Page 79 of Battle of the Bookstores

“My college roommates and I…we used to come here to study. We’d go into Bates Hall and work on our papers and…” Deep breath. “I loved it there.”

The hushed voices, the huge domed ceiling, the rows of tables filled with people reading, studying, researching. The private thoughts and quiet conversations of all those booklovers filling the space like radio waves.

“I had to drop out of school,” I say in a rush. “And I haven’t been back here since.”

Ryan’s face softens, his eyebrows pulling together in concern. “Shit. I’m so sorry. I had no idea. We can leave if you’re not comfortable. But there’s a place here I want to check out, and you’re the only person I know who will appreciate it.”

I’m intrigued; I can’t help it. “What place?”

He hesitates, then says, “I know this is a crazy question, given our history over the past few weeks, but here goes: Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” I say, surprising myself.

His face breaks into a delighted smile. “Really? Okay—great news. Shall we?”

I nod, and he leads the way.

—

“So, what doyou think?” Ryan asks once we’re seated.

“It’s amazing,” I say, looking around.

He’s brought me to the Map Room, a tea and cocktails lounge just off the main entrance of the BPL. It’s all warm, dark wood and industrial brick accents, with cozy tables perfect for conversation—a hidden gem at a public library, of all places.

Despite the cozy atmosphere, I’m fussing with the menu, mentally rehearsing my rule:no drinking around Ryan Lawson. When our waiter comes by, Ryan orders a Summer Wind cocktail (the menu describes it as “fizzy, jammy, floral”) and a bunch of small plates to share. I order an oolong tea called the Iron Goddess, hoping it will bring me strength.

A month and a half ago, I’d never have predicted this. Me, sitting across from my nemesis. About to propose something that could change our lives forever.

“So, uh—how did you end up becoming a bookseller?” I ask, not quite ready to launch into my idea. “You said you weren’t a big reader as a kid.”

“Yeah, I didn’t read until third grade. Before that, letters and words looked like hieroglyphics. I couldn’t believe they meant anything.” He sits back, one arm extended across the empty chair next to him. “You were probably reading chapter books at that age.”

“Well…yeah. In third grade I readThe Hobbitand startedThe Lord of the Rings.”

“Seriously?” He whistles. “I was struggling withThe Cat in the Hat.”

“How did you go from Dr. Seuss to romance novels?”

His eyes spark with mischief as he leans forward. “Would you believe me if I said it had to do with a lonely parrot and a stack of Harlequins?”

Soon I’m laughing, imagining Ryan as a teenage hooligan shoplifting (badly) from a bookstore, then working off his debt by reading to the owner’s pet parrot.

“Nothing like erotic literature to motivate a teenage boy to read,” he says, grinning.

“I can imagine,” I say, then think about my mom and her habit of disappearing into her romances. “So reading all that…did you ever confuse reality with fantasy?”

“You mean, did I believe I was an eighteenth-century princess betrothed to a Scottish laird who is rough around the edges but remarkably tender in bed, and the first time he growled the words ‘my wife,’ I literally swooned?”

I snort a laugh and cover my mouth. “Yes?”

“No. But you can see how ridiculous that question is, right?” He leans forward, elbows on the table, his eyes bright. “When you were reading Tolkien, did you believe that you were a hobbit or an elf or a—a shieldmaiden riding into battle?”

“Iwantedto be a shieldmaiden riding into battle.”

“I bet you did,” he says, grinning. “Donning your armor, brandishing a sword, sacrificing yourself to save the ones you love.”

I shrug, a little surprised by how accurate that is. “I guess so.”

---