Page 102 of Battle of the Bookstores

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 aninvitation?

“To make this something more. Something real.”

“That wasn’treal?” 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 thesame 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 doyou,” 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 myapartment, 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.

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