Chapter 22
22
Ryan
Last night’s “date” with Josie was worthy of a gold star. If it was a book, I’d have given it a four point five, rounded up to five.
There was one beautiful moment where I thought the night might end with a kiss. It didn’t—which is what knocked it down half a point. Not that every date has to end in a kiss, but I was hoping this one would.
I was caught up in the moment, picturing us working together and growing even closer, until she burst my bubble with that one little sentence: We should keep things professional.
Last night proved that what happened in Maine wasn’t a fluke—we do get along well (when we’re not in competition) and we definitely have chemistry. But I’m not clear about what Josie thinks—or wants to do—about it.
I’ve read enough romance novels to know that a happy ending needs to be earned. Like I’ve said for years, it’s not realistic to go directly from enemies to lovers. It makes more sense to go from enemies to friends, then to lovers.
The only problem: I’m still keeping a giant secret from her. BookshopGirl has been very clear that she doesn’t want to know who RJ is, and I promised I’d leave it in her hands. But would Josie want to know?
“Hey!” Josie’s voice breaks through my thoughts like a siren song.
“Hi!” I say, straightening. I’m at the front register, working through my to-do list.
“Are we still on for later?” There’s a spark in her eyes, like she’s as excited about our plans to start working together as I am.
Although I have a feeling she’s more excited about the “working” part, while I can’t stop thinking about the “together” part.
“Can’t wait.”
“Me neither!” Josie’s smile is so wide, she looks like a kid on Christmas morning. Or Chanukah evening? I’m pretty sure she’s Jewish. “I’ve already started thinking of some ideas.”
“Awesome,” I say, even as my stomach twists. The only ideas I’ve had are of the unprofessional variety.
“What’re you working on?” she asks, following my gaze to the computer screen.
“Oh, just an order from Ingram.”
“Ooh!” She lights up. “What’s your strategy? Your method?”
“My…method?”
Josie laughs. “You don’t just blindly guess how many of each book you’ll need, do you?” Her smile fades when she sees my blank expression. “Oh, you do.”
“Show me how you do it,” I say.
She hesitates, then seems to remember we’re working with and not against each other. “Come with me.”
—
Forty-five minutes later, I have even more respect for Josie. She has a whole system to log her inventory and sales, analyzing the data to project how many of each title she should order. Mind. Blown.
Another reason working together makes sense—I’m terrible at the business stuff. Seeing how much work Josie puts into that aspect of her job, I realize how over my head I would be managing the new combined bookstore without her.
When I get back to my side of the store, Cinderella is on the leather couch, reading, Persephone curled up on her lap.
“Sit,” she commands, closing her book.
A cursory glance around the store is enough to tell me the few customers we have don’t need any immediate attention, so I join Cinderella, taking a seat in the purple chair beside her.
“What’s going on between you and that stuck-up girl next door?” she asks, eyes blazing.
“Nothing.”
Cinderella arches an eyebrow.
“We’re just friends,” I say. “Friends who went out to dinner last night.”
Cinderella grimaces. “You need to be careful—she might be trying to use her womanly charms to loosen you up and steal your secrets.”
“I don’t have any secrets to steal. Unless you count the mantra of ‘What would Elaine do?’ that runs on a loop in my head.”
“Elaine was one hell of a woman, but you need to give yourself some credit here, boss.”
So she does know I’m her boss…
“I might have decent gut instincts, but Josie has real knowledge. You should see her system—”
Cinderella whistles, shaking her head. “A month ago, that woman was Satan incarnate, and now you’re complimenting her? You’ve got it bad.”
“It doesn’t matter how I feel,” I say. “She wants to keep things professional.”
Cinderella rolls her eyes. “Yeah, right, and I’m a natural redhead. You should know that sometimes people lie about their feelings to protect themselves. I’ve seen the way she looks at you.”
“How does she look at me?” I ask, intrigued.
“Like she wants to peg you.”
“Jesus Christ,” I say, flushing.
Cinderella stops petting Persephone and presses her lips together. “Now listen—I don’t trust that girl, and I have no clue what you see in her. But there’s a lot on the line here, so bang her if you have to, then move on.”
I gasp in mock shock. “Are you telling me to sleep with the enemy?”
“Just once, to get it out of your system.”
“Yeah, because that always works so well in the books.”
—
Later that evening, Josie and I are sitting across from each other in a booth at the Burren, an Irish pub down the street. It’s a cozy, welcoming spot to grab a beer and a bite to eat, and tonight there’s even a pickup band playing Irish folk songs.
We’ve been here for more than an hour, brainstorming and building off each other’s ideas. Now the server clears our dinner plates, and we start looking through the books we brought to consider for our collective book club—another of Josie’s ideas to start bridging the gap between our customer bases.
I have two historical romances (the historical aspect might appeal to her crowd), a romantasy (this genre has broken every single barrier people tried to set on it), an enemies-to-lovers story (for obvious reasons), a romance novel that leans literary, and a few other faves (mine, not my brother’s).
At the last minute, I added my personal copy of 11/22/63 to the stack. I genuinely think the book will appeal to both our reader groups, but it’s also a subtle hint to help her see me for who I am without breaking my promise to respect her decision not to meet RJ in real life.
The stack of books Josie brought is…overwhelming. It’s full of big, thick tomes. I’ve only read one of them— A Little Life —because it was on BookshopGirl’s Favorites bookshelf. It took me more than a week to get through the thirty-three-hour audiobook and left me ugly-crying on the T.
The one I’m currently flipping through might make me cry of boredom. It’s about a man who spends a decade in his garden, contemplating the way grass grows, as he loses everything in his life that he thought he loved.
But I’m not a quitter, so I turn the page and persevere.
“You’re reading out loud,” Josie says. It’s more of an observation than a question.
I look up, brushing my hair away from my eyes. “Sorry, is it bothering you?”
“No.”
“Good—otherwise we might have to read at separate tables.”
Josie raises an eyebrow. I suppose now is as good a time as any to tell her. Maybe if I share something vulnerable with her, she’ll see that she can trust me, Ryan, as much as she seems to trust me, RJ.
Here goes. I blow out a breath and tell her what I’ve only admitted to a handful of people. “I told you I wasn’t a good reader when I was a kid,” I say. “Well, it can still be a challenge for me. Reading out loud helps me understand the words on the page because, well…” God, I’m starting to sweat. This shouldn’t be so hard. I look back down at the page, and the words come out in a rush: “I have dyslexia.”
There’s a slight pause, then she says, “Oh, okay.”
I glance up, nervous to see her expression. She seems completely unfazed. Even still, all the residual shame left over from my childhood bubbles up and I say, “It’s just…booksellers are supposed to be good readers. And Lawsons are supposed to be smart—you met my brothers.”
“Yeah, they’re intimidating,” Josie says. “But I don’t think having dyslexia means someone is less ‘smart.’?”
I shrug. “No, you’re right. But that’s how it felt growing up—because it’s more than just reading problems, my brain’s just wired…differently.” Probably why I struggle with organization and time management, too. “Getting diagnosed was a game changer, and I learned methods to help.”
“Like reading out loud,” Josie says.
“And listening to audiobooks,” I add.
“Would it be better to download samples of these on audio?” Josie asks, nodding toward the giant stack of books beside me.
“The hardcovers are fine—as long as you don’t mind my whisper-soundtrack.”
“Not at all.” She smiles before going back to the book she’s reading.
And that’s that. I exhale, feeling my shoulders relax. A month and a half ago, I never could’ve imagined confessing a weakness—much less that weakness—to my bookish rival. And I definitely wouldn’t have imagined her reacting like it was no big deal. No pity or shame, just acceptance of this new information and moving on.
But I didn’t know her back then. I’d invented a persona for her that had more to do with my own insecurities than reality—and if I hadn’t figured out that she was BookshopGirl, I never would’ve given her a chance. And that would have been a tragedy, missing out on getting to know the real Josie Klein.
I return to my book. But after reading the same sentence four times, I give up and look across the table at Josie. Her cheeks are flushed. She’s only had a few sips of her Irish Flower cocktail, not enough to bring that much color to her face.
It must be the book.
“Good part, huh?” I ask.
“No,” Josie says, too quickly. “I mean, it’s okay.”
“Which one?”
She holds up a copy of a beach read from a few summers ago, and I wonder which part has gotten her all hot and bothered. I don’t remember it being super high on the spice scale.
“Read it to me?” I ask.
“No,” Josie says, closing the book. But she still has her finger on the page, holding her spot.
“It’ll be fun. Here, I’ll read mine out loud first.”
Josie doesn’t look convinced, but I clear my throat and begin reading. “ Within its slender frame resides a mosaic of life—dewdrops clinging delicately like jewels .”
Josie’s lips part as she listens to me read. Who knew a blade of grass could be so erotic?
“ Each blade, a testament to resilience and endurance, whispers tales of forgotten kingdoms and ancient battles fought silently under the watchful gaze of the sun .” Okay, this is getting weird. I close the book again. “Your turn.”
Josie gulps and looks around, taking in the crowd—everyone’s talking and laughing, and the Irish band is playing a lively jig. There’s no way anyone could overhear us.
“No one’s paying any attention to the two nerds who brought a stack of books to the bar,” I tell her.
Josie shakes her head but opens her book. “Okay, but here’s the thing: I don’t read romance. So this probably isn’t even that steamy…”
“Then it shouldn’t be a big deal to read it.”
Josie’s eyes spark—she doesn’t like to back down from a challenge. Clearing her throat, she starts reading, her voice low. “ A beam of moonlight through the window casts silvery shadows on his torso—shoulders, chest, abs—and the trail of darker hair that disappears into his waistband. Lust pools in my belly .”
She looks up, wide eyed. “This is ridiculous. Why can’t these authors just imply that sex happened and skip to the next scene?”
“Because it’s not just ‘insert tab A into slot B.’ Sex reveals things about a person that can’t be shown in any other way. It’s not just about the mechanics. And if you believe sex can be implied , as if it’s always the same and the details have no impact on the relationship…that might say something about how you think about sex.”
I’m getting worked up, so I grab my beer and take a long sip. When I set it down, I catch Josie’s face—she’s staring at my throat. Her comment as BookshopGirl pops into my mind, about watching a man’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. Interesting.
Then she shakes herself. “I can’t read this out loud. I can barely read it in my own mind.”
“Come on,” I say.
Taking a deep breath, she looks at the page again. My pants grow tight in anticipation.
“ He crawls over me until he’s caging me in with his arms, gazing down at me, and I’m desperate to feel him inside me. ”
This isn’t even close to the most explicit book I’ve read, but the words on her lips, the urgent whisper of her voice—it’s so fucking hot. I’m rock hard, grateful she can’t see from her side of the table.
My foot inches forward until it comes into contact with hers. Her arch nestles against mine. Josie doesn’t move it away, but she stops reading and looks up at me. There’s a question in her eyes.
“Keep going.”
Josie bites her lip, then takes a deep breath, her chest rising and falling, calling my attention to the hint of cleavage I can make out in the V of her blouse.
She starts to read again. “ He slides inside me ”—she hesitates, but to her credit, she doesn’t stop—“ and I roll my hips, inviting him deeper. We move together slowly, learning each other’s rhythms, the unique way our bodies shift and slip against each other. ”
She continues, reading about how the intensity builds between them, their defenses finally dropping after two hundred pages of keeping each other at a distance.
Under the table, I feel Josie’s foot slide up to my ankle, then back down—and I realize she’s slipped her foot out of her shoe. Josie Klein’s bare foot is brushing against my pant leg as she reads words that grow increasingly sensual, and how is this the hottest thing that has ever happened to me? I’m gripping the edge of the table with both hands, trying to keep my breathing under control as her foot slides against my leg again.
“ He kneels next to the bed, wrapping his hands around my thighs. ‘Please,’ he says, ‘I’ve been dying to taste— ’?”
The band stops playing, and Josie’s voice breaks through the silence before everyone starts applauding. She closes the book; her pupils are dilated, her cheeks flushed highlighter pink.
I shift in my seat, adjusting myself subtly. She does an identical wiggle in her seat, and I’m positive she’s feeling it, too.
“What do you think?” I ask, hoping my voice sounds normal. “Would your customers be okay with turning up the heat?”
“I think…” she says, her foot pressing ever so slightly against mine. “I think we should go with that book.”
I follow her gaze to 11/22/63 .
“The Stephen King one? You haven’t looked at it yet.”
“I’ve already read it,” she says.
“You have?” My heart rate quickens; here it is, the moment I’ve been waiting for.
“A few weeks ago, actually. A friend suggested it.”
“I listened to it a few years ago,” I tell her. “On a road trip with my family.”
It’s almost exactly what RJ told BookshopGirl. She glances up sharply, and my mouth goes dry. Her eyes narrow as she studies me, and I try not to blurt anything out.
Let her figure it out in her own time , I remind myself.
“It would be good for a long trip,” she says slowly.
I force the next words out. “You know my brother Robert? It’s his favorite book.”
She’s still staring at me, eyes narrowed, and I wait for the flash of realization to hit her, the way it did me when I saw her reading The Princess Bride.
Instead, she blinks and looks down. “I guess it is a really popular book,” she says, mostly to herself.
I exhale and down the last sip of my Cloud Candy IPA. Cinderella was right: I’ve got it bad. But is she right about how Josie feels about me? Playing footsie under the table while reading a sex scene aloud isn’t exactly keeping things professional —but does she want what I want? I have no interest in a “just once to get it out of our system” situation. I want something real, even if it takes longer to get there.
Which means I need to stay focused. Eyes on the prize. Head in the game. All those sports-related phrases I grew up hearing around the dinner table, things I never related to.
But I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want Josie. Which means that if things don’t work out, I’m in for a hell of a crash.