Page 2 of Battle of the Bookstores

After that, I lock the door behind me and step into a crisp, sunlit morning. My bookstore is right in the heart of Davis Square, my favorite neighborhood in the Boston area—tree-lined streets, brick-paved sidewalks, charming shops, and eclectic restaurants. It’s late May and the day is already warm, the air filled with the gentle hum of traffic and the occasionaltingof a bicycle bell.

I step into Beans, where I breathe in the life-giving aroma of coffee. Xander’s not here yet, thankfully.

“Josie!” Eddie Callahan, the manager, calls. His classic Southie accent, tattoos, and gruff exterior hide the fact that he’s a total softie. “Good mornin’, sweetheart. The usual?”

“Yes, please,” I say, smiling as I walk up to the counter. “How’s the morning rush going?”

“Nearly over, thank god.” Eddie motions over his shoulder at a blonde barista, who’s struggling with the complicated espresso machine. “You know how it is—you hire someone, hoping to get some help, and it ends up taking ten times as much energy to train ’em.” He shakes his head. “I shouldn’t complain when you’re staffing that place alone seven days a week.”

“My sister helps when she can,” I say.

Eddie gives me a worried-uncle look. “You’re gonna burn yourself out, kid. Let’s get you an extra shot of espresso and a cheese croissant. On the house.” He winks.

He fusses over me like a mother hen in a way my own mom never did, and his concern unexpectedly makes my throat tighten.

“You’re the best,” I say.

“That’s a fact.” Another wink. “I’ll have Mabel bring your order. Good luck with the boss man today.”

I thank him and turn. Xander’s arrived; he’s seated at a table next to a man whose back is to me.

“Good morning,” I say as I pull up a chair.

Xander—short and balding and with a perpetual irritated frown—gives me a curt nod, then motions between me and the other guy. “I assume you two know each other?”

“No,” I say, as the guy turns and says, “Yes.”

I blink, confused. He does seem familiar, but I can’t place him. He’s around my age, with messy brown hair and tortoiseshell glasses. He’s wearing a brown cardigan and a pink lanyard stuck all over with colorful pins. I assume thelanyard holds a name tag, but it’s flipped around, so that’s no help.

Xander is introducing us, but I only snap to attention as he says, “—and this is Josie Klein, who manages Tabula Inscripta.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say, embarrassed. “I don’t remember meeting you before.”

This isn’t unusual for me—sometimes I’m so deep into a book that even when I’m not reading, my mind is stuck on the story and I can have a whole conversation and hardly remember it.

The guy blinks at me from behind his glasses, a confused smile tugging at his lips. “I manage…Happy Endings?”

He points to his right, the opposite side of the coffee shop from my store.

It all clicks, and my stomach drops. He’s the tall guy who runs the romance bookstore on the other side of Beans. Eddie once told me he made some comment about how there’s “not enough caffeine in the entire coffee shop to keep people awake while reading the books sold at the Tab.” Eddie thought it was funny, but it hit a nerve. I grew up being teased about my adoration for books that put everyone else to sleep. And sure, literary fiction isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, but coming from a fellow bookseller? That stung.

“Oh, right,” I say. “The massage place around the corner?”

It’s supposed to be a joke, and maybe a little payback, but the man’s smile drops abruptly.

“It’s a bookstore,” he says.

Apparently, this guy can dish it out, but he sure can’t take it. Or maybe I’m “not that funny,” as I’ve been told plenty of times. Guess that’s what happens when you spend yourformative years inhaling books rather than learning how to, you know, people.

“I—I know,” I say awkwardly. “You just sell romance.”

His jaw tightens, and I realize my error—I didn’t meanjust romancelike I’m disparaging the genre, I meant romance is the only genre he sells.

This is going all wrong—I’m operating at peak social awkwardness today; usually I enjoy making connections with other people in the industry.

“Let’s start over,” I say, sticking my hand out. What did Xander say his name was? Brian? “It’s nice to officially meet you, Brian. I’m Josie.”

He gives me a tentative shake. His hand is huge, engulfing mine. “I know who you are, and it’s—”

---