Page 58 of Battle of the Bookstores

My stomach clenches; this is spiraling out of control. Now I’m seeing images of Ryan, shirtless, tossing me onto a bed, pinning me down, devouring me.

I take a step back, shaking my head. “I was kidding, Ryan.”

“Were you?” He’s still holding my gaze, intense and focused. I shiver involuntarily. “I didn’t think Josie Klein was the type to back out of a commitment.”

“I didn’tcommitto anything!” I protest.

“You sounded pretty committed to me. We’ll leave tomorrow after work and come home on Saturday. Or are you going to chicken out?”

We’re in a standoff, facing each other like two dueling cowboys. Who’s going to flinch first? Not me.

“IfI come with you to this party,” I say, putting my hands on my hips, “I won’t be in your debt anymore. Agree?”

I’m simply calling his bluff. Nothing to do with this bizarre pull I feel toward him, the insistent whisper nagging me to figure out what makes him tick. And definitely nothingwhatsoeverto do with the way my body reacts to him.

“Fine, whatever,” he says. He takes his glasses off and rests his forearms on the counter, leaning down to study me, as if the information he’s looking for is somewhere on my face. “But this could get messy. Are you sure?”

He’s giving me an out, like he knows I don’t have the guts to follow through. And it’s true: the thought of going to a huge party where the only person I know happens to hate me…makes me want to curl up in a ball and hide.

But there’s nothing I despise more than being underestimated.

I force myself to think through the logistics. It’s July 4th weekend—the store will be closed anyway. Boston goes crazy over Independence Day, fireworks and concerts and crowds, and I wouldn’t mind getting away. Other than the car ride, I just need to hang out at the party with Ryan for a couple hours. I can get my own room at that inn he mentioned.

Meanwhile, I’ll use this opportunity to gather useful information on him. Convince him that I’m not a threat, learn his secrets, and when we return—swoop in and crush him.

“Positive,” I say.

His eyes narrow. “You’re plotting my death. You’re going to slip poison into my drink. Suffocate me in my sleep.”

“That’s always a risk,” I say, cocking an eyebrow, trying to look confident and a little devious—rather than flustered and confused.

He huffs a half laugh; apparently he doesn’t think I’m athreat. “What happens when it’s all over? We go back to trying to destroy each other’s prospects for the future?”

“Exactly.”

A strange expression crosses his face—almost like sadness. Then he shakes his head, like he’s still bewildered by this whole turn of events. I know I am.

“Okay. Fine,” he says. “I’ll book you a room at the inn—”

“You don’t have to—”

“I’m getting you your own room, Josie.”

His voice is stiff, and my face flushes. That isnotwhat I meant. “Thanks,” I whisper, unable to meet his eyes.

“Meet me here tomorrow afternoon at four,” he says. “And pack a dress you can dance in.”

16

Ryan

Josie—BookshopGirl—leftten minutes ago. Having her here, bustling around my personal space under the guise of helping, was unsettling.

How many times did I wish my online crush would walk in the front door of Happy Endings, giving me a secret smile that would somehow let me know it was her? She’d tell me her name—something literary and classic like Emma or Jane or Anne—and I’d buy her a coffee at Beans (something sweet, like her), and we’d sit and talk for hours.

I’d be able to open up and tell her the things I haven’t been able to talk about with anyone: That even if I get the manager job, I’m terrified the store will change so much it won’t be recognizable. Or worse, that I don’t have the ability to manage a bookstore that sells other genres. How angry I am at Xander for putting us in this position, for forcing me to be so competitive and cutthroat.

Of course, in my fantasy, BookshopGirl was not the manager of the Tab. Oh, how quickly a dream can become a nightmare.

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