Page 57 of Battle of the Bookstores

His phone vibrates on the counter between us, and I take that as my cue to go.

“One second,” he says as he picks it up. “Don’t leave yet, okay? I—I need to talk to you about something.”

I nod, confused, and wait, looking at the Blind Date with a Book display while trying not to eavesdrop. But Ryan’s voice is loud, and it’s hard not to overhear.

“Yes, of course,” he’s saying. “Before the cake cutting. I promise.”

A wedding? He doesn’t sound thrilled.

The person on the phone says something—a woman’s voice, though I can’t make out the words—and he sighs. “The answer is still no. and I’m fine—I got a room at the Star Inn.”

Another pause, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer, the voice I imagine he reserves for people he knows well. People he loves. “Of course I’m excited. Uh-huh. See you soon. Love you, too.”

He ends the call, and I turn away to hide my burning cheeks. Maybe his girlfriend? I bet she’s easygoing and sweet. She probably adores Hallmark movies and gets her nails done every week so she’s prepared for when Ryan proposes?

“Sorry about that,” he says to me. “My parents are having a party for their fiftieth anniversary this weekend—my mom is firming up the details.”

“That was your…mom?”

So maybe he’s single. Not that I care.

He nods. “She thought that maybe if she asked for the fifteenth time, the answer would change and I’d be bringing a date.”

“Ah,” I say. “The mom-pressure—my sister and I get that, too. Why are they obsessed with their children’s dating lives?”

“My parents have this epic love story…” He shakes his head. “Anyway, my mom wants that for her sons, and I’m the only unmarried one, so she’s obsessed with my romantic prospects. Talks about it constantly. Makes it awkward at family functions.”

The rush of sympathy I feel surprises me—I understand the pain of feeling uncomfortable around your own mom. “Would it be easier if you had someone with you?”

The words are out of my mouth before I realize what I’ve said.

His eyebrows shoot up. “Are you offering to come?”

“Of course not,” I say quickly.

“It sounded like you were.” His expression is serious, but there’s laughter dancing in those honey-brown eyes. “Like you’re dying to live out a Fake Dating trope at my parents’ party.”

“Ha,” I scoff, strangely flustered. “Right.”

He leans closer, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “You could play the part of a loving girlfriend, hold my hand, dance with me. Help convince everyone I’m not pathetically single. Sounds right up your alley.”

He’s messing with me, of course. But for some inexplicable reason, my mind conjures up an image of being pressed against him on the dance floor, his hand firm against my low back, my cheek resting on his chest. An overwhelming sensation of yearning rushes through me.

I blink; what the hell is wrong with me? He’s scrambled my brain. Rattled me so thoroughly that I’m having fantasies ofdancingwith him. The ultimate form of sabotage.

Maybe I can flip the tables on him. Throwhimoff his guard.

“Sure,” I say, looking up at him through my lashes. “We could even try for a steamy kiss in front of everyone, just to really sell it.”

The laughter fades from his expression and his eyes crackle with heat. Suddenly, I can imagine it: his hand coming up to cup my jaw, pulling my mouth to his. We wouldn’t be tentative, not with all these weeks of tension between us—his kiss would be punishing, almost vicious, drawing me closer, then pushing me away, leaving me breathless and aching in front of his entire family.

There’s no way in hell I’d ever do that.

And yet, when he says, “Is that what you want?” in a low, smoky voice—

I hear myself whispering, “Yes.”

He holds my gaze. “Great. It’s in Maine, so we’d have to stay overnight.”

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