Page 77 of Battle of the Bookstores

We.Things would be so much easier if we could join forces and be on the same team, against Xander.

“Just one,” I say, echoing her. “Remarkably Bright Creatures—but it took me fifteen minutes to find it.”

She gives me a confused look. “It’s shelved under the V’s. For the author’s last name. Van Pelt, Shelby. Where did you think it would be?”

“Maybe on a table with books about unexpected friendships, or books set in the Pacific Northwest. Or even books with charming characters that also happen to be marine animals.”

Josie cringes. “That would be utter chaos.”

“Well, it’s a lot more inspiring than the letterV,” I snap, offended on behalf of my creative shelving system.

She tilts her chin up in challenge. “How do you organize romance? Enlighten me.”

I have a flash of picking her up, carrying her to the back room, and spending the rest of the night showing her what I’ve learned from reading romance novels. She probably thinks it’s all smooth moves and sexual antics, but really, it’s listening. Paying attention.

I’m dying to know what makes Josie’s panties wet, what’ll make her lose control—even more than she did on the beach. But that’s not what she asked me.

“Well,” I say, conjuring up a mental image of Happy Endings’ myriad corners. “There’s YA, new adult, and adult. There’s contemporary and historical. Romance that merges with fantasy—romantasy. Think Sarah J. Maas or Rebecca Yarros.”

“Faerie smut and dragon riders,” she says. “Got it.”

If I look shocked that she knows these authors and their books, it’s because I am.

“I keep up with trends,” Josie says. “Although if I carried those books, they’d be comfortably tucked in with the other M’s and Y’s.”

Shaking my head at her traditional thinking, I continue on, describing all the other ways I might organize the store: by subgenres, tropes, historical eras, or heat level.

“Sounds complicated,” Josie says, looking genuinely surprised.

“And fun,” I say. “Imagine a hypothetical book about two men on rival hockey teams who fall in love. Where do I shelve it? Contemporary, sports romance, LGBTQ+, or enemies to lovers? And what if one of the characters has an adorable pet cat—”

“Okay, okay,” Josie says, resting her hand on my forearm. The feel of her skin on mine sends a jolt through my body, bringing back memories of the beach, the way her fingers trembled as she struggled to undo the buttons on my shirt.

My breath stills. Her bottom lip is caught between her teeth, and when she releases it, I move closer. My eyes are asking permission, and hers are granting it—

When the goddamn door opens and a customer walks in.

Luckily, Josie has him in and out in less than ten minutes, after locatingDemon Copperheadamong the K’s (for Barbara Kingsolver).

“That would have taken me an hour,” I admit, once the customer has gone.

Josie turns back toward me, but she’s put distance between us, like the bridge has gone up and there’s no chance ofcrossing the moat to rescue the princess from her strictly regulated world.

“I wouldn’t be able to handle the way you have it,” she admits.

“Does it come back to having control?” I ask. “Your intense need for organization.”

“It’s notthatintense,” she says. I arch an eyebrow. “Okay, maybe it’s a little intense. But it’s efficient.”

“Clearly.” Maybetooefficient. Yes, the customer found what he was looking for, but he didn’t have a chance to stumble over anything else he might have fallen in love with.

“Well, my mom—”

“The reader of bodice rippers,” I say.

Josie tilts her head. “Did I tell you about her?”

Shit, shit, shit.

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