Page 65 of Battle of the Bookstores

“But you still love romance,” I say. “Despite all that.”

“Because it’s not just about the sex, it’s about the connection. Elaine, the woman who started the store, she used to say that the fantasy is less about the woman getting seven orgasms and more about the man wanting to give them to her. Caring about her experience. Apparently, this is so rare that women had to invent an entire genre to get that.”

I can’t help it; I blush. “Okay…”

He leans back and glances at me, his eyes twinkling like he’s enjoying my reaction. “Anyway. The reason I love romance, and why I’m so passionate about promoting diversity in the genre, is because I love helping people find love stories they can see themselves in.” He tilts his head in my direction. “So why do you like literary fiction? To me, it’s always seemed like homework or something.”

“You’re right, it’s not easy to read,” I say, and consider howto explain it. “It’s like…like mining for diamonds, and sometimes you’re stuck in the dark, chiseling through rock—but when you uncover those jewels…” I sigh happily. “It’s so worth it, more so than if they were right out in the open.”

I glance over at Ryan, hoping he didn’t take that as me insultinghisfavorite genre. But he nods and says, “Interesting. For me, reading is for relaxation. Escape.”

“It’s an escape for me, too. Disappearing into a story, feeling the emotions of the characters, experiencing a different life—”

“So how do you handle it when the story ends badly?”

“Badly?” I repeat. “You mean, a tragic ending? Because those aren’t bad if they’re right for the story. When I was a kid, I loved books that made me cry—Charlotte’s Web,Where the Red Fern Grows,Bridge to Terabithia—”

“Ihatedthose books,” he says, shaking his head. “Isn’t life hard enough?”

“But reading is different—you always know you can close the book if you need to. Whereas if you’re going through anactualtragedy…”

“You can’t close the book,” he says, nodding.

“Exactly.” I smile over at him. How is this the same guy I called a basic run-of-the-mill asshole?Thisguy is articulate, thoughtful, and interesting.

“Now back to the prior topic,” he says, and I refocus. “Haveyouever hooked up with a customer?” When I wince, he grins, his eyes glinting in the moonlight. “You have!”

“I only made that mistake once.”

“Details,” he prompts. “I told you about the blue alien thing.”

I laugh, then take a long sip of champagne, draining the cup.

“Let’s just say that MFA candidates who idolize Vonnegut and write about the existential pain of being a white man in America are—shocker!—not great boyfriends.”

“I can imagine,” he says, smiling.

“You can’t. Not unless you’ve been stopped in the middle of sex so he can grab his Moleskine and jot down a phrase he wants to use in his latest work in progress.”

Ryan laughs—that big, booming laugh I always hear echoing from his store. It’s like a warm hug, and I’m not sure why I ever found it irritating.

“I think he hoped dating a bookseller would be helpful once he sold his Great American Novel,” I say. “But he figured out pretty fast that publishing moves at a snail’s pace, so it would entail years of investment on his part—which he wasn’t interested in. Not that I was, either.”

Like Georgia pointed out, I don’t tend to get emotionally invested in anyone I date. What’s the point, when it’s going to end anyway?

“Let me guess, he never sold his novel?” Ryan says with a grin.

“Oh, he did. To an obscure small press.”

I stretch out my legs, digging my toes into the cool sand. “I mean, it sold better than I expected. I looked it up on BookScan once—sixty-three copies in the first year.”

He bursts out laughing, and so do I, falling against him so our shoulders touch. I’m oddly disappointed when he straightens up, putting space between us. It’s got to be the champagne. Or the fact that the night is turning chilly. He’s warm; I’m cold.

“Anyway,” I say, “I’m sure that only fueled his delusions of being a misunderstood starving artist living in his two-bedroom apartment in Beacon Hill.”

“Because his parents pay his rent, of course,” Ryan says, nodding.

“He deserves it! He’s doing art!” I lift my cup. “I’m just glad he’s not doing me.”

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