Chapter 2 - THE BOOKSTORE HE BURIED“Did?”
Hannah repeated the word softly.
Nathan’s fingers tightened around the porcelain coffee cup.
For several seconds, he looked toward the enormous windows overlooking the Chicago River rather than at her.
“I owned a bookstore once.”
Hannah blinked.
Of all the answers she had expected from Nathan Mercer, billionaire developer, investor, and regular feature in financial magazines, that wasn’t one of them.
“You?”
He looked back at her.
“Yes, me.”
“I’m trying to picture it.”
“Should I be offended?”
“A little.”
The corner of his mouth moved.
“It was called Mercer Books. Twenty-four hundred square feet in Lincoln Park. Used paperbacks in the front, new releases in the middle, children’s section upstairs.”
Hannah slowly leaned forward.
“You loved it.”
It wasn’t a question.
Nathan’s expression changed.
Only slightly.
But she noticed.
“I did.”
“What happened?”
“I became successful.”
Hannah frowned.
“That sounds like the opposite of an explanation.”
“It’s exactly the explanation.”
The pastry tray arrived before she could press him.
Eighteen miniature pastries appeared between them.
Hannah stared.
Nathan waited.
Finally, she picked up the smallest croissant.
“Compromise.”
“Victory,” he corrected.
She rolled her eyes.
Nathan discovered he liked when she did that.
He also discovered something considerably more dangerous.
He wanted her to ask about the bookstore again.
Most women he met wanted to know about Mercer Development, his penthouse, his private investment fund, or the rumors surrounding his divorce.
Hannah wanted to know why he no longer loved books.
He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had cared about the difference.
“My landlord sold the building,” Nathan said.
Hannah looked up.
“I couldn’t afford the new lease. I had customers, but bookstores run on thin margins. I was twenty-eight and stubborn enough to think passion should protect you from math.”
“What did you do?”
“I closed.”
“That simple?”
“No.”
His thumb traced the edge of his cup.
“I spent three months trying to save it. I borrowed money. Negotiated. Sold my car. Slept in the office twice.”
Hannah’s expression softened.
“And it still closed?”
“Yes.”
“What happened after that?”
Nathan laughed without humor.
“I got angry.”
“At who?”
“Everyone.”
He hesitated.
“Mostly myself.”
The answer felt too personal.
He nearly changed the subject.
Instead, he continued.
“I started helping small retailers renegotiate leases. Then I realized most landlords were terrible operators. I convinced two investors to buy a distressed building with me. We renovated it, raised occupancy, sold it.”
“And that became Mercer Development?”
“Eventually.”
Hannah considered him.
“So you built a billion-dollar company because someone closed your bookstore.”
“That is an offensively simplified version of my career.”
“Is it inaccurate?”
Nathan opened his mouth.
Closed it.
“No.”
She smiled.
It was the first time Nathan had spoken about Mercer Books in years without feeling embarrassed by the younger man he had once been.
That man had believed community mattered.
That a room full of stories could change people.
That success meant paying the electricity bill and having enough left to order another box of hardcovers.
Nathan had buried him somewhere beneath acquisitions, lawsuits, board meetings, magazine covers, divorces, and expensive dinners where everyone wanted something.
Hannah took another bite.
“What happened to the books?”
“Storage.”
“All of them?”
“Most.”
“You have thousands of books sitting in storage?”
“Probably.”
Her eyes widened.
“Nathan.”
He immediately recognized the tone.
“No.”
“I haven’t asked anything.”
“You’re about to.”
“You don’t even know what I’m thinking.”
“You’re thinking about your nonprofit.”
Her mouth opened.
Nathan leaned back smugly.
Hannah pointed the croissant at him.
“That was creepy.”
“It was obvious.”
“Fine. Bridge House needs books.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because this is a date.”
“And?”
“And I don’t conduct charity negotiations on dates.”
“I wasn’t negotiating.”
“You were absolutely negotiating.”
“I was thinking.”
“Loudly.”
She laughed.
Nathan did too.
Then his phone vibrated.
The name on the screen erased his smile.
VANESSA MERCER.
His ex-wife.
Hannah noticed.
“You can answer.”
“I’d rather not.”
The phone stopped.
Then vibrated again.
Nathan declined the call.
Hannah didn’t ask.
That surprised him too.
Most people couldn’t resist curiosity around Vanessa.
Their divorce had been ugly enough to generate weeks of gossip.
Allegations.
Counter-allegations.
Photographers outside restaurants.
Friends choosing sides.
Nathan had learned never to assume silence meant kindness.
But Hannah simply drank her coffee.
“Why didn’t you ask?” he finally said.
“About your phone?”
“Yes.”
“Because it’s your business.”
“That hasn’t stopped anyone else.”
“I’m not anyone else.”
The words landed harder than she intended.
Nathan became very still.
Hannah suddenly felt self-conscious.
She looked toward the windows.
Outside, late-winter sunlight reflected silver against the river.
“I should probably go soon,” she said.
His chest tightened unexpectedly.
“Another date?”
She looked horrified.
“I have adult literacy class at six.”
Nathan relaxed.
Then realized he had relaxed.
That annoyed him.
He signaled for the check.
Hannah immediately reached for her tote.
“What are you doing?”
“Paying for my coffee.”
“You told me twenty minutes ago you couldn’t afford this café.”
“That doesn’t mean you owe me dinner.”
“It was coffee.”
“And eighteen pastries.”
“You ate two.”
“Two and a half.”
Nathan stared.
She pulled three wrinkled dollar bills from a tiny wallet.
He felt something uncomfortable twist inside him.
Not pity.
He knew enough about pride to recognize when pity would be insulting.
So he said, “I invited you.”
“Your sister invited me.”
“Then Rachel owes me.”
Hannah smiled.
She put the money away.
“Fine. But next time I pick the place.”
Next time.
Nathan heard nothing after those two words.
He forced himself to remain casual.
“There’s a next time?”
Hannah stood and slung the old tote over her shoulder.
“That depends.”
“On?”
“Whether you can survive coffee that costs less than forty-eight dollars.”
Nathan stood too.
“I’m adaptable.”
“You ordered eighteen pastries.”
“For survival.”
She laughed again.
They walked toward the entrance.
Several customers glanced at them.
Hannah noticed.
Nathan noticed her noticing.
He was accustomed to attention.
She wasn’t.
Near the revolving door, a woman in a white Chanel coat looked Hannah up and down with open amusement.
Then she whispered something to her companion.
Hannah’s shoulders stiffened.
Nathan stopped.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He turned.
The woman immediately looked away.
Hannah touched his sleeve.
“Don’t.”
Nathan looked at her hand.
Then at her.
“Don’t what?”
“Turn someone being rude into a war.”
His jaw tightened.
“You heard her.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And I’m still alive.”
Nathan stared at her.
“You don’t need to fight every battle because you can.”
The sentence hit somewhere deep.
He had built his entire adult life around the opposite philosophy.
Win every negotiation.
Punish every betrayal.
Remember every insult.
Never be the powerless bookstore owner again.
Hannah stepped outside.
Cold Chicago wind whipped her ponytail across her face.
Nathan followed.
“Let me drive you.”
“I’ll take the bus.”
“Hannah.”
“Nathan.”
“It’s twenty-six degrees.”
“I own a coat.”
“Barely.”
She looked down at her thin secondhand jacket.
“That was unnecessarily judgmental.”
“It was objectively accurate.”
She smiled.
“No limousine.”
“I don’t have a limousine.”
“Of course you don’t.”
“I have a car.”
“With a driver?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a limousine with self-esteem.”
He laughed.
Eventually, she agreed.
Twenty minutes later, Nathan’s black sedan stopped outside Bridge House.
Nathan expected a modest nonprofit.
What he saw unsettled him.
The building was a converted brick storefront wedged between a laundromat and a boarded pharmacy.
Paint peeled around the windows.
A hand-painted sign hung above the entrance.
Inside, children sat at folding tables beneath flickering fluorescent lights.
Hannah opened the door.
Then paused.
“You can come in.”
Nathan almost declined.
He had a conference call in thirty minutes.
Three emails marked urgent.
A legal team waiting for approval on a seventy-million-dollar acquisition.
Instead, he stepped out.
The moment Hannah entered Bridge House, two children ran toward her.
“Miss Cole!”
A little boy wrapped his arms around her waist.
Another held up a paperback missing its cover.
“I finished it!”
Hannah crouched.
“You finished the whole thing?”
He nodded proudly.
Nathan stood near the door.
Watching.
No one recognized him.
No one cared about his watch.
His suit.
His net worth.
A girl with braids glanced up.
“Are you Hannah’s boyfriend?”
Nathan nearly choked.
Hannah turned red.
“No.”
The girl studied Nathan.
“Do you want to be?”
“Hannah!”
another child shouted.
“You said grown-ups should answer questions!”
Nathan smiled.
Hannah covered her face.
And for the first time in years, Nathan Mercer walked into a room where his money meant absolutely nothing.
He loved it.
Then he saw the bookshelf.
Three shelves.
Half empty.
Old textbooks.
Damaged paperbacks.
Children’s books held together with tape.
Nathan’s smile disappeared.
That evening, after Hannah’s class ended, she found a note slipped beneath Bridge House’s front door.
No envelope.
No signature.
Only six typed words.
STOP ASKING QUESTIONS ABOUT THE BUILDING.
Hannah read it twice.
Her hands went cold.
Because she hadn’t told Nathan something.
May you like
Bridge House was being evicted.
And the company buying their building was owned by Nathan Mercer.
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