Page 110 of Battle of the Bookstores

He blinks. “Wait—did you know?”

I nod, dazed. It was one thing to stare at my phone and put the pieces together. Quite another to stand here, facing him, knowing it for certain. My throat tightens with a feeling somewhere between anger and betrayal.

“Why didn’t you tell me—is this some kind of weird game?”

“No. Of course not.” Ryan takes a step forward, eyes flashing with panic. “Josie. I—I’ve been trying to tell you, I swear, but every time I asked about meeting in person…”

I said no. I kept asking him to be patient, to wait until I was ready—and he did.He did exactly what I asked.So why does my chest hurt so much? Why am I fighting tears and struggling to catch my breath?

“It’s really you?” My voice is faint.

He nods, the bouquet drooping in one hand. “It’s me. Ryan James Lawson.”

“How did you figure it out?” I ask, staring up at him in disbelief.

“I saw you reading—”

“The Princess Bride,” I say, gasping. “You knew before we went toMaine?”

He winces.

“And you knew my sister’s name.” I can’t believe I didn’t make the connection before. “You knew my mom read bodice rippers. Things I didn’t tell RJ, things I told Ryan. Or vice versa. Whatever. Fuck. I can’t—” My voice is getting hysterical. “He’s been you the whole time? You’ve been him? The whole fucking time?”

The world tilts, and I look for somewhere to sit. To calm myself down so I can approach this rationally.

“Wait, don’t go—” Ryan puts out a hand and grabs my arm. “Can you give me ten minutes? Five minutes? I don’t blame you for being upset, but let me explain. Please.”

The rawness in his voice jolts me out of my dizziness and confusion, and I force myself to look at him. Really look at him. He’s an absolute wreck, his eyes teary, his hand still clutchingthe daisies. The expression on his face is complete and utter despair.

And then it all crystallizes.

The two men I’ve been torn between are one and the same. RJ is Ryan and he’s standing in front of me, staring at me like his heart is cracking in pieces. That ache in my chest? It’s the pain of realizing what I’ve missed out on all these weeks. I could’ve had him—all of him—if I’d been brave enough to meet him the first time he asked.

And I’ll be damned if I miss out on a moment more.

Without a word, I put my arms around him. He hesitates briefly before wrapping his arms around me in the best hug I can imagine, like being wrapped in a blanket fresh out of the dryer. He’s rubbing my back, whispering that he’s sorry, that he wanted to tell me but didn’t know how, that he’s crazy about me, that he’ll do anything to make this up to me. My hands clutch his suit jacket, my eyes leak tears onto his shirt, and I inhale his scent in deep, calming breaths. It’s my favorite smell in the entire world.

“Don’t cry, BookshopGirl,” he whispers, so quiet I almost don’t catch it. “Don’t cry.”

“Can we go somewhere?” I say, my face still buried in his chest.

“I put our name in for a table. We can talk more. I know this is all such a mess, but I’ll try to explain everything.”

That’s the smart thing to do. Sitting down for dinner and hashing it all out, discussing what this means for our partnership at the bookstore, if we should let our relationship go further. This is my usual approach: keeping my distance, avoiding my feelings, compartmentalizing everything into manageable, safe categories.

But if I’ve learned anything from the books I love to read, it’s that life is full of misunderstandings, raw emotions, and hard truths—and so are relationships. I’ve sometimes wondered if spending too much time lost in fiction has left me unable to face reality, but maybe it’s done the opposite. Maybe it’s been preparing me all along for this very moment: messy and complicated and real.

And now? I’m finally ready.

I look up at him. “I don’t want to go to dinner.”

“Oh,” he says, disappointment in his eyes. “I understand—”

“You have a room, right?”

He blinks. “At the hotel? Yes.”

“Then let’s go.”

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