Chapter 4
4
Ryan
What in the ever-loving hell was that?
I’m blinking at the spot where Josie stood just seconds ago. I thought she’d be happy to know she wouldn’t lose her job, even if she lost Xander’s stupid competition.
The last thing I meant to imply was that I think she’s beneath me.
Cue my brothers’ voices in my head, suggesting that very thing: Josie, beneath me.
Fat chance of that happening. The fact that her eyes sparkle like emeralds when she’s angry and she smells like a lavender field on a rainy day is irrelevant. I have no doubt that if Josie Klein could summon lightning like Violet Sorrengail, I’d be a pile of ashes on the floor.
If she’d given me a second to explain, maybe she’d realize I’m not the enemy, Xander is. I’m the one person who understands that our jobs mean so much more than a paycheck, that we’d be lost, rudderless, without our bookstores.
It’s true for me, and I bet it’s true for Josie, too. She’s always at the Tab, from open to close seven days a week. Other than that young woman with the bedazzled cane, I never see anyone helping her. Another advantage: her profit margins won’t take the hit of any staff salaries.
I think of my employees and sigh. I can’t protect them from this news much longer. After all, they might be back on the job market come September.
“Don’t take all that with Josie personally,” Eddie says from behind the coffee bar.
My cheeks burn; of course he saw the whole thing. Everyone in here probably got a kick out of seeing that spitfire of a woman dress down the giant, awkward dude.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to brush it off. “That was something.”
“She’s got her reasons for being prickly,” Eddie says. “Try and give her a break.”
“Give her a break?” I repeat. “She’s the one who accosted me.”
“She had to overcome a lot to get here.” Eddie sounds oddly protective, and I don’t get it.
“What do you mean?”
Eddie shakes his head and starts wiping the counter. “Not my story to tell. I only know the bare bones, anyway.” He gives me a long, hard look. “Just…don’t give me any reason to spit in your drink, ’kay?”
“Okay,” I agree, wondering who or what Josie had to overcome.
Stop being such a pussy. My brothers’ voices are back.
But they’re right. Josie Klein may not be my enemy, but she is my competition.
And it’s about damn time I start acting like it.
—
“The last time we had an emergency meeting, you told us Elaine had died,” Cinderella says, her voice pitchy with nerves.
“No one’s dead,” I say, locking the door and switching the sign from Open to Closed . I sent out an all-staff email this afternoon, asking everyone to come by before closing.
Hearing Elaine’s name summons up an image so clear, it’s almost as if my old boss is beside me, people-watching the couples walking by and predicting who’ll be getting lucky and who’ll be left with blue balls.
Elaine was a walking contradiction—she looked like a grandmother but swore like a sailor. She had a take-no-shit attitude that made me believe her when she said everything would be okay. It was true back when I was fifteen and she caught me shoplifting, and it was true the day she told me she was retiring and leaving the store in my “strong, manly hands.”
I still wonder what she saw in me: a lost, lonely teen who claimed to hate the very books he tried to steal. Of course, I didn’t hate them. I hated that I had such a hard time reading them.
Who knew reading out loud to a parrot named Esmerelda who had a thing for romance novels—the smuttier the better—could change all that?
Elaine, apparently.
“But it’s bad news, right?” Cinderella says, settling into the worn leather couch where she spends a good chunk of time reading, on and off the clock.
“It’s news,” I say, taking a seat on the purple wingback chair, commonly referred to as Persephone’s throne. The cat is here now, perched on top, a paw resting on my head as if she’s anointing me. “And I’ll tell you more as soon as we get through the fishbowl.”
I’m met with a collective groan, even from Indira, who confided in me that she secretly loves these icebreakers. Personally, I’m not crazy about them, but I’m not about to mess with Elaine’s traditions.
“Nora, why don’t you do the honors?”
I pass the glass bowl to our senior staff member, who works one shift a week. Nora is seventy-nine and resembles a stylish Mrs. Claus with a snowy white bob. She claims to work for the employee discount, but I think it gives her an excuse to binge-read historical romance.
Nora sets aside her crochet project and reaches into the bowl, pulling out a folded slip of paper.
“Share your anti-kink: something that turns you off in an otherwise good romance novel.” She looks up, her eyes twinkling. “Mine is when they make elderly characters out to be sexless. We might need a little blue pill or some good lube, but we’re not dead yet! Eliza?”
We all turn and look at Eliza, who is going to be a senior—in high school. Her cheeks are flushed, either from the mental image of horny grandparents or from her soccer scrimmage. She came here straight from the field.
“My anti-kink is when YA authors talk down to readers,” Eliza says. “Like we couldn’t possibly understand the complexities of love and sex.”
“But you don’t read YA,” Cinderella says.
“Exactly,” Eliza says before passing the question to Indira.
“This one’s easy.” Indira’s voice is loud and clear as she says, “Arranged marriage.”
We all nod, understanding her complicated feelings toward the Indian tradition that brought her parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents together. Indira hasn’t said so directly, but I have a feeling one of the reasons she dresses in black, from her lipstick down to her combat boots, is to make herself less appealing to all the “aunties” looking to marry her off.
“My anti-kink is stories with men who cheat,” Cinderella says, “even if it’s just a setup to get the heroine into the arms of the hero. There’s enough of that in real life, you know?”
We do. Even the IT guy who comes in every few months is familiar with Cinderella’s tale of woe.
I’m up next, and I consider giving a fluff answer, but decide to be as vulnerable as my staff. Elaine knew what she was doing when she started this tradition; sharing literary preferences can reveal a person’s own story, the scars they’re trying to heal.
“I’ve got two,” I say, pushing my hair out of my face. “First is the whole tall-man fetish—what’s the big deal about a few extra inches?” The women on my staff make eyes at each other. “Don’t answer that.”
“What’s your other one?” Nora asks, looking up from the tiny animal she’s crocheting—it looks like a meerkat.
“This might be controversial,” I warn, “but nothing pulls me out of a story more than an enemies-to-lovers trope.”
Everyone gasps; this is blasphemy.
“It normalizes toxic behavior and romanticizes serious issues that shouldn’t be glossed over,” I say, while the others groan and roll their eyes. “Hear me out: if someone’s really your enemy, you wouldn’t fall in love with them. It’s not plausible.”
“But monster sex is?” Cinderella says.
“Or vampires and werewolves?” Indira adds.
“I can suspend some disbelief. And sure, enemies can have hot hate sex—but if they’re really enemies…” My mind drifts to Josie’s fiery eyes, and I shiver. “Feelings that deep don’t change. Love is love and hate is hate.”
Cinderella harrumphs, and I have a feeling she’s already making a mental list of her favorite enemies-to-lovers books to change my mind.
But as fun as this interlude has been, I called this meeting for a reason.
The mood in the room deflates as I fill my staff in on everything: the competition, the profit goal; how at the end of the day, only one manager will be left standing.
“What does that mean for us?” Cinderella asks, a slight wobble to her voice.
“If Josie wins, I can’t promise what she’ll do. If she’ll keep everyone on, or if she’ll want to hire her own staff.”
Silence settles over my group of misfit booklovers.
“It’s going to be okay,” I say, attempting to channel Elaine’s unwavering optimism. “We’ll find a way to finish on top.”
“That’s what she said,” Nora quips, and the tension is replaced with laughter.
For everyone but Cinderella. “What are we actually going to do?” she asks.
“We’re going to sell as many books as we can,” I say, hoping I sound more confident than I feel. Elaine had a Field of Dreams strategy—if you stock the books, the readers will come. It’s always worked for us.
“But how…” Cinderella prods.
“Let’s brainstorm,” I say. “See what we can come up with together.” It’s got to be better than what my head came up with alone: pretty much nothing.
Persephone slinks down the chair and settles in my lap, nudging my hand with her head. I run my fingers through her soft coat, grateful I decided to keep Elaine’s cats around despite all the shedding.
“My soccer team had a bake sale last month,” Eliza suggests.
If only that wouldn’t compete with Beans. But since nothing kills a brainstorm faster than a Negative Nancy, I give her an encouraging smile.
“I’ll take notes,” Indira says, reaching for the journal she’s always scribbling in. I know her MFA classmates give her flak for working at a romance bookstore. They’d probably respect her more if she worked at Josie’s store—but Josie doesn’t have a staff.
Apparently, she doesn’t need anyone. She can do it all herself.
I’m ashamed of the na-na-boo-boo tone in my head; this competition is already bringing out the worst in me.
“We could host more author events?” Nora suggests.
“So many people bring books they bought online,” Indira says, shaking her head. “It’s like they don’t realize bookstores need to make money to stay in business.”
I nod—we had forty people show up to our last author event but only sold twelve books.
“What if we hosted different kinds of events?” Cinderella says.
“Weddings!” Eliza lights up, but Indira effusively shakes her head.
“One word,” she says. “Bridezillas.”
“How about funerals?” Nora suggests. “The customers can’t complain if they’re unalive.”
Everyone titters except Cinderella, who looks as if she’s actually at a funeral. “Can we please take this seriously? The future of Happy Endings is at stake!”
“We’ve got three months and a lot of good ideas,” I say. “Let’s keep them coming, okay?”
“I’ve seen some cute romance-themed crochet patterns,” Nora says, holding up her half-finished creature. “I could make some for us to sell.”
“What about blind date books?” Indira suggests. “I could write poems using the tropes!”
“Ooh—we could host a safe sex night!” Eliza says. “Sex ed at school is so lame—it would be great to discuss consent and protection. And we could feature books showcasing that.”
“Maybe a panel with sex experts?” Nora says. “Like the author of that Tickle His Pickle book.”
That derails us into a lengthy conversation about what makes someone a sex expert—whether it’s the actual having of sex or the scientific knowledge—until Indira gets us back on track, suggesting, “What about a ‘good vibes’ night, where we give away a vibrator with every book?”
“We’re trying to make money, not give it away,” Cinderella says, wrinkling her brow.
“Maybe we can get a company to donate them,” Nora says. “It would be good advertising for them, and it’s not like people only need one vibrator.”
Everyone agrees.
Over the next hour, we fill Indira’s journal with ideas—several of them good, a few of them great. By the end of the night, I feel almost optimistic. Josie may not have the additional overhead of a staff, but she also doesn’t have a team. A team that feels like family. A family that’s going to do whatever it takes to win.
This battle is on.