Page 51 of Battle of the Bookstores

When we talked last night, BookshopGirl was so vulnerable; that couldn’t have been an act.

Could it?

Desperate to escape my swirling thoughts, I get up and keep walking, hoping I’ll tire out my feet and my mind.

—

The next day,I’m no closer to figuring this out. I’ve been going through my work tasks in a daze, trying to avoid Josie at all costs.

Because the other question I’m wrestling with is: What do I do now that I know?

I hate lying. Plus, I have no poker face. The next time I see Josie, she’ll probably see the truth written all over me.

“For god’s sake, spit it out already!”

I look up to see Nora, deceptively dressed like a sweet grandma, holding a basket of crochet projects in her arm.

“Spit what out?”

She tsks. “You’ve been moping around all day, staring at your phone like a lovesick girl waiting for someone to slide into her DMs.”

“What do you know about sliding into people’s DMs?”

Nora makes a sour face—nothing pisses her off more than someone implying she isn’t hip.

“Is it that girl you’ve been texting?” she asks, taking a seat at the other end of the couch.

My eyes widen. I try to keep my messaging with BSG to nonworking hours, but a few times—okay, a lot of times—we had really good banter going, like, Emily Henry–level banter, and I couldn’t wait to reply.

“Oh, don’t get your panties in a bunch,” Nora says. “I didn’t see anything. But there’s clearly someone.”

When I don’t respond, she shrugs and hands me a small, stuffed crocheted item.

“What do you think?” She smiles up at me, all sweetness.

“It’s…” I turn the object over, trying to figure out what it is. When Nora said she’d make romance-themed crochet projects to sell here, I assumed she meant more of the little animals she makes for her grandkids. Maybe this is some kind of sea cucumber? It’s light brown and oblong with two round—

“It’s a ween,” Nora says.

My hand yanks back, and it falls on the carpet.

“Good lord, don’t be such a prude.” Nora stoops to pick it up, but I reach down and grab it for her. “Now, if you don’t like it…”

She sounds hurt, and I realize that the entire basket is full of them, all different sizes and shades, from light tan to dark brown. These must have taken hours to make.

“They’re great!” I say, my voice high pitched. “So great! I really, really think they’re great.”

She gives me a skeptical look. “Well, I tried my best to showcase a range of styles. Cut and uncut, large and small, some a little curved—”

“There is someone,” I blurt out, holding up my phone.

Nora’s painted eyebrows start dancing. “I knew it! Who is she? How’d you meet?”

I wasn’t planning on talking about this with anyone, much less my septuagenarian employee, but it’s better than hearing a detailed description of the crocheted dongs I’ve apparently agreed to sell in the store.

“I don’t actually know who she is,” I say, which was true just yesterday. “And we met on BookFriends.”

“You mean Book More-Than-Friends,” she says with a wink.

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