lock.

I like you, Stephanie. He smiled again, but it wasn't smarmy or fake. It was nervous. The man was worried about losing his commission. You've got pluck.

I've also got pepper spray in my bag and I'm going to use it if you didn't leave me alone. I reached for my shoulder bag and he held up his hands.

He stepped away from the door and I stuck the key in the lock, careful not to turn my back on him.

You have to sell. His panicky whine came out high-pitched.

No, I don't.

You're going to keep this place forever? He snorted. You don't even open it to customers. It doesn't make you any money and it never will. I bet all those books are going moldy in there, just gathering dust.

Sometimes it wasn't about the money. But I didn't tell him that. People like Fiorenti, and King too, didn't get it. I pushed open the door and slipped through the gap. Tell your client he's a coward for sending someone else to do his dirty work. And tell him he's not the only one who researches his business adversaries. I do too. Thoroughly. And I don't like him.

I shut the door, grateful that all the blinds were down and I couldn't see Fiorenti and he couldn't see me. After a moment's silence, his footsteps receded. He was gone, thank God.

I flicked on the lights and air conditioner, dumped my bag on the counter and headed for the kitchen out back. As I waited for the coffee machine to warm up, I wondered why I'd said that parting shot to Fiorenti. I didn't research anyone. Mrs. Mopp had been the first to tell me that the name Matthew King had been on her contract of sale, and the others had confirmed that they'd also sold to King. All of us owned our buildings out-right. Or used to. Now I was the only one left.

I made a coffee and padded back into the main part of the store. The smell of the books soothed me a little. Earthy, that's what I called the scent. People like Fiorenti, with no soul or imagination, called it moldy and dusty, but it was more than that. It was magical. It's how the store had always smelled, even when I was a kid, and it suited the place.

A mix of old books and new crowded the shelves, from the front bay windows way down to the back where narrow aisles meant two browsers had to squeeze past one another with apologies. Books were crammed into the shelves, some even lying horizontally on top of others. There were books stacked in the corners on the floor, sitting on tables in piles that threatened to topple at the slightest bump, and occupying chairs, which annoyed my cat, Harry.

He chose that moment to enter from the back. He must have come down the stairs from my apartment where he liked to sleep on