AN- welcome to my new story, Unlikely! It's exciting to be writing a new story, but be warned, I have no idea where this is going. Read and Review yeah?

STEPHANIE

I walk into the small and dusty book shop. It's early in the morning, and the old woman who owns it, Amelia Burns, is hobbling to the small sofa seat next to a pile of books. She smiles at me.
'Good morning, Stephanie.'
'Morning Amelia.'
She notices the book in my hand. 'Have you finished it already?' she asks, bewildered. 'You got it yesterday!'
'Not yet,' I say. 'I just have a question about the main character.'
'Shouldn't you know that you have to wait until the end of the book before asking questions?'
'But this one character is really bugging me,' I explain, pushing my chocolate brown hair out of my eyes and tucking it behind my ear.
Amelia nods for me to go ahead with my question.
'Well, she is so blinded by love and can't see that he is a bad person. Why can't she see that? Even when he hits her and he takes her money and he kills people for fun. She still loves him. Why?'
'Hunny, you answered your own question.' She steps on her toes and kisses my cheek in a grandmotherly fashion. 'Now go to work.'
I check my watch, frustrated that I didn't get an answer. I wave goodbye, pick up my book and walk the short distance to work.

It's a small cafe, decorated light green walls. It's called 'The Olive Garden'. Its so cliché that I just smile when Olive Saunders, the owner and my boss, says that it's an original name. I have read that name in at least half the books I have read. I've worked at 'The Olive Garden for 5 years this December. Still, I only have a handful of friends from work and I politely decline when it comes to party invites. It's not my scene. My scene is usually with Amelia in her bookshop, or drinking tea in the park nearby with a book in my hand.

I hang my bag up and change into my work uniform; a white blouse and a pale green skirt. I fasten my name badge to my breast pocket. Sighing, I shut my locker. The day passes slowly, and after 4 hours, I am allowed my break. I grab my bag from my locker and walk back to Amelia's bookshop. I sit on the sofa and begin reading my book.

A little while later, Amelia walks out of the backroom, holding a tray of sandwiches. I laugh and take one. We eat in silence. This is a normal routine. We see each other in the morning, I work, I come by her bookshop and we eat until Amelia asks my how work was, then I answer and go back to work.
'How was work?' she asks me, like always.
'It was slow.'
'Do you like working there?'
I think about my answer. I'm not a liar, but I don't like to be lectured.
'It's not too bad,' I answer.
'Why don't you work here instead?' she asks, a smile creeping on her lips.
'What?' I ask. She is surely joking, right?
'Well,' she reasons. 'I am getting old, and frankly this place could use some revamping.' We look around the shop. It's true. It smells mouldy and old, and there is some cracks throughout the ceiling. The windows are fogged and have cracks. It's no wonder that I never see customers come in here- it looks like an abandoned building.
'I can't,' I say.
'Sure you can. We fix this up, give it a new name, and we become work partners.'
'But it will cost too much,' I say, desperately trying to get Amelia to change her mind. But she is a stubborn old woman, and nothing can sway her.
'I have connections,' she says. 'And you don't have to quit your job yet, I need you to keep the money rolling in. But when the bookshop is finished being renovated, I want us to be partners.' She smiles.
I think about what she has said, and then a few questions pop into my mind.
'I agree-'she smiles a toothy smile'- if you answer my questions.'
'What are they?'
'Firstly, what is the name of your bookshop?' Amelia laughs.
'Amelia's Bookshop. The sign fell down about 15 years ago and I never got it replaced. You haven't known what it has been for all these years?'
'Nope,' I say, laughing with her.
'Next question.'
'Okay. What do you mean by, 'I have connections'?'
'I know people who can restore this building, basically for free.'
'Who?'
'My grandson.'