A/N: So...it's been, like 8 years since I published a story (I think), and that one was for The Vampire Diaries. I guess I have a pattern, though Twilight was my first vamp-love. I don't know how many people are still reading these fics, but I've had this idea in my head for about a week and couldn't let go, so here it is. Obviously I wish I owned these characters—I'd be a millionaire, and phew, could you imagine?—but those rights go to SMeyer. More down below, but for now...


I'm at the back of the shop, halfway up the ladder and chin deep in a stack of thirteen mass market copies of Dune, when the phone rings. I curse Alice's name just as the top copy slides off the precariously high tower, hitting the floor with a hefty thwack. Neither of us likes the book, but I can't even pretend to not know why she overstocks it. The sales don't lie: The fucker is almost as long as the Bible and filled with just as much sand, but people love it.

The phone hits its fifth ring by the time I'm down from the ladder and at the front desk, and I make a mental note to adjust its settings to send it to voicemail after three. Alice disagrees with me, but there's nothing on the planet urgent enough to call a bookstore. I huff, roll my shoulders back, and press the 'talk' button.

"Between the Lines Books, what can I do for you?" I hope they can hear the fake smile in my voice.

"Yes, hello, I was wondering if you had a book in stock?" I repress the eye roll because it's 9 AM, and it's too early for my snark—of course we have a book in stock—even for me.

"Sure thing, what's the title?"

"Oh, you know, I don't actually know. It was on NPR this morning, something about Wal-Mart, I think?" I purse my lips and make a show of tapping on my keyboard, but I know what she's talking about.

"Do you mean Crying in H-Mart? It's one of our bestsellers, and we have a few copies on display up front. Would you like me to set one aside for you?" I sandwich the phone between my ear and shoulder to reach for one of our eight hundred sticky note pads and a pen. I've just clicked the pen when she responds.

"No, dear, that's all right. I'll just pop in sometime this week, or I'll order it online." And there it is. She doesn't know she's said it, but she has: the dreaded A-word. I squint and try to keep my voice level, drumming the pads of my fingers against the tabletop.

"Right, well, is there anything else I can help you with?" Perhaps ID'ing another book for you to just order online and add an extra layer to a billionaire's pockets? I lock that thought away and, when she says no, thank her for calling. I sigh and pinch the space between my eyebrows. The advent of the internet has mostly been a blessing, but it's hard to remember that when I look at our books at the end of the month and see the numbers in hard ink.

"You really have to get that in check, girl. I could feel the disdain and I was in the back." I jump a little at Alice's voice. She's preternaturally quiet and, after six years in business together, has mastered the art of scaring the shit out of me. But I nod, knowing she's right. "And anyway, Mrs. Peterson is over in fiction building her new grandson a library as we speak, so I think we'll make our goal for the day."

I crack a smile. "Thanks, Allie. Are you good to cover up here for a while? I've been shelving for, like, four hours, and while I'm a little afraid to see just how many emails are waiting in my inbox, I owe a few of our reps orders."

"Hey now, don't steal my job!" She mocks offense, and this time I don't stop myself from rolling my eyes.

"I pinky promise that is not going to happen. I'll stick to my little sections and let you handle the rest. You know I just don't trust you to buy for mystery and thriller."

"It's not my fault my parents didn't let me watch CSI: Miami when I was nine like someone's did!"

I snort and turn toward the hallway, throwing a quick "And don't forget about Unsolved Mysteries!" over my shoulder before sliding into the office. It's cramped, with barely the space for the long desk we've squeezed in and split between the two of us. You can tell whose side is whose. On the left there's a sky blue desk chair tucked in neatly, and on the desk's surface is a system that would, quite frankly, put Marie Kondo to shame. On the right, well, there's mine.

Galleys are piled two feet high and arranged just so there's a perfect space for my laptop. A calendar dated two months in the past is tacked to the wall, but I feel a little less remorseful than usual for not changing it over. We're in the thick of buying for fall, and I knew I'd run out of space for the Tuesdays of August and September. I roll out my chair–the one thing I spent good money on because if I'm going to sit on my ass half the day looking at book catalogs, I damn well need back support–and plop down, shifting things around so I can comfortably take the plunge into my inbox.

If I didn't have filters set up, I'd be at another level of drowning, but as it stands, there are fifty-four unread messages. A few are from Paul, one of my favorite sales reps who's seen us through our grand opening and the rocky third year to today, and I don't think twice about adding the titles he suggests to our open PO. There are a handful of e-newsletters from publishers that I file away to read before bed tonight, and, surprisingly, five recommendation requests from customers. These emails make my day. It was when our friends not-so-subtly told us to fuck off with our recommendations that Alice and I decided it was time to open a bookstore, so the satisfaction is much sweeter when strangers walk right into the trap and ask us what they should read next.

It takes me about an hour to clear through those five emails alone, because when someone asks me for a recommendation, they're getting a list of at least ten books: the first three a sure bet, the next four a "give these a shot," and the last three a risky "you just have to trust me when I say these will make you want to stay up past your bedtime to finish." I click over to the main inbox and check my damage; I have about thirty left, which is solid progress.

But then I read the subject line of one of those thirty, and it's as if I hadn't blasted through twenty-ish emails and instead had five hundred to wade through.

Subject: I know you told me you'd make books out of my skin if I ever spoke to you again but…
Preview text: I need your help.

"Alice!" I yell, even though it's against store policy, because I need her ass in here now. She cuts the corner a little too fast and has to grab onto the doorjamb for stability, but she makes it in record time. I don't give her room to speak. "Why the fuck is Edward Cullen emailing me?"


A/N: I don't have any of this prewritten, so if you've reached the end here: first, thanks, and second, please stick around! I'm hoping to update maybe once a week or every two weeks. I can promise a few things up front:

1. This won't be a heavy fic, but I will always, always give content warnings at the top of any chapter that needs them.

2. It's pretty canon but all human.

3. There will be no surprise pregnancies. (I fucking hate that trope.) We're all about enemies to lovers, but not lovers to accidental-parents.

4. Lemonade is one of my favorite drinks, and this story is rated M for a reason. And obviously there's capital-L Language.

I'll catch you soon with chapter 2. :)