Chapter 21
21
Josie
Ryan made reservations. At a restaurant. This doesn’t feel like two colleagues meeting over food to discuss an idea. This feels like a date.
He won’t tell me where we’re going, either, just called us an Uber after closing. Now we’re in the back seat of an immaculate Subaru, heading toward Back Bay. Across from me, Ryan looks squished, his long legs drawn up to his chest. No cardigan tonight—he’s wearing a blue button-down, collar unbuttoned, the sleeves rolled up. It’s taking all my effort to not stare at his forearms, thick and veiny with fine brown hair. I’m also trying to breathe through my mouth because his scent is making my head feel fuzzy.
I need to focus on the purpose for this outing: sharing the idea I’ve been contemplating. What if we can figure out a way for both of us to keep our jobs? I think I have a solid plan. I just have to convince Ryan to give it a chance.
I force my attention out the window. This area is all too familiar. My muscles tighten involuntarily.
The driver turns down Boylston and there it is: the Boston Public Library. Imposing granite exterior, arched doors, copper trim along the eaves. As much a museum as a library—filled with murals and sculptures, rare original books and manuscripts—and arguably the most beautiful library in the country.
Instead of driving past, continuing toward any of the dozens of restaurants in the neighborhood, the Uber pulls up out front.
“I don’t go there,” I blurt out.
Ryan brushes his hair off his forehead, his eyes concerned. “How come?”
“My college roommates and I…we used to come here to study. We’d go into Bates Hall and work on our papers and…” Deep breath. “I loved it there.”
The hushed voices, the huge domed ceiling, the rows of tables filled with people reading, studying, researching. The private thoughts and quiet conversations of all those booklovers filling the space like radio waves.
“I had to drop out of school,” I say in a rush. “And I haven’t been back here since.”
Ryan’s face softens, his eyebrows pulling together in concern. “Shit. I’m so sorry. I had no idea. We can leave if you’re not comfortable. But there’s a place here I want to check out, and you’re the only person I know who will appreciate it.”
I’m intrigued; I can’t help it. “What place?”
He hesitates, then says, “I know this is a crazy question, given our history over the past few weeks, but here goes: Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” I say, surprising myself.
His face breaks into a delighted smile. “Really? Okay—great news. Shall we?”
I nod, and he leads the way.
—
“So, what do you think?” Ryan asks once we’re seated.
“It’s amazing,” I say, looking around.
He’s brought me to the Map Room, a tea and cocktails lounge just off the main entrance of the BPL. It’s all warm, dark wood and industrial brick accents, with cozy tables perfect for conversation—a hidden gem at a public library, of all places.
Despite the cozy atmosphere, I’m fussing with the menu, mentally rehearsing my rule: no drinking around Ryan Lawson . When our waiter comes by, Ryan orders a Summer Wind cocktail (the menu describes it as “fizzy, jammy, floral”) and a bunch of small plates to share. I order an oolong tea called the Iron Goddess, hoping it will bring me strength.
A month and a half ago, I’d never have predicted this. Me, sitting across from my nemesis. About to propose something that could change our lives forever.
“So, uh—how did you end up becoming a bookseller?” I ask, not quite ready to launch into my idea. “You said you weren’t a big reader as a kid.”
“Yeah, I didn’t read until third grade. Before that, letters and words looked like hieroglyphics. I couldn’t believe they meant anything.” He sits back, one arm extended across the empty chair next to him. “You were probably reading chapter books at that age.”
“Well…yeah. In third grade I read The Hobbit and started The Lord of the Rings .”
“Seriously?” He whistles. “I was struggling with The Cat in the Hat .”
“How did you go from Dr. Seuss to romance novels?”
His eyes spark with mischief as he leans forward. “Would you believe me if I said it had to do with a lonely parrot and a stack of Harlequins?”
Soon I’m laughing, imagining Ryan as a teenage hooligan shoplifting (badly) from a bookstore, then working off his debt by reading to the owner’s pet parrot.
“Nothing like erotic literature to motivate a teenage boy to read,” he says, grinning.
“I can imagine,” I say, then think about my mom and her habit of disappearing into her romances. “So reading all that…did you ever confuse reality with fantasy?”
“You mean, did I believe I was an eighteenth-century princess betrothed to a Scottish laird who is rough around the edges but remarkably tender in bed, and the first time he growled the words ‘my wife,’ I literally swooned?”
I snort a laugh and cover my mouth. “Yes?”
“No. But you can see how ridiculous that question is, right?” He leans forward, elbows on the table, his eyes bright. “When you were reading Tolkien, did you believe that you were a hobbit or an elf or a—a shieldmaiden riding into battle?”
“I wanted to be a shieldmaiden riding into battle.”
“I bet you did,” he says, grinning. “Donning your armor, brandishing a sword, sacrificing yourself to save the ones you love.”
I shrug, a little surprised by how accurate that is. “I guess so.”
Our waiter appears with our drinks and food, and I’m so hungry I dive in, closing my eyes in delight when I take my first bite of lobster mac and cheese. Ryan’s doing the same, tasting the fig and prosciutto flatbread.
After we’ve taken the edge off our hunger, he looks up again.
“So you wanted to chat about something?”
“Uh—yeah.” I take another sip of tea, regretting not ordering booze for liquid courage. “Remember how, at the beginning of all this, you said if you won, you’d hire me as your assistant?”
I sneak a glance at him; his brow is furrowed. “Yeah, sorry, I can see how that would be insulting, implying that you should be under me.” He coughs. “ Work under me,” he corrects, but it’s too late; I’m already remembering what it felt like on that beach. His weight over me, his hand sliding up my ribs and under my bra.
I swallow and start over. “What I mean is: maybe you were onto something. What if we could both keep our jobs?”
“How? Xander only wants one manager.”
“Xander knows nothing about running a bookstore. And he has no idea that we have very different strengths in bookselling.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Is Josie Klein admitting I have strengths?”
“You’re great at creating an inclusive, welcoming environment. Customers adore you. Your staff respects you.” I’m surprised at how easily the list comes to me. “Remember how Xander said he wanted people to get their parenting books and their Harry Potters and their spy thrillers all in the same place?”
He shakes his head. “I must have blocked that out—I know nothing about those genres.”
“Neither do I. Which is my point. The new store is going to have everything. Think about it: thrillers and baby board books and how-to books. And a good manager knows the products they sell.”
“I’m stressed out just thinking about it,” he says. “But I’m not sure what you’re saying.”
“I’m saying we should convince Xander that he needs two managers.”
He stares at me for so long I start to get nervous. Our waiter stops by again, bringing us a plate of lemon meringue tart, which I promptly start devouring.
“What are you thinking?” I ask Ryan. He’s being mighty quiet.
He takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “I’m thinking that Xander’s priority is making money.”
“Yeah, and he’s delusional—no one gets rich owning an indie bookstore. But—here, take a look at this.”
I grab a napkin and pen and start doing rough calculations. “If Xander keeps only one of us as manager, the store will be woefully understaffed. You can’t sell books without booksellers, so sales will take a hit—and the new store will have more overhead expenses. Xander could end up in the red. I estimate that the new manager will have to hire more staff—two, maybe even three people to compensate for the loss of one of us, since they won’t have the experience we do.
“So it would be in Xander’s best interests to keep us both,” I finish. “We just have to prove it to him over the next six weeks.”
“How?”
“We’ll have to significantly increase our profits—by a lot, so he can’t ignore that we make more money when working together. We can brainstorm ways to do that. I already have a few ideas, but first, I wanted to see if this is something you’re even interested in.”
There’s an unexpectedly guarded expression on Ryan’s face. And I find myself leaning forward again, hoping he says yes.
“Can I think about it?” he asks.
I sit back, disappointed. Maybe I’ve been reading him wrong. Just because he took me to one of the most bookishly charming places I’ve ever seen doesn’t mean he wants to work with me.
“Of course,” I say. “Just let me know.”
—
When we finish our food and drinks, Ryan tries to take the check, but I badger him into splitting it. We head out of the lounge, and I notice a sign for Bates Hall.
“Do you think it’s still open?” I ask, nodding in that direction.
He glances at his phone. “We have a few minutes. Do you…want to go in?”
I hesitate; being here, so close to this place I loved all those years ago, has made me realize I’ve spent too much time avoiding anything that reminds me of my college experience. I want to push myself.
“Could we?” I say. “Just for a minute?”
We climb the stairs in silence, but when we get to the threshold, I freeze.
Ryan’s hand comes to my shoulder, warm and steady. He leans down, putting his mouth an inch from my ear. “You got this.”
And, taking a deep breath, I walk inside.
The reading room is exactly as I remember: domed ceiling, arched windows, rows of wooden tables with green-shaded lamps. The vast space is mostly empty, just a few people finishing up their work for the evening.
We sit at a table near the end, across from each other.
“We came here for a field trip in elementary school,” Ryan says in a low voice. “Imagine thirty rambunctious kids, the librarians hushing us, and our teachers reminding us to be respectful, children. ”
I smile, imagining Ryan at that age. A head taller than everyone else, his hair a bird’s nest.
“What were you like back then?” I ask.
“I was the kid at the back of the line who had to be assigned my own chaperone to keep me from wandering off,” he says, which makes my smile grow. “Let me guess—you were the girl who sat at the front and raised her hand before anyone else. Who had all the stars on the star chart and got the ‘Best Reader’ award.”
His description is pretty accurate. “Yeah. I guess so. I loved the structure of school.
And I loved the positive feedback: Josie is a delight. Josie shows real talent for reading. Josie is going to go far in life.
“Meanwhile, I was the kid with one star that the teacher only gave me because she felt bad.” He softens his words with a smile, but I never thought about how demoralizing that could be. To me, the stars were motivating.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He shrugs. “My brothers were great at school, so the teachers were shocked when I wasn’t. But after a while, I’d disappointed everyone so thoroughly that their expectations were on the floor.”
“I guess that’s the thing about expectations,” I say. “High or low, they can screw you up. I was totally focused on academic success, you know? And then when I got to college…”
I trail off. He’s leaning forward, listening intently. When his eyes meet mine, I get that bubbly, effervescent feeling I had on the beach, like I’m tipsy. Like everything I say is fascinating, and the world is warm and kind, and baring my soul to him feels like the most natural thing I could do.
Except I’m not tipsy. So maybe it’s not alcohol and Ryan.
Maybe it’s just Ryan.
Blinking, I refocus. “Anyway—that’s part of why I never finished my degree.”
I say the words casually, though they feel like shards of glass in my mouth. Thankfully, there’s no surprise or—worse—pity in his expression. Instead, he just nods and says, “Do you ever think about going back?”
“No,” I say immediately. “What would be the point? I don’t need it for my job.”
“What was your plan for a career, back when you were in college?”
I shrug. “No idea. I was an English major—”
“Of course.”
“—and I had this vague idea of spending my life reading Big Books and having Important Conversations.”
“Which is what you do now.” He nods. “And you’re great at it—if we had a sticker chart, your row would be filled with gold stars.”
I laugh—then stifle the sound as a patron glances our way. “If we’re going strictly by books sold, you’d have more gold stars.”
“But there’s so many other ways to get gold stars.” He leans forward on his elbows, and I do the same, like we’re co-conspirators. “Gold star for each organized shelf. Gold star for your efficient stock tracking system.”
“Gold star for helping tiny elderly ladies reach the top shelf,” I say. “And another for having a staff that genuinely respects you.”
He smiles; my stomach goes flip , and I look down. His left hand and my right are resting flat on the table, a millimeter of space between our fingertips. My palm tingles, remembering how it felt to slide under his shirt, his skin fever hot. The broad span of his back, the cords of muscle flexing beneath my fingers.
My breath quickens, and I slide my hand forward a fraction of an inch.
He does the same. Our fingertips graze. My nervous system is going haywire, the touch of his skin on the sensitive pads of my fingers sending golden light darting up my arm. He turns his palm over, an invitation, and when I slide mine into his, his thumb sweeps across the back of my hand, then down each finger one by one, like he’s committing their size and shape to memory.
I’ve never considered the aesthetics of a man’s hands before, but Ryan’s are near perfect: thick fingers, a palm as comfortable as a well-worn baseball glove, knuckles that are just a bit knobby. I starfish my hand flat against his, then curl it, stroking his palm with my fingertips, feeling the scrape of calluses. When I sneak a glance at his face, he’s focused on our hands, too, but then his lashes lift, and his gaze meets mine for the span of one shaky breath. It’s too intense, the eye contact and the hand contact, so I look back down as his hand slides up and wraps around my wrist.
I swallow. He’s pulling me toward him, or maybe I’m pulling myself—but either way, his hand is sliding upward until he’s gripping my elbow and we’re leaning together across the table and—
“We’re closing soon, dears.” A librarian gives us a smile before moving on.
My breath rushes out and I pull my hands into my lap. My entire right arm is tingling.
“Ready?” Ryan says, standing.
I nod, gripping the strap of my crossbody bag as I follow him out. He sticks his hands in his pockets, which is probably good. I clearly can’t be trusted around him. Even when I’m stone-cold sober.
—
When we pull up in front of my building, Ryan asks the Uber driver to wait while he walks me to the door.
“So, um…thanks for tonight,” I say. “It was fun.”
“Thanks for coming.” In the light of the streetlamp, his eyes are shadowed, and I can’t read his expression.
“You want to think about it overnight?” My voice squeaks on the last word. “My proposition?”
His eyebrows lift, and I laugh nervously. The point of this evening was not to get all giggly and touchy-feely with Ryan Lawson. It was to talk business.
“About convincing Xander that he needs us both as co-managers,” I say.
“No.”
The disappointment hits me like a rock. “Oh.”
“No, I don’t need to think about it overnight. I’m in.”
“Yeah? Amazing!” A balloon of excitement rises in my chest—and I pull out a mental thumbtack and pop it, especially after what just happened in the reading room. The more time I spend with Ryan, the more I realize how much I enjoy his company. Add that to the attraction we clearly both feel…and that’s a complication I cannot afford right now. “Um—there’s one more thing. You know what happened after your parents’ party?”
He leans toward me the slightest bit. “Yes.”
“I think…if we’re going to be working together…we should keep things professional.” I’m unable to maintain eye contact, so I stare at the buttons on his shirt, the fabric pulled tight across his chest. “I’m going to put my entire soul into convincing Xander we both deserve this. I know you feel the same way. It would be best if we didn’t let ourselves get…distracted.”
Maybe he hasn’t been distracted, but I sure have, and tonight isn’t going to help matters.
“Sure,” he says after a beat. His voice hovers in the air above me. Stiff. A little strained. “If that’s what you want.”
Then he says good night and turns to go, leaving me with a question: Is it what I want?