Chapter 25
25
Josie
Never in a million years would I have imagined I’d have the time of my life talking to a group of teenagers in outlandish costumes about a fictional dystopian world. But here we are.
The event is part of our plan to bring in a new demographic to the combined bookstore: a discussion about the Hunger Games series, inviting participants to dress up—and these kids delivered. I underestimated how awesome teenage book nerds are. Some came in gray and brown clothes to represent the districts, others in colorful feathers and sequins to represent the Capitol. And they were all fully engaged, expanding on the topics I brought up with insightful comments. It was exhilarating and fascinating.
Plus, those kids spent money—or their parents’ money; we sold thousands of dollars of stock tonight, and not just from our new YA section. I wasn’t surprised by the kids who wandered into Ryan’s side and found romances to add to their Tbrs. I was surprised (and thrilled) by how many came over to my side and asked for recommendations.
“That was incredible,” Ryan says. Everyone is finally gone, and we’re alone. “You were great with those kids.”
“It was so much fun! Different from talking with adults—more challenging. But rewarding. Your staff was great, too.” I think of the distrustful glances they kept sending my way and add, “Even though they hate me.”
He frowns but doesn’t deny it. “They’ll come around.”
“Hope so.” I’ve made it my mission to change their minds about me, and my first step has been watching how Ryan treats them. Not like a boss, more like a friend or a mentor.
“Some of the boys looked like they were developing a crush,” he says in a teasing voice.
“And some of those girls were pretty impressed with your height.” I’d overheard whispers as they pointed at him and grinned at each other.
He rolls his eyes—playfully, but there’s a hint of discomfort.
“You really don’t like being tall?”
“I like being able to reach things,” he says, easily setting a stack of books back on top of a bookcase. “I don’t like not being able to fit comfortably in things.”
“Things?”
“Cars. Shoes. Booths. Airplane seats. Clothes.” His eyes slide over to meet mine. “Beds.”
And just like that, I’m imagining Ryan in my bed, crawling over me, his head brushing my headboard, his feet dangling off the end. My fantasies about him haven’t subsided; if anything, they’ve gotten more vivid. The vibrator isn’t cutting it anymore. I’m a horny mess. I keep trying to tell myself that I’m horny in general, but that’s a damn lie. I’m horny specifically. For the guy I’ve been spending twelve hours a day with.
“I can see how that would be hard,” I say, swallowing.
Hard . Oh my god. I’m a freak.
“I don’t like being constantly asked if I played basketball,” Ryan goes on, “and when I say no, people act almost offended, like I’m a waste of inches.” He pauses. “I was seeing this woman once, and she sent me this meme. ‘Is he hot, or is he just tall?’ I’m pretty sure she was telling me that I’m ‘just tall.’?”
I’m offended on his behalf. “That’s ridiculous—”
“Is it?” There’s a wry smile on his face. “Be honest. If I was a foot shorter, would you have made out with me after my parents’ party?”
My cheeks flush. “A foot shorter…” I mull that over. “You’re what, six-four?”
“Six-seven. And a half.”
I gasp. “Fucking hell. Really? And you didn’t play basketball?”
He rolls his eyes as we both make our way over to his register to close out.
“Very funny. But answer the question: What if I was five-seven and a half?” He nudges me with his shoulder. “Would you have?”
I have that tipsy feeling I get around Ryan, bubbly and a little flirty. So as I start counting out the bills in the register, I say, “Would I have what?”
When I sneak a look at him, his cheeks are deliciously flushed. “Would you have made out with me. On the beach.”
“Definitely.”
His eyebrows lift. “Yeah, right.”
“I mean, it was your mouth I kept staring at,” I say. “And every once in a while, I got a whiff of your smell—”
“My smell?” He looks appalled.
“You smell amazing ,” I say, then realize I used the present tense. And that I’m gushing too much. “That night, I mean. You smelled great that night.”
“What if I didn’t smell good? What if I had some kind of condition where my lip skin was peeling off? Would you have made out with me then?”
I snort-laugh and cover my mouth with my hand. “That’s like me saying, would you have made out with me if I had a big wart on my nose and stinky feet?”
His laugh is pure, radiating joy, and the fact I’m the one who caused it makes me inordinately proud.
“Well?” I say, nudging him. “Would you?”
He’s replacing the paper roll on the register, struggling to get it locked in place. “Depends,” he finally says.
“On…?”
“If you were wearing the blue dress you had on that night.”
“Ah, so it was the dress,” I say, matter of fact even though my face is warming.
“It was you in the dress. I couldn’t stop staring at your…” His eyes dip down my neckline and his cheeks flush.
I focus on the cash, sorting the bills into neat piles on the counter. “My what?”
He clears his throat. “Your hair. It was…uh, pretty that night. You don’t wear it down much.”
“It gets in my face,” I say, flicking my ponytail over my shoulder. “It’s messy.”
“Nothing wrong with messy.” He’s gazing at me with soft eyes. Bedroom eyes.
“Do you…think about that often? What happened on the beach, I mean.”
“Pretty often.” His voice is husky and close. “You?”
“Sometimes, yeah.” I straighten a stack of twenties and lay it parallel to the tens. It’s taking all my energy to pretend this conversation is no big deal.
“Do you think about it happening again?”
Startled, I look up. He’s inches away. His pupils are dilated, focused on mine, and they pull the honest truth out of me, a halting whisper:
“All the time.”
His eyes spark with surprise. “All the time?”
I nod.
“Me too,” he says, and leans in and kisses me.
It’s a soft, closed-lip kiss, but as soon as his mouth touches mine, I react, a lion pouncing on prey she’s watched for weeks. I grip the front of his cardigan and yank him closer. He lets out a surprised grunt, and his glasses slip down his nose, but he recovers quickly, lips parting and tongue meeting mine. Soon we’re kissing like we were on the beach—going from zero to sixty like some fancy sports car that’s been kept far too long in a garage.
I set his glasses aside as he works one hand into my hair, his fingers fiddling with the elastic holding my ponytail. I help him pull it out, sending my hair falling around my shoulders. Ryan groans like he’s in pain, grabbing fistfuls of my hair and tugging down to move my chin up so he can kiss my neck, tilting my head so he can move to the other side. His stubble is rough and his mouth is soft and it’s all I can do to hang on to his shoulders. When his teeth scrape my earlobe, my knees give out.
And then I’m lifted off the ground so easily I feel weightless, one of his forearms wrapped under my butt, the other hand still in my hair, fingers rasping against my scalp. He sets me on the edge of the counter, and I spread my legs so he can step between them, my skirt riding up my thighs.
My neat stacks of cash are now jumbles of bills fluttering to the floor, and I have the vague thought that we have a security camera trained right on the register, that the lights are on and it’s dark outside and anyone passing by could see us, but those feel like problems for future us to deal with. Here and now, Ryan is kissing me like he’s drowning and I’m desperate to inhale as much of him as I can before my brain catches up and reminds me that I’m the idiot who wanted to keep things professional.
One giant hand cradles the back of my head; the other slides around to encircle my neck, thumb trailing down my throat and dipping into the front of my blouse between my breasts, sending goose bumps across my skin. When he reaches the first button, he starts fumbling with it, and I let go of his shoulders and help him.
As soon as my blouse is open, he slips his hand inside and then it’s all rough callused palms on my skin, and I’m humming with pleasure as he shoves my bra up and out of the way. I wrap my legs around him and pull him against me; his breath rushes out and he dives in for another deep kiss. He’s rock hard, and I get a flash of him buried inside me, gasping and unraveling.
“Condoms?” I say. “Do you have one?”
He kisses my mouth, hard. “In the—” Another kiss as he waves a hand in the direction of the register. “Jar.”
Of course they have a jar of condoms next to their register. I’d laugh if I wasn’t so turned on.
I reach for the jar with one hand, the other grabbing for his belt, but he shakes his head and kneels in front of me. Flushed cheeks and bright eyes. Gazing up at me like I’m the most beautiful sight he can imagine.
I’m breathless, wanting him to get going, but he’s looking at my feet, dangling in front of him. He lifts one and inspects it. “These shoes,” he murmurs. “So many fantasies about these fucking shoes.”
“My shoes…you have a shoe fetish?”
His mouth quirks. “I have a Josie Klein fetish. You, wearing nothing but these shoes. Or pressed against a bookcase with my hand up your skirt. In bed with your hair loose. In the shower. Bent over my desk. All the time. Everywhere. I can’t stop thinking about you.” He presses a kiss to my ankle, then the inside of my knee, kissing his way up my thigh, spreading my legs wider and pushing my skirt out of the way as his mouth moves up up up until he’s right there, heat and softness pressing through the thin fabric of my panties.
“ Ryan ,” I gasp. I’m acutely aware of the front window twenty yards behind me. My back is to it, and I hope to god Ryan isn’t visible, because I’m physically incapable of stopping this.
“Tell me.” The words are a vibration. “Tell me what you want.”
“This.” My hands grip his hair as I move his mouth where I want it. I’m so wet it would be embarrassing—except it’s obvious that he wants me just as badly. His fingers are digging into my thighs, sliding up to squeeze my ass. “More. Harder. Yes .”
I hold his head and grind against him and he’s right there with me, allowing me to ride his face with wanton abandon. My vision goes hazy, and for a second I think I might actually die of pleasure, and wouldn’t that be a terrible shame when I still have my panties on?
I reach for my underwear, tugging it down, and again he’s right there, hungry and hot, tongue sliding and lips sucking, pulling me closer with one hand so he can slip two fingers inside me with the other. A sharp, sweet ache spreads through my body. My eyes roll back in my head and my legs tremble and I let out a sound I’ve never heard from my mouth, wild and unrestrained.
RJ was right: all the sex I’ve had has been mediocre. There really are men who love to do this, men who can’t get enough.
“I guess it’s not a myth,” I say, gasping.
Ryan freezes. “What?”
I shake my head, pulling him closer. “Nothing, sorry…”
But he rocks back on his heels. I look down at him, catching my breath. His hands are gripping my hips, and he’s gazing up at me with desperate eyes.
“I can’t do this,” he says. His lips are shiny, wet from me. “Not now. Not like this.”
“What?” I’m perched on a counter, my skirt around my waist and my underwear down my legs, the imprint of his mouth burning through me, and he’s telling me he can’t do this ?
His expression is pure misery. “I’m sorry. I—I need to stop.”
My stomach bottoms out. I’ve never behaved like this with a man, so needy, so blatantly desperate. And he’s…stopping?
“I don’t understand,” I whisper.
Slowly, he releases his grip on my hips and gets to his feet. There’s such obvious reluctance on his face, and my confusion grows—did I do something wrong? Did I come on too strong?
I reach down and pull up my underwear, then slide awkwardly off the counter, smoothing my skirt. My face is hot with shame; I can’t look him in the eye. I would have let him do anything he wanted with me…and he stopped.
I have never been so mortified in my life.
He starts buttoning my blouse, straightening my collar, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear. It’s so sweet—which makes everything worse. Tears prick my eyes and I blink furiously. No way in hell am I letting him see me cry.
“Let’s get you home,” he says quietly.
He finishes closing down his register, and somehow, I hold it together as he walks me to my apartment. No talking, no touching, no smiling. When we reach my building, he waits a few feet away as I get out my key and open the door.
Before going in, I muster what’s left of my dignity and face him.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been walked home after a rejection,” I say. “So thanks, I guess.”
His eyebrows pull together. “This isn’t a rejection.”
“Then what the hell is it?” It’s obvious I’m hurt. And that makes me feel even stupider.
“It’s an invitation,” he says.
“To what?” I demand. This man pulled away seconds before he would have given me the orgasm of my life, and he’s telling me it was an invitation ?
“To make this something more. Something real.”
“That wasn’t real ?” I choke out a laugh. “What are you saying?”
He takes a step forward. There’s something in his eyes that surprises me—determination.
“I’m saying that I’m falling for you, Josie. Hard. You’re the smartest person I’ve ever met, we have the best conversations, and you’re so beautiful I could look at you for hours and never get tired of the view. I think—” He clears his throat. “I think you could be endgame for me. But I’m not sure you feel the same way, and if that’s the case, I’ll deal with it and try to move on. Eventually. Hopefully.” He swallows. “But I care too much about you to have casual sex. This isn’t casual for me.”
“And you think it is for me?” This is all such a revelation that I’m having trouble digesting it, his words splintering as I try to grasp them. Falling. So beautiful. Endgame.
“I’m not sure. There are things you don’t—things I can’t—” His jaw clenches, as if he’s trying to decide what to say next. “I get the sense that you’re holding back.”
I scoff, disbelieving. “I wasn’t holding back tonight, Ryan. You were.”
He winces. “I mean emotionally. I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do.”
“I wanted to do you ,” I say. “That wasn’t clear?”
He smiles slightly, then shakes his head again. “It’s not enough. Not for me. Not with you.”
And he turns and walks away.
—
Once in my apartment, I immediately text Georgia. SOS.
Within fifteen seconds, she’s video calling me. “What’s up? You okay?” She’s sitting in bed, her glasses on, a pencil tucked behind one ear—probably doing some late-night studying.
Tears fill my eyes and roll down my cheeks. My face in the corner of the screen is blotchy and red, my hair a frizzy mess. This is exactly why I read books that make me cry—to get all these emotions out so I don’t have to experience them in real life.
Georgia’s forehead wrinkles in concern. “Jojo? What’s going on?”
I take a breath, grateful for my sister and her big, soft heart. Even after our disagreement about our mom—who I still haven’t called, despite Georgia’s urging—she’s here for me unconditionally. “Something happened with Ryan.”
“Tell me everything.”
I do, spilling it all in a messy jumble, and she listens without interjecting any sisterly asides. Maybe that therapy training really is paying off.
“Wow,” she says when I finish.
“Right?” I shake my head, wiping my eyes. “I just—I don’t understand what he wants.”
“It sounds like he cares about you,” she says. Then, more carefully, “It sounds like he’s…maybe in love with you?”
“How? He hardly knows me!” The words burst out. “Six weeks ago, we hated each other, and yeah, we’ve been spending a lot of time together, but not enough to say I’m endgame or whatever the hell that means.”
“So you don’t feel the same way?” Georgia says.
I freeze, running a hand through my hair. How do I feel about Ryan?
“I’m insanely attracted to him. Physically.”
“Do you like him? As a person?”
“Yes.” So much. “He’s kind and funny and thoughtful.”
“But…”
“But I’m confused about tonight! He wanted it as much as I did, and then he’s pulling away and saying he can’t do this ?”
“Sounds like he was trying to communicate his personal boundary. He doesn’t want to have sex without a deeper connection. Contrary to what many people believe, men crave emotional intimacy just as much as women do.”
“Thank you for that fascinating point, Dr. Klein,” I say dryly.
But I’m thinking of what Ryan told me about the customer who used him to act out her romance novel fantasies. Or the one who implied he was just tall . Does he think I’m doing the same?
“We do have an emotional connection,” I say. “More than any other guy I’ve been involved with.”
“How so?”
I think back over our interactions—once we got through the hostile phase. “I can relax around him. Like I don’t have to try so hard, if that makes sense? I feel…looser, I guess, when we’re together.” I sigh, shaking my head. “That sounds silly—”
“Not at all. How comfortable you feel around a partner is a huge indication of the success of a relationship.”
“We’re not in a relationship, though! Which is a good thing, because look how I’m acting, and nothing even happened.”
“I mean, I wouldn’t call tonight nothing .” Georgia smirks. “But that’s an interesting point. I can’t think of any guy you’ve been this shaken up over, even after dating a while. I’ve never seen you have much of an emotional response at all.”
“Maybe I’ve never liked anyone that much,” I say, which makes me wonder what’s different about Ryan.
Or maybe I’m different with him.
“Or you never let them get close enough to you to matter.” Georgia gives me a supportive smile. “Which makes sense, with what you saw growing up. Mom’s terrible relationships, all those boyfriends who dumped her and left.” She pauses. “But Ryan didn’t leave you, Jojo. He’s asking for more connection.”
My eyes fill with tears again. “Maybe I don’t know how to connect with anyone. Maybe I’ve spent so much time with books that I never learned how to handle real life, real relationships.”
Just like Mom. I hate considering this; I’ve always tried to not be like her.
“You had to handle more ‘real life’ at age ten than most people at age twenty-five,” Georgia says. “You’re just careful about who you let in, and that’s understandable. Is there anyone you have connected with deeply? Besides your favorite sister, I mean.” She grins teasingly. “Doesn’t have to be romantic.”
My mind instantly goes to RJ. I think we have something here , he wrote. Something that could be real .
“There’s a guy I’m friends with on this book forum. I’ve opened up to him about some fairly deep stuff.”
“But only online,” Georgia says, and I nod. “Not even a phone call or a video chat?”
I shake my head. “He wants to talk face-to-face. But I keep…chickening out.”
“Interesting.” She takes off her glasses and rests them against her chin. “So there’s a man in real life that you’re physically attracted to, but you’re holding back emotionally. And there’s another man online that you feel a deep connection with, but you won’t meet him in real life. Why?”
She’s definitely therapizing me now, but I think I’m okay with it?
“Because it’s scary!” I shake my head. “What if I meet RJ in real life and we have zero chemistry and it’s super awkward? I could lose him as a friend.”
“I don’t think that’s what you’re scared of. I think you’re worried that you’d have tons of chemistry in real life—and then you’d have to face the question of what happens next.”
She’s hit the nail on the head, and my eyes fill with tears again. There’s no turning the page and moving on when it’s your own life. No closing the book and choosing a new one. I’d have to face my own feelings, and that’s the scariest thing of all.
“RJ’s coming to IBNE,” I say, wiping my eyes. “He wants to meet up, and I’ve been avoiding it. But maybe I…maybe I should.”
Georgia studies me through the screen. “What would you do if you met RJ and the connection was there—physical, emotional, mental, all of it—and he felt the same way?”
“I think…I would want to go for it with him.” Even though I don’t know where he lives, or if our lives even make sense, I’d want to try.
“And what would happen with Ryan?” Georgia asks.
My stomach knots. The thought of hurting Ryan is physically painful. Not to mention, how could I show up at work every day and ignore the blazing-hot attraction between us? Would I spend the rest of my life thinking about what almost happened?
I wish I didn’t have to choose. I’ve gone thirty years without allowing myself to feel a connection with any man, and now I’ve gone and gotten attached to two. But as much as I don’t want to lose Ryan, my connection with RJ feels deeper. I need to give that a chance.
“I’d have to tell Ryan there’s someone else I’m interested in,” I say finally.
“Okay. And what if you meet RJ and you have zero chemistry?” Georgia asks.
My heart feels like it’s in a vise. I’ve built RJ up so much in my mind, but she’s right; there might be nothing there. Just a wonderful online friendship—which I would still be grateful for.
And if that’s the case?
Ryan’s face fills my mind, the sight of him kneeling between my legs, gazing up at me and confessing everything he’s fantasized about. It must have nearly killed him to step away. Yet, he did, because what he wants is something more, something deeper.
Am I brave enough to give that to him? I’m not sure, but I want to be. I want to have the courage to step out of my bookish little world and embrace the possibility of something real, even if it means risking my heart. Because continuing to let fear hold me back feels like the biggest risk of all.
“I think I know what I need to do,” I tell Georgia. “Thanks for listening.”
“Anytime,” she says, smiling.
After saying goodbye, I pull up my chat with RJ, take a deep breath, and send a message.
BookshopGirl: I would really like to meet you. In person.