Page 66 of Battle of the Bookstores

“Cheers to that.” Ryan clinks his cup against mine, and we both take a sip. My eyes zero in on his throat, watching his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

“You’re a mystery, Josie Klein,” he says, turning to face me.

I refocus on his eyes. “How so?”

“Sitting on the sand, barefoot, drinking champagne out of a Solo cup, swapping stories about shitty relationships. But at the bookstore, you’re this self-contained, buttoned-up woman—”

“Oh, so I’m uptight.” I’ve heard these words before: Rigid. Ambitious. Cold.

“I thought so before,” he admits, “but not anymore. I’m trying to figure you out.”

My face warms as he watches me intently. It’s unnerving.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re so in control of yourself, your store, everything—”

“That’s an illusion,” I say, waving a hand.

“Why do you work so hard to maintain it?”

“I—I don’t know,” I say, forcing an awkward laugh. “My sister would say it stems from the lack of control I felt as a child.”

“So now you never let yourself lose control?” His voice, a little husky, scrapes some long-forgotten place inside me.

“Never,” I say. He raises an eyebrow. “Rarely,” I amend. “What about you—do you lose control?”

“With the right motivation? Sure.”

He holds my gaze, and I imagine what that would be like—to be the one to make him lose control. His body, his strength, fully unleashed. I remember the moment I had his lanyard in my fist, the hunger in his eyes.

Heat creeps down my spine.

“You’ve already seen it,” he says, then clarifies: “I never yell. I never lose my cool—until recently. With you. I’m sorry about that, by the way. But you get under my skin in a way no one else has.”

I swallow. “I guess I could say the same about you.”

There’s more to it than the fact that we’re competing for the same job. From that first meeting, there’s been an undercurrent of electricity between us—and now it’s crackling to life.

Again, probably the champagne. Or the moonlight glinting on the waves, the pop and sizzle of fireworks in the distance. Or it could be the way he’s watching me, like he’s uncovering some long-buried artifact. My life back in Boston, our competition, feels like a distant memory. And I can’t stop staring at his mouth.

“My what?” Ryan asks.

I blink; the champagne has definitely gone to my head. “Hmmm?”

“You said something about my…mouth?” He sounds amused—and a touch confused.

I consider brushing it off, but instead I find myself lifting my eyes to his and saying, “It’s a very nice mouth.”

His eyes flick tomymouth, and it’s like an outside force takes control of my body as I lean in and press my lips to his.

I pull away, but his hand comes to my jaw, bringing me back to him, light presses of his lips against mine, warm and sweet and almost chaste. It’s the exact opposite of what I would’ve expected after our prior interactions, the sharp words and heated glances. This is like sinking into the softest feather bed. The world around me turns hazy, and when he slides his hand into my hair, I can’t hold back a sigh of pleasure.

He kisses me slowly, purposefully, all his attention on me, on our lips gliding against each other. I have the vague thought that this probably isn’t a great idea, but that’s drowned out by the fizzy sensation rising in my chest. The lush softness of his mouth, the gravelly hum he makes as I slip my hand into his thick, wavy hair. Involuntarily, I shift closer, trailing my other hand down his shoulder, feeling the tension in his muscles; there’s something fascinating about that controlled strength. Knowing that he could take what he wants but is choosing to follow my lead.

Then his lips part, and his tongue meets mine, and it’s like the first bite of the most delicious dessert—I am suddenly ravenous.

I pull myself even closer, deepening the kiss, my hands raking through his hair. My teeth catch on his lower lip, and a soft groan rumbles in his throat, sending sparks of pure lust straight through my core. His hand in my hair curls into a fist, a tight knot that’s right on the edge between pleasure and pain, as he kisses me with an intensity that steals my breath. He’s hungry and urgent, and I’m desperate and greedy. I’m practically climbing into his lap as he kisses my jaw and myneck, his stubble rasping against my skin, making me moan in a way that’s maybe a little embarrassing, but I’m too far gone to care.

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