Read The Bookshop on the Corner (A Gingerbread Cafe story) for Free Online Page A

every minute detail about reporter Ridge, while I sipped my gingerbread coffee and wondered if Ridge was just a handsome face. Or if there was more to him than that.
    ***
    After plying me full of pecan truffles, which made me slump into a sugar coma, the girls convinced me that the dinner party on Friday night would be fun, and that it wasn’t intended as a set-up for Ridge and me. It was a blatant lie but I agreed because Lil wouldn’t hand over the rest of the chocolates until I said yes. I threatened her with all manner of things before she capitulated with the truffles.

Chapter Five
    Damn! I was late. Dashing to my car, I cursed and muttered to myself. For some inexplicable reason, I couldn’t sleep last night. Instead I’d stayed up far too late reading under the dim glow of the bedside lamp, often getting to the end of a page and having to start over because I hadn’t taken a word in.
    It was that blasted reporter.
    The hero in the book I’d been reading reminded me of him, so instead of focusing on the words in front of me I’d become lost inside my mind, etching out my own visions with hero Ridge as the misunderstood big-town reporter set on stealing my heart — I mean the heroine’s heart.
    Did most people put themselves in the place of their heroines? Picturing themselves going through the trials and tribulations of the character? To me it seemed a completely normal habit, but maybe I was bonkers. No time to contemplate; I made a mental note to blog about it as I jammed the key in the ignition of my hatchback and set off for work.
    I parked out front, and rushed to the bookshop. “Sorry,” I hollered out to a courier waiting on my stoop.
    The man looked at the small box he held and then asked, “Are you Sarah Smith?”
    “Yes,” I replied, pushing a tendril of hair from my face.
    “Delivery for you.” He motioned to an electronic gizmo for me to sign before giving me the small box.
    I thanked him and rushed inside to open it.
    There was no return address, I noticed as I delicately picked off the tape. The only packages I ever received were big boxes of books, nothing as small as this.
    Opening the box slowly as though it might detonate, I stifled a giggle when the embossed title of the book stared out at me.
    New Yorkers: How to live the dream.
    I flipped open the cover and a small note fell out.
    Dear Sarah, AKA Covert CIA operative
.
    I’m beginning to think you might be right about New Yorkers. But don’t tell anyone I said that. I have a reputation to uphold as a swaggering, jocular, cocky scribe who’s making his way, by whatever means possible, up the corporate ladder in this dog-eat-dog town. Or am I? It was great to chat to you yesterday, would still love to interview you if you change your mind
.
    Ridge
.
    Oh, he was good. That was exactly what I would expect from a reporter. I scrunched the note and aimed for the bin; it hit the metal edge and bounced to the carpet.
    I couldn’t comprehend why he’d want to include my bookshop in an article. And all jokes about matchmaking aside, I didn’t think he’d go to all that trouble just to get a date with me. I could see the angle for Walt’s beautiful hand-crafted furniture, yes, and the glorious food at the Gingerbread Café, definitely. And I guessed my blog had proven to be popular, but for some reason I wanted to protect it, and keep it for those who stumbled upon it organically, joining because they truly loved books, and not because some showy reporter wrote about it.
    First up, I needed a strong coffee to get my addled brain to switch into gear after such a late night. I went through the back to the small kitchenette and filled up the coffee plunger. I tried hard not to think about all the sweet treats across the road. Instead, I opted for an apple, and took my cup back to the front of the shop.
    I’d just settled down to read when Missy strutted in, wearing a leopard-print miniskirt and matching high heels. Her fashion sense was