Chapter 1 #2
“And your coffee order is like your books, right, Josie?” Xander continues, grinning. “Boring and bitter. What’d you call her store, Lawson? A bleak wasteland of existential dread?”
He laughs and nudges Brian, who huffs out a half laugh before stopping himself. But he doesn’t correct Xander.
I press my lips together, seething. I won’t make the mistake of feeling bad for him again.
Xander’s phone buzzes on the table and he answers it, holding up a finger to indicate that we should wait. Then he stands and walks a few steps away, barking into his phone about a construction project.
Mabel reappears with my drink. “Here you go—Americano, no milk, no sugar.”
“Thanks,” I say.
Brian’s lips twitch, like he’s trying not to smirk. Probably thinking his good pal Xander really nailed me: Boring and bitter.
I know I should ignore him, but this guy is getting to me. So many people see a buttoned-up bookseller and assume I’m timid. But when it comes to defending my store—and the stories within it—I don’t hold back.
I face him. “Excuse me?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Well, you sure seem to have an opinion about my coffee choice.” And my books. “Please, do share.”
Brian blinks and licks his lips. “Just wondering . . . does anyone actually enjoy that kind of drink? Or do they order it because”—his eyes flick toward my store—“they think it impresses other people?”
My jaw tightens. I’ve always believed that book people are the best people, but there’s an exception to every rule.
“Maybe I’ve learned to appreciate complex, nuanced flavors,” I say, and take a sip of my Americano. It burns my tongue, and I wince.
His eyebrows lift.
“It’s hot,” I say, too defensively.
“Okay.” He takes a long, long sip of his drink and I suppress a sigh, telling myself not to let him get under my skin.
When Brian sets his cup down, there’s a dot of whipped cream on his upper lip. My eyes zero in as his tongue slips out and licks the cream away. Something prickles across my skin, like static electricity.
I shake myself and look away.
“What?” he says.
“Nothing. Just seems like you’re really enjoying your drink.”
“I am.”
“Great. It’s important to know what you like, Brian—”
“You have no idea what I like,” he says, eyes flashing. “You don’t even know my—”
“Can we keep moving?” Xander says, returning to his seat. As if we’re the ones who interrupted the meeting.
“Absolutely,” I say, picking up my pen again and facing him. The sooner this ends, the sooner I can go back to avoiding Brian. “You had something to talk with us about?”
“Yes,” Xander says. “I’m combining your stores and Beans.”
Brian chokes on his drink.
I stare at Xander. “Combine . . . our stores?”
Xander nods. “It’s been my plan all along, and the pieces are finally falling into place. This neighborhood doesn’t need two bookstores so close together. It’s bad for business, built-in competition.”
I’m about to tell him that my clientele is entirely different from that of a romance bookstore, but Xander’s still talking.
“And you know what people like to do when they shop for books? Drink coffee. Eddie says customers are always coming here and reading. So I figured, hey, let’s combine it all.
One big bookstore with a coffee shop in the middle.
People can get Harry Potters and parenting books and spy thrillers and sit right down and read them. You know?”
I’m speechless. Appalled. A little nauseated.
Tabula Inscripta has always been a small, boutique bookstore focusing on literary fiction and select non-fiction. I spend hours each season curating my selection, just as the prior owner, Jerome, taught me. I imagine his bushy gray eyebrows rising in horror at all these changes.
“But our bookstores are totally different,” Brian says.
“Yes, completely different customer bases,” I say, nodding. “We’re not in competition.”
“Well, you’ll figure it out,” Xander says. “I mean, one of you will.”
I blanch. “What?”
“No reason for me to pay two managers for one store.”
“So—one of us is out of a job?” Brian sounds horrified.
“Who?” I ask, instantly sick. Xander is a man’s man. I know he’s going to choose Brian—the two of them already seem chummy.
“I’m not deciding right now,” Xander says. “Here’s the plan.”
He launches into a detailed explanation, and I do my best to take notes, even though my head is spinning.
Construction will start in a couple of weeks, and the stores will stay open during the process.
Xander anticipates the process taking three months, and the manager who earns the most profit during that period will be the manager of the new store.
The other will be looking for a new job.
“So you’ll hire either Brian or me, based solely on financials?” I hate the idea of being judged by profit—if Xander knew anything about bookselling, he’d know that owning an indie bookstore will never make him rich—but at least it’s an objective measure.
Brian frowns. “It’s actually—”
“Exactly,” Xander interrupts. “I anticipate making my decision by Labor Day.”
I sneak a glance at Brian. I can’t get a bead on him.
The cardigan, lanyard, and tortoiseshell glasses are giving “small-town librarian,” which isn’t a terrible vibe for a bookseller.
The messy hair, I’ll admit, bothers me; he can’t take the time to comb his hair before work?
But maybe that’s a good thing—maybe he’s a mess in other aspects of his life, including his managerial skills.
Brian’s eyes flick over to meet mine. My skin prickles again.
Behind his glasses, his eyes are warm golden brown, like dark honey, and my stomach coils tight with the strangest sensation.
For one split second, I get a flash of us sitting at this table, each with a coffee and a book, reading together.
Ha. No way—he’d probably make snarky comments about my book being better than Ambien.
Plus, he’s my competition.
Brian shifts his weight, which makes his lanyard slip forward, revealing some of the colorful pins. They say things like morally gray >>>, book whore, in my smut era, spread those pages.
And one that I cannot for the life of me understand: stfuattdlagg.
Focus, I tell myself. This man has disparaged my books, my store, and my personality.
Now he could end up with my job? Everything I’ve worked for in the past five years, the reputation I’ve built, the clientele I’ve cultivated—all my goals for the future are riding on this.
I’ve pulled myself out of the humiliating hole of my past to create a career I’m proud of.
I can’t let this guy take that away.
At least my chances of winning are decent. I mean, how many books could a romance bookstore sell, anyway?