Page 11 of Battle of the Bookstores

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Beans is bustling.Eddie’s new hire, Mabel, takes my order (an Americano for me, a dirty iced chai for Georgia), smiling nervously as she promises to get it right this time.

“Is she scared of me?” I ask Eddie, who’s wiping down a table.

“No, she’s scared ofme.I gave her a lecture about not assuming someone’s gender based on their coffee order.” He gives me a concerned look. “You okay?”

I slump into a chair, the wordbitchcrawling around my mind like an ugly spider. “I had a terrible customer.”

“Already? You’re not even open!”

“I know!” I tell him the story, and he looks appalled. “It just felt so…belittling. Xander does the same thing.”

Eddie gives my shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. “Try not to let the bastards get to ya.”

Something occurs to me. “Wait—how does Xander’s plan affect Beans?”

He shrugs. “My guess is I’ll be working under the head manager.”

I hear the disappointment in his voice. Eddie enjoys being in charge as much as I do.

“If I win, I’ll make sure you get to keep running it the way you want.”

He hesitates a beat too long before saying, “Thanks, darling.”

Hang on. Does he not think I’m going to win?

“Eddie,” I say, leaning forward, “what do you—”

“Oh, would you look at that line—I better help Mabel before she dissolves into tears.”

He rushes back to the register, and I sit back, stung. Eddie’s my friend—and he underestimates me, too? Maybe he knows something I don’t. He’s like the Mayor of Davis Square, keeping tabs on everything. He sees how many people go into Brian’s store compared to mine and how many walk out with purchases. Meanwhile, I don’t know much about Happy Endings. All I know is that the clientele is mostly women (judging by the customers I’ve seen holding the store’s pink-and-gold bags), and I think the employees are, too.

“Josie?”

I stand and run smack into a solid chest. A hand grips my arm to steady me. I look up; it’s Brian.

He’s shockingly tall this close—even with my four-inch heels, he towers over me. I have to tilt my chin way up, giving me a view of his jaw, covered in light brown flecks of stubble. The heat of his hand gripping my arm radiates through the sleeve of my blouse.

“Excuse me,” I say, taking a step back.

He releases me and clears his throat. “Sorry. I was…uh, hoping we could chat?”

Today, Brian’s wearing a gray cardigan, along with his pin-studded lanyard and tortoiseshell glasses. His hair’s still a mess, though if he was a hero in a romance novel it would probably be described asflowing chestnut locks that partially obscure the piercing gaze of his mahogany eyes.

I’m not sure what he wants, but I’m not having this conversation while he’s looking down on me.

“Sure,” I say. “Let’s sit.”

He seems surprised, but nods, and we both pull out chairs.My eyes catch on another pin on his lanyard:When I Think About Books, I Touch My Shelf.

It takes me a moment to get it. When I do, the song by the Divinyls starts playing in my head, sparking a memory: my mom, dancing around the kitchen, deep in the throes of another love affair with another man she swore was the One. Little Georgia, dancing along, hope sparkling in her eyes. Forgetting that in a few weeks, this boyfriend would dump our mom and she’d be back in bed, crying with the curtains drawn, forgetting that her two young daughters needed meals, clean laundry, and help with homework.

Shaking that away, I refocus on Brian. He’s staring at me, his eyes drifting across my face like I’m a book he’s reading.

Aboring, bitterbook.

“You wanted to talk?” I say.

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