Page 3 of Battle of the Bookstores

“Great, we all know each other,” Xander says, interrupting. “But I’ve called you both here for a reason.”

I turn to face him, pull out my notebook, and write the date in the top right corner. I consider writingBRIAN, too, so I can commit the name to memory, but I’m worried he’ll see it.

“Here you go!” a cheery voice says, and I look up to see the new barista, Mabel. She sets a drink in front of me. “An iced white-chocolate-chunk macchiato with two extra pumps of vanilla, miss.”

“Oh, this isn’t mine,” I say, handing it back to her. “I had an Americano?”

Mabel gasps. “I’m sorry! Eddie said to bring it to this table, I figured since you’re the only woman here—”

“It’s mine,” Brian mumbles.

Xander chuckles. “Should’ve been obvious—he’s the one who works at the girly bookstore.”

Mabel scurries off as Brian’s ears turn pink. My stomachclenches. I know how it feels to be on the receiving end of Xander’s digs.

“Xander,” I say, “that’s not—”

“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 itbecause”—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.”

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