Page 49 of Battle of the Bookstores

But the spattering gets louder. Maybe the door is cracked? I force myself to close the book and check it out.

My heart drops.

In the front corner, where the ceiling is exposed, one of the pipes is leaking water. All over my freshly arranged table of new releases.

“No!” I cry, running over. It’s not a full-on stream of water, more like a spray, but it’s covering a large area—the entire table, plus a few feet surrounding it.

Stacked with hardcovers, the table’s too heavy to move, so I start grabbing books—only to realize that exposes the lower layers of books to the water, too. Frantically, I look around for something to cover the table. The construction workers have left plastic tarps here before, but of course, not today. I run into my back room, find a box of trash bags, and race back to the front of the store.

I groan. The top layer of books is dotted with water—the beautiful dust jackets ruined, unsellable. Trying not to cry, I yank trash bags out and spread them across the books. The spray coats my hair, dripping into my eyes and blurring my vision—though that might be tears, too.

“Why is this happening to me?” I wail, out loud.

Out of the corner of my waterlogged eyes, I see a large blur coming toward me.

“What the—?”

I step back and wipe my eyes to clear them, shocked: Ryan Lawson is here. In my store. Voluntarily.

He’s bending at the waist, putting both hands on the heavy wood table and giving it a giant heave. The table moves a full foot across the floor, and he keeps pushing, grunting with the effort, until it’s clear of the water.

Then he straightens up, brushing wet hair out of his face, and turns toward me. Our eyes meet, and it’s like the entireworld slows down. He’s not wearing his glasses, his hair is swept back, and he’s giving off serious Clark Kent vibes—only, like, midtransformation. It’s unexpectedly appealing. Hot nerd meets superhero.

“You moved my table,” I say stupidly.

He removes the earbuds from his ears. “Yes.”

“Why?”

One corner of his mouth lifts. “Because it was getting wet? Like I said, I’d help you if you needed it.”

He doesn’t sound smug, though. He sounds awkward. I’m still staring at him, so I clear my throat and turn my attention back to the table. All these beautiful hardcovers, destroyed. Thousands of dollars of stock. My stomach twists.

“This is bad,” I say quietly.

Ryan comes up next to me. “Xander has insurance, right?”

“Yes, but…” My throat swells with panic. One of the baristas at Beans once accidentally left a metal spoon in a blender, which caused it to explode. Xander decided not to file a claim because he didn’t want to pay the deductible. He made Eddie eat the cost. “I don’t think he’ll use it for this.”

“The plumber must have done something wrong—he should cover the damages,” Ryan says, looking up at the ceiling.

I shake my head, despair creeping over me. “He told me to leave the area clear until he could come back next week, but it was blocking the flow of the store.” I shrug helplessly. “It’s my fault. That’s how Xander will see it, anyway.”

This will destroy my bottom line.

Ryan picks up a book. “The top layer of books might be ruined, but the ones underneath aren’t bad.” He takes off the dust jacket and peers at it. “Some might be salvageable. You couldn’t sell them for full price, but maybe at a discount?”

His tone is so peculiar. He sounds…concerned?

“Here, let’s get these off and see how it goes,” he says, and starts removing dust jackets. “Do you have any towels? And something to put around that pipe?”

Robotically, I grab paper towels, duct tape, and more trash bags from the back room, then return to the table.

Ryan is taking the wettest books off and setting them on the floor. The books underneath the top layer just have a few water speckles on them, and the relief I feel is overwhelming.

As Ryan duct-tapes layers of trash bag around the leaky pipe, I call the plumber, who says he’ll come soon to take care of it. Ryan and I turn our attention back to the books. Some are ruined, but fewer than I expected. Fewer than there would have been, if he hadn’t come.

“Why are you helping me?” I ask, my voice wobbling.

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