Chapter 20
20
Ryan
I’ve been talked into a lot of bad ideas in my life, but this might be the worst.
Josie’s over at Happy Endings now, sitting across from someone who isn’t me. Telling a story or making a joke to someone who isn’t me. Smiling at someone who isn’t me.
I may not know what I want with her, but I do know this feels…terrible.
To quote Miss Taylor Swift—in my defense, I have none. Except that Indira looked like she was about to cry when she begged me to ask Josie to sit in. I offered to find an eligible bachelorette over at Beans or even on the street outside, but she said a “rando” was too risky. And in her words, “We don’t like Josie, but at least we know her.”
Except I think I do like her.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about this past weekend—although to hear BookshopGirl tell RJ about it, her weekend was nothing special.
Anyway: I caved.
It’ll probably be fine. I mean, what are the chances Josie hits it off with one of these guys? They have to be minuscule. Right?
But so were the chances that my online crush and my IRL nemesis would turn out to be one and the same.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
—
I spend the next two hours stewing in misery, cursing myself for putting Josie in this position, and trying not to analyze every sound coming from Happy Endings. Only a few customers come in, so most of the time I can hear everything.
No wonder Josie gets lonely.
A laugh rises above the rest of the noise—a laugh that could be hers? I peek around the bookshelves she’s positioned between her store and Beans, trying to catch a glimpse. Her back is toward me, so I can’t tell if she’s enjoying or suffering through her current conversation.
I’m certainly suffering enough for the both of us. My mind flashes between images of Josie with ten other men (laughing, chatting, leaning in and putting her hand on their arm) and memories of Josie with me : her head resting on my chest as we danced, her eyes glinting on the beach, her breath hitching as I slid my hand under the cup of her bra and felt her hard nipple against my palm.
I had this woman in bed next to me and I kept my distance ? I woke up in the morning to find her plastered against my backside and I fucking rolled away ? I told myself I was being respectful, but that wasn’t the whole truth.
While my body knows exactly what it wants, my heart and my mind aren’t so sure yet. But right now all I can think is: What if she ends up going home with one of these assholes and I never get another chance with her?
I will hate myself for the rest of my life.
As the painful minutes tick by, it hits me: what I thought was a complication—BookshopGirl and Josie being one and the same—might actually be the most incredible opportunity of my life. Ever since I read my first Harlequin at fifteen, I’ve been looking for a woman I could connect with both physically and emotionally, and now I’ve found both in the same person.
Except that the last person I felt this way about destroyed my ability to trust my own feelings when it comes to any of this, and I promised myself I’d never again fall for someone who doesn’t feel the same way.
Especially not someone who has specifically stated that she doesn’t want to meet me in real life.
Putting my head in my hands, I let out a soft groan; what the fuck am I going to do?
—
“Sleeping on the job?”
I bolt upright, rubbing my eyes. Josie’s standing like a vision before me, a playful smirk on her lips. “It was so slow over here, I had to get Eddie to bring me a triple-shot frappe,” I say.
She rolls her eyes and straightens a book no one touched.
“So, uh…how were your dates?” I ask.
She shrugs, walking to inspect another table. “Fine.”
“No sparks?” I ask, trying not to sound too hopeful.
“Just one.” Her eyes meet mine, and she holds my stare for an unbearably long second. “Did we make any sales?”
We. Things would be so much easier if we could join forces and be on the same team, against Xander.
“Just one,” I say, echoing her. “ Remarkably Bright Creatures —but it took me fifteen minutes to find it.”
She gives me a confused look. “It’s shelved under the V’s. For the author’s last name. Van Pelt, Shelby. Where did you think it would be?”
“Maybe on a table with books about unexpected friendships, or books set in the Pacific Northwest. Or even books with charming characters that also happen to be marine animals.”
Josie cringes. “That would be utter chaos.”
“Well, it’s a lot more inspiring than the letter V ,” I snap, offended on behalf of my creative shelving system.
She tilts her chin up in challenge. “How do you organize romance? Enlighten me.”
I have a flash of picking her up, carrying her to the back room, and spending the rest of the night showing her what I’ve learned from reading romance novels. She probably thinks it’s all smooth moves and sexual antics, but really, it’s listening. Paying attention.
I’m dying to know what makes Josie’s panties wet, what’ll make her lose control—even more than she did on the beach. But that’s not what she asked me.
“Well,” I say, conjuring up a mental image of Happy Endings’ myriad corners. “There’s YA, new adult, and adult. There’s contemporary and historical. Romance that merges with fantasy—romantasy. Think Sarah J. Maas or Rebecca Yarros.”
“Faerie smut and dragon riders,” she says. “Got it.”
If I look shocked that she knows these authors and their books, it’s because I am.
“I keep up with trends,” Josie says. “Although if I carried those books, they’d be comfortably tucked in with the other M’s and Y’s.”
Shaking my head at her traditional thinking, I continue on, describing all the other ways I might organize the store: by subgenres, tropes, historical eras, or heat level.
“Sounds complicated,” Josie says, looking genuinely surprised.
“And fun,” I say. “Imagine a hypothetical book about two men on rival hockey teams who fall in love. Where do I shelve it? Contemporary, sports romance, LGBTQ+, or enemies to lovers? And what if one of the characters has an adorable pet cat—”
“Okay, okay,” Josie says, resting her hand on my forearm. The feel of her skin on mine sends a jolt through my body, bringing back memories of the beach, the way her fingers trembled as she struggled to undo the buttons on my shirt.
My breath stills. Her bottom lip is caught between her teeth, and when she releases it, I move closer. My eyes are asking permission, and hers are granting it—
When the goddamn door opens and a customer walks in.
Luckily, Josie has him in and out in less than ten minutes, after locating Demon Copperhead among the K’s (for Barbara Kingsolver).
“That would have taken me an hour,” I admit, once the customer has gone.
Josie turns back toward me, but she’s put distance between us, like the bridge has gone up and there’s no chance of crossing the moat to rescue the princess from her strictly regulated world.
“I wouldn’t be able to handle the way you have it,” she admits.
“Does it come back to having control?” I ask. “Your intense need for organization.”
“It’s not that intense,” she says. I arch an eyebrow. “Okay, maybe it’s a little intense. But it’s efficient.”
“Clearly.” Maybe too efficient. Yes, the customer found what he was looking for, but he didn’t have a chance to stumble over anything else he might have fallen in love with.
“Well, my mom—”
“The reader of bodice rippers,” I say.
Josie tilts her head. “Did I tell you about her?”
Shit, shit, shit.
“You must have mentioned it,” I say. “In the car when we were talking about our families.”
Josie nods, but looks uncertain, and I curse myself for mixing up the conversations. I’ve got to be more careful—she’s made it clear she doesn’t want to meet RJ in person, and I shouldn’t press the issue until I’m really sure this is something worth exploring. I’d hate to blow up my friendship with BSG for nothing.
“Mom has some hoarding tendencies,” she says. “She loved going to yard sales, thrift stores, finding ‘super fun treasures,’ bags piled on boxes piled on trash.”
Josie shudders, as if the memory’s reached out and wrapped its icy arms around her. Her left hand is resting on the counter, and I bring mine up next to it, not touching, but almost. “So that’s why you keep the store so organized?” My fingers are itching to slide between hers, to hold her hand.
“That, and it’s my job,” she says.
At the mention of her job—the one she might lose at my expense—she pulls her hand away, and all traces of BookshopGirl disappear. The ice queen is back, her posture stiff, her eyes dark and intense.
A couple weeks ago, this would’ve intimidated me, but now I know that underneath the cool exterior, Josie’s filled with insecurities and worries, just like anyone else. Just like me.
“So, um, there’s something else I’ve been wanting to talk to you about,” Josie says.
I look up. “Yeah?”
“Remember what we were talking about that night…in Maine? About how Xander’s playing both of us and we wish we could turn the tables on him?”
“Yes,” I say, intrigued.
“Well, I have an idea. I need to figure out a few details, but maybe we could chat tomorrow?”
She raises her eyebrows and shrugs, a gesture that feels vulnerable and hopeful. Whatever she wants to talk about, it’s important to her. Which means it’s important to me, too. If I’m going to figure out these complicated feelings I’m having for her, I need to get us out of our usual routine at work, where we’re both so stuck in the roles we’ve been playing all summer. Rival booksellers. Competitors.
And I think I know just the spot.
“Sure,” I say, and she lights up. “What if we get dinner?”
She blinks, the light dimming slightly. I need to tread carefully.
“Just as colleagues,” I say, and she nods. “But you know I’m going to be in suspense all day tomorrow, wondering what you want to talk about—can you give me a hint?”
She gives a nervous smile. “You’re going to have to be patient.”
“I’ll try,” I tell her.
And I mean it, in more ways than one.