Chapter 17
17
Josie
None of this is going as planned.
I had it all mapped out in my mind: we’d make polite conversation in the car, head to the anniversary party—where I’d hang out in the background and maybe share an obligatory dance with Ryan while keeping a sizable distance between us—then call it a night and go to bed early.
I never planned on his entire family being so excited to meet “Ryan’s new girlfriend” that I wouldn’t have the heart to explain that we’re not even friends. I never planned on them being so welcoming I forgot to be nervous, or dancing with his sisters-in-law and nieces and laughing myself silly.
And I certainly never planned on Ryan Lawson in a suit.
All night, I’ve been staring at him. His shoulders, how they seem even broader; the strain of his shirt buttons across his chest when he moves; the crisp white collar and the tie knotted just below his Adam’s apple.
I meant to come here and tilt him off his axis, not the other way around.
I also never imagined this: walking down to the beach with him, holding my shoes in one hand while he carries a bottle of champagne and two plastic cups he swiped from the bar. The salty air nips at my bare arms; the sand is cool on my feet as we sit on a patch of dry sand.
Off in the distance, a few fireworks explode. I’m right at the earliest stages of tipsy—warm and relaxed, soft around the edges. The ocean breeze washes over me, crisp and a little smoky.
“Your family is great,” I say. The kind of family I grew up envying: stable, successful parents; a whole mess of siblings.
“They are,” he says fondly. “They’re also a lot.”
“It must have been fun growing up with all those brothers.”
Though I found them a little intimidating, exuding success and masculinity in their tailored suits. Ryan left his tie and jacket at the party, and now he’s unbuttoned his top button and rolled up his shirtsleeves. His hair, which was neatly combed at the start of the night, has reverted to its usual floppy state, and it makes him look more like himself. All evening, it’s been difficult to remember that this handsome, imposing man is the same guy who wears tortoiseshell glasses and cardigans and a lanyard covered in ridiculous pins. The same guy I’ve been competing against for weeks.
Real life seems far away, here on a beach in the moonlight with the waves whispering against the sand.
“Fun is one way to put it,” he says. “Being the youngest meant I was always the butt of the jokes. And now, being the only one still single…” He grimaces. “Champagne?”
“Please,” I say. He fills a plastic cup halfway, then hands it to me before filling his own. “So I hate to bring up a sore subject, but…why are you single?”
Ryan chokes on his champagne. “Not you, too!”
“Sorry!” I say, laughing. “But it doesn’t make sense. You’re tall, you have a job, you have adequate personal hygiene—”
“Thanks?”
“—so maybe you don’t want to be tied down? Is that it?”
“Oh, I’d love to be tied down.”
I press my lips together, fighting an unexpected vision of Ryan, his giant body sprawled in bed with silk ties on his wrists. “Kinky,” I murmur.
“Not like that.” Even in the darkness, I can tell he’s blushing. “I mean, I wouldn’t be opposed to it, in the right scenario…” He shakes his head and sighs. “Okay, starting over. It’s more that—well, you saw my parents together.”
“They’re cute.” Smiling at each other with hearts in their eyes, even after fifty years.
“I guess I’m looking for what they have.” He sounds wistful.
I take another sip of champagne, the bubbles tickling my throat. “What was it like, growing up with parents who adore each other?”
“Wonderful,” he says immediately. “It’s an incredible gift to give your children, a solid and healthy marriage between their parents.”
“But…?”
“But it’s a lot to live up to.” He looks out at the horizon, the moon hanging low over the water. “They’re meant for each other. I grew up assuming I’d find that, too, that it would land in my lap and I would know, like my Dad did.”
“And it hasn’t?”
“No,” he says flatly. “And I’d rather be single than put myself in that position again.”
He doesn’t elaborate, but the weight in his words says enough. I can’t help wondering who broke his heart.
“Come on,” I say, “there have to be throngs of women who’d love to date a guy who reads romance.”
“And why would they want that?” He narrows his eyes suspiciously.
“Because they assume he knows what women like.” My voice falters. “In the bedroom.”
He’s blushing again. It makes me want to keep going down this road. Or maybe it’s the champagne; I’m more relaxed than I’ve been in ages.
“So you’ve never hooked up with a customer?” I say. “Never ever?”
“Not never ever ,” he says, and I swear, his blush deepens. “There’s this whole thing in romance about big men and tiny women, right? Lots of women love that trope, and I get it—the pressure women feel to be small, the idea that smallness equals femininity, that kind of thing.”
I nod, remembering how it felt when he cut in on the dance floor and rescued me. The instant relief of his large frame close to mine—and a jolt of attraction, too.
But like he said, that’s probably because of his size. It’s primal, something I can’t control.
“So you’re saying it’s tough being the physical ideal of masculinity,” I say with a wry smile.
“No, that’s not—” He exhales and runs a hand through his hair. “It’s more—Well, romance novels are about the escape, the fantasy. If someone wants to fantasize about being railed by an eight-foot-tall blue alien, more power to them. I just don’t need to be used as the stand-in.”
He smiles, but it looks forced, like he’s trying to play this off as a minor irritation when it’s much deeper.
“That’s happened to you?” I ask.
“Yes.” He’s avoiding my gaze, drumming his fingers on his knee as he takes a sip of champagne. Long, thick fingers; big hands. “And I’m a man, so maybe they think I’d be thrilled, but honestly? It doesn’t feel great to realize that someone sought you out for that purpose, then dropped you.” He glances at me. “You think I’m overreacting.”
“Absolutely not,” I say. “No one deserves to be fetishized.”
He nods, holding my gaze. There’s a world of hurt behind those eyes. “I’m all for healthy sexuality, and romance novels allow people to explore their kinks in a safe way. That’s great, but…”
“But it’s not great to use someone else to explore those kinks without their full consent.”
“Exactly.” He leans forward, elbows on knees, which makes his dress shirt strain against his shoulders and broad back.
“But you still love romance,” I say. “Despite all that.”
“Because it’s not just about the sex, it’s about the connection. Elaine, the woman who started the store, she used to say that the fantasy is less about the woman getting seven orgasms and more about the man wanting to give them to her. Caring about her experience. Apparently, this is so rare that women had to invent an entire genre to get that.”
I can’t help it; I blush. “Okay…”
He leans back and glances at me, his eyes twinkling like he’s enjoying my reaction. “Anyway. The reason I love romance, and why I’m so passionate about promoting diversity in the genre, is because I love helping people find love stories they can see themselves in.” He tilts his head in my direction. “So why do you like literary fiction? To me, it’s always seemed like homework or something.”
“You’re right, it’s not easy to read,” I say, and consider how to explain it. “It’s like…like mining for diamonds, and sometimes you’re stuck in the dark, chiseling through rock—but when you uncover those jewels…” I sigh happily. “It’s so worth it, more so than if they were right out in the open.”
I glance over at Ryan, hoping he didn’t take that as me insulting his favorite genre. But he nods and says, “Interesting. For me, reading is for relaxation. Escape.”
“It’s an escape for me, too. Disappearing into a story, feeling the emotions of the characters, experiencing a different life—”
“So how do you handle it when the story ends badly?”
“Badly?” I repeat. “You mean, a tragic ending? Because those aren’t bad if they’re right for the story. When I was a kid, I loved books that made me cry— Charlotte’s Web , Where the Red Fern Grows , Bridge to Terabithia —”
“I hated those books,” he says, shaking his head. “Isn’t life hard enough?”
“But reading is different—you always know you can close the book if you need to. Whereas if you’re going through an actual tragedy…”
“You can’t close the book,” he says, nodding.
“Exactly.” I smile over at him. How is this the same guy I called a basic run-of-the-mill asshole? This guy is articulate, thoughtful, and interesting.
“Now back to the prior topic,” he says, and I refocus. “Have you ever hooked up with a customer?” When I wince, he grins, his eyes glinting in the moonlight. “You have!”
“I only made that mistake once.”
“Details,” he prompts. “I told you about the blue alien thing.”
I laugh, then take a long sip of champagne, draining the cup.
“Let’s just say that MFA candidates who idolize Vonnegut and write about the existential pain of being a white man in America are—shocker!—not great boyfriends.”
“I can imagine,” he says, smiling.
“You can’t. Not unless you’ve been stopped in the middle of sex so he can grab his Moleskine and jot down a phrase he wants to use in his latest work in progress.”
Ryan laughs—that big, booming laugh I always hear echoing from his store. It’s like a warm hug, and I’m not sure why I ever found it irritating.
“I think he hoped dating a bookseller would be helpful once he sold his Great American Novel,” I say. “But he figured out pretty fast that publishing moves at a snail’s pace, so it would entail years of investment on his part—which he wasn’t interested in. Not that I was, either.”
Like Georgia pointed out, I don’t tend to get emotionally invested in anyone I date. What’s the point, when it’s going to end anyway?
“Let me guess, he never sold his novel?” Ryan says with a grin.
“Oh, he did. To an obscure small press.”
I stretch out my legs, digging my toes into the cool sand. “I mean, it sold better than I expected. I looked it up on BookScan once—sixty-three copies in the first year.”
He bursts out laughing, and so do I, falling against him so our shoulders touch. I’m oddly disappointed when he straightens up, putting space between us. It’s got to be the champagne. Or the fact that the night is turning chilly. He’s warm; I’m cold.
“Anyway,” I say, “I’m sure that only fueled his delusions of being a misunderstood starving artist living in his two-bedroom apartment in Beacon Hill.”
“Because his parents pay his rent, of course,” Ryan says, nodding.
“He deserves it! He’s doing art!” I lift my cup. “I’m just glad he’s not doing me.”
“Cheers to that.” Ryan clinks his cup against mine, and we both take a sip. My eyes zero in on his throat, watching his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.
“You’re a mystery, Josie Klein,” he says, turning to face me.
I refocus on his eyes. “How so?”
“Sitting on the sand, barefoot, drinking champagne out of a Solo cup, swapping stories about shitty relationships. But at the bookstore, you’re this self-contained, buttoned-up woman—”
“Oh, so I’m uptight.” I’ve heard these words before: Rigid. Ambitious. Cold.
“I thought so before,” he admits, “but not anymore. I’m trying to figure you out.”
My face warms as he watches me intently. It’s unnerving.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re so in control of yourself, your store, everything—”
“That’s an illusion,” I say, waving a hand.
“Why do you work so hard to maintain it?”
“I—I don’t know,” I say, forcing an awkward laugh. “My sister would say it stems from the lack of control I felt as a child.”
“So now you never let yourself lose control?” His voice, a little husky, scrapes some long-forgotten place inside me.
“Never,” I say. He raises an eyebrow. “Rarely,” I amend. “What about you—do you lose control?”
“With the right motivation? Sure.”
He holds my gaze, and I imagine what that would be like—to be the one to make him lose control. His body, his strength, fully unleashed. I remember the moment I had his lanyard in my fist, the hunger in his eyes.
Heat creeps down my spine.
“You’ve already seen it,” he says, then clarifies: “I never yell. I never lose my cool—until recently. With you. I’m sorry about that, by the way. But you get under my skin in a way no one else has.”
I swallow. “I guess I could say the same about you.”
There’s more to it than the fact that we’re competing for the same job. From that first meeting, there’s been an undercurrent of electricity between us—and now it’s crackling to life.
Again, probably the champagne. Or the moonlight glinting on the waves, the pop and sizzle of fireworks in the distance. Or it could be the way he’s watching me, like he’s uncovering some long-buried artifact. My life back in Boston, our competition, feels like a distant memory. And I can’t stop staring at his mouth.
“My what?” Ryan asks.
I blink; the champagne has definitely gone to my head. “Hmmm?”
“You said something about my…mouth?” He sounds amused—and a touch confused.
I consider brushing it off, but instead I find myself lifting my eyes to his and saying, “It’s a very nice mouth.”
His eyes flick to my mouth, and it’s like an outside force takes control of my body as I lean in and press my lips to his.
I pull away, but his hand comes to my jaw, bringing me back to him, light presses of his lips against mine, warm and sweet and almost chaste. It’s the exact opposite of what I would’ve expected after our prior interactions, the sharp words and heated glances. This is like sinking into the softest feather bed. The world around me turns hazy, and when he slides his hand into my hair, I can’t hold back a sigh of pleasure.
He kisses me slowly, purposefully, all his attention on me, on our lips gliding against each other. I have the vague thought that this probably isn’t a great idea, but that’s drowned out by the fizzy sensation rising in my chest. The lush softness of his mouth, the gravelly hum he makes as I slip my hand into his thick, wavy hair. Involuntarily, I shift closer, trailing my other hand down his shoulder, feeling the tension in his muscles; there’s something fascinating about that controlled strength. Knowing that he could take what he wants but is choosing to follow my lead.
Then his lips part, and his tongue meets mine, and it’s like the first bite of the most delicious dessert—I am suddenly ravenous.
I pull myself even closer, deepening the kiss, my hands raking through his hair. My teeth catch on his lower lip, and a soft groan rumbles in his throat, sending sparks of pure lust straight through my core. His hand in my hair curls into a fist, a tight knot that’s right on the edge between pleasure and pain, as he kisses me with an intensity that steals my breath. He’s hungry and urgent, and I’m desperate and greedy. I’m practically climbing into his lap as he kisses my jaw and my neck, his stubble rasping against my skin, making me moan in a way that’s maybe a little embarrassing, but I’m too far gone to care.
Soon I’m straddling him, and he’s running his hands down my body like he’s claiming everything he touches: my back, my waist, sliding down to my butt and pulling me against him. I gasp at the hard press of him between my legs.
Without thinking, I lean back against the cool sand, pulling him down with me; he follows, continuing to kiss me, his hand sliding up my rib cage, thumb grazing my breast. Another moan slips out of my mouth. I have never in my life felt such unexpected, uncontrollable desire for another human being.
Needing him closer, I tug him over me, parting my legs so he can wedge his thigh between them. The weight of him is overwhelming in the best way; I’ve never been under a man this big—he’s bracing himself with one forearm against the sand, trying to be careful with me. I rock against him, and he seems to know exactly what I’m after, pressing his thigh right where I want it. The friction…it’s almost too much. My hands slide under his shirt and up his back, his skin hot against my palms. I bury my face in his neck and inhale; he smells divine . And I want his shirt off.
My hands shake as I bring them to his collar and fumble with the buttons. Again, he’s right there with me, reaching around to untie my halter strap, tugging the top of my dress down until my bra is exposed, still kissing me like his life depends on it. We’re both nearly frantic, and I pull too hard on his shirt and pop the final button at the same time his hand moves under the cup of my bra. He’s palming my breast as I push him up just enough to grab his belt and undo the buckle and—
“What’s going on out there?” a man’s voice calls.
A light flashes, and we scramble apart like two teenagers caught behind the bleachers. A figure holding a flashlight, walking toward us. Ryan tucks me behind him as I pull the top of my dress back up. I’m breathless and shaky, the blood rushing back to my head as it hits me: We were taking our clothes off. In the middle of a public beach.
“Sorry, Officer,” Ryan calls out. “We didn’t—”
“Aren’t you one of the Lawson boys?” asks the man—a cop, apparently.
Ryan coughs. “Uh, yes, sir. I’m Ryan, the youngest. I apologize for—”
“No, no, this is great. I mean, not on the beach, but from what your mother’s been saying, this is a long time coming. Just, you know—get a room.”
A laugh bubbles out of me, and I stifle it. Ryan sighs. “Yes, sir. Sorry again.”
The cop chuckles as he heads away. “You two have a good night.”
When he’s gone, Ryan turns to face me. His hair’s a mess, his lips swollen, his collar half popped. I reach up and touch my hair: tangled, gritty with sand.
“Holy shit,” I say, still breathless.
His eyes widen. “I didn’t—that wasn’t all me, was it? You had a lot of champagne—”
“That definitely wasn’t all you,” I say, and he’s visibly relieved. Yes, I’m tipsy, but I was in full control of my faculties.
Only now my brain is catching up, and I’m mortified at my behavior. My desperation. The sounds I made.
“I—I don’t usually do things like that,” I say.
“Me neither.”
I’m trying to keep my eyes on his face. But his shirt is open, and his chest is exposed, and my god, it’s beautiful. Thick and muscled, but not too cut, slightly soft around his navel, with a trail of dark hair disappearing into his pants.
His pants that I tried to take off.
“I should get back,” I say, scrambling to my feet. “To the room. My room.”
He stares up at me for a beat before nodding and standing, buckling his belt.
As we head back up the beach toward the inn, I feel like I’m doing the walk of shame without any of the benefits. In silence, he walks me to my room; I use my key card, and the door swings open, giving a clear view of the bed.
Ryan’s right behind me; I can feel his warmth, can still catch a whiff of his scent. For one split second, I have the insane urge to grab his arm and tug him inside.
“Where’s your room?” I say, instead.
“This is it.”
My breath catches and I whirl around to face him.
He’s grinning, eyes twinkling. “When I called to book you a room, the inn was full. I’m crashing at my parents’ place.”
“Oh,” I say, surprised by how let down I feel. Sleeping with the enemy is a terrible idea , I tell myself.
Only problem is, he doesn’t feel like the enemy anymore.
“But—if you go back to your parents’ house, they’re going to think we had a big fight or something,” I say, then bite my lip. What am I doing?
His grin slowly fades as my words hit him. His pupils dilate. “Do you…”
I swallow. Stare at his lips. Let my mind drift back to the feeling of his body on mine, his weight pressing me against the sand.
“I think you should sleep here,” I say. His eyebrows shoot up, and I blurt, “ Just sleep.”
He blinks, and I catch a flash of—what, disappointment?—in his eyes before he nods. “Of course.”
“Of course,” I echo.
My heart knocks against my chest as I lead him into the room.
The door clicks shut behind us.