Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 28810 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 144(@200wpm)___ 115(@250wpm)___ 96(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 28810 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 144(@200wpm)___ 115(@250wpm)___ 96(@300wpm)
A guy so arrogant and cocky that he actually believes he's God's gift to women?
Hell yes?
Well, in that case, I'm willing to bet his name is Adrian Sinclair. (His middle name is Sebastian, so his initials are fittingly “A.S.S.”)
This man is the billionaire CEO of a company that every romance reader loves—Sinclair Street Books—the massive bookseller chain that keeps them addicted with new releases, special signed editions, and exclusive author book tours.
And me?
I'm the owner of the indie romance bookshop across the street that he's months away from crushing once his newest location opens.
Of course, I had no idea who he really was when we first met, but that's a chapter for another day…
Alas, I may have to work a part-time night shift in his paperback warehouse to keep my lights on.
And with every passing day, I'm learning that there's no such thing as “friendly” competition in the book business, and Adrian Sinclair is the most vicious rival I've ever had
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
THE CEO
ADRIAN
Barnes & Noble Booksellers was officially two years away from regretting the day it didn’t accept my buyout offer for all seven hundred of its bookstores.
Just like Waterstones in the United Kingdom and every other brick-and-mortar book chain that dared to compete with me, their downfall was inevitable.
Their only advantage was that they hadn’t realized it yet.
Sinclair Street Books, the company I’d been building since I was twenty years old, was bound to become the biggest bookselling empire in the country. Whether everyone else liked it or not.
I pulled into my designated space at our Manhattan location an hour before the doors opened, taking a moment to admire the ten-story building that carried my name.
As always, a small line of loyal readers had already formed outside the entrance, some clutching coffee cups, others reading books beneath the glow of our storefront.
They were the reason I came in early.
Swiping my key against the security pad, I opened the doors and motioned for them to step inside ahead of me.
They deserved it.
I took the glass elevator to the top floor, watching the store come to life beneath me as the staff straightened displays and double-checked the walls of new releases across all ten levels.
The moment the doors opened, I switched on the main lights and waited for my favorite part of every morning.
“Welcome to Sinclair Street” illuminated the ceiling in brilliant green, casting its glittering reflection across the glass storefront.
“Good morning, Mr. Sinclair!” Mariah, my personal assistant, waltzed into my office with a tray. “Today is the perfect day to pen a new chapter in your life!”
“Can you please stop speaking in motivational quotes?” I asked. “You’ve been at it for three months.”
“I will, once you agree to start living a life outside of your job,” she said. “It’s not normal, and it’s why you don’t have any friends.”
“I don’t need any friends,” I said. “They get in the way of success.”
“Success is nothing without anyone to share it with.” She placed her hand over her heart. “A man who only possesses money is poorer than a man who has a family.”
Jesus Christ. “Mariah…”
“Don’t be so busy making a living that you forget to make a life.” She stretched out her arms like she was about to start an interpretative dance.
I blinked.
“Are you done now?”
“That depends.” She tapped her chin. “Can I have this Friday off?”
“For what?”
“My boyfriend and I want to—”
“No.” I didn’t need to hear the rest. “Save it for Saturday or Sunday.”
“Brace for more quotes at lunch, then.” She walked over to my tray and adjusted a few things.
“I added extra cream to your coffee, highlighted the notable books on this week’s bestseller lists, and printed out an advance copy of a column that’s going to make you seethe.”
“Which paper and journalist?”
“Sandra Ross at The New Yorker,” she said. “Want me to spoil her words for you?”
“Yes, please.” I crumpled it and tossed it into the bin across the room.
“You’re a spoiled little rich boy who wants to own every bookstore in the country,” she said. “You’re the only person in this world who could make her vote ‘no’ to throwing Jeff Bezos in the wood chipper if it meant you would take his place.”
“I’m actually flattered by that.” I smiled. “Reprint it in poster size and have it framed for my office.”
“Will do,” she said. “You want it here at this office or at your upcoming Brooklyn location?”
“The Brooklyn one.”
“Consider it done.” She walked away, and before I could take a sip of my coffee in peace, a group of interns rushed into the room and placed stacks of books onto my side table.
I waited for them to leave and brought the cup to my lips, but then my literary director stepped into my doorway.