Page 82 of Battle of the Bookstores

“Gold star for helping tiny elderly ladies reach the top shelf,” I say. “And another for having a staff that genuinely respects you.”

He smiles; my stomach goesflip, and I look down. His left hand and my right are resting flat on the table, a millimeter of space between our fingertips. My palm tingles, remembering how it felt to slide under his shirt, his skin fever hot. The broad span of his back, the cords of muscle flexing beneath my fingers.

My breath quickens, and I slide my hand forward a fraction of an inch.

He does the same. Our fingertips graze. My nervous system is going haywire, the touch of his skin on the sensitive pads of my fingers sending golden light darting up my arm. He turns his palm over, an invitation, and when I slide mine into his, his thumb sweeps across the back of my hand, then down each finger one by one, like he’s committing their size and shape to memory.

I’ve never considered the aesthetics of a man’s hands before, but Ryan’s are near perfect: thick fingers, a palm as comfortable as a well-worn baseball glove, knuckles that are just a bit knobby. I starfish my hand flat against his, then curl it, stroking his palm with my fingertips, feeling the scrape of calluses. When I sneak a glance at his face, he’s focused on our hands, too, but then his lashes lift, and his gaze meetsmine for the span of one shaky breath. It’s too intense, the eye contact and the hand contact, so I look back down as his hand slides up and wraps around my wrist.

I swallow. He’s pulling me toward him, or maybe I’m pulling myself—but either way, his hand is sliding upward until he’s gripping my elbow and we’re leaning together across the table and—

“We’re closing soon, dears.” A librarian gives us a smile before moving on.

My breath rushes out and I pull my hands into my lap. My entire right arm is tingling.

“Ready?” Ryan says, standing.

I nod, gripping the strap of my crossbody bag as I follow him out. He sticks his hands in his pockets, which is probably good. I clearly can’t be trusted around him. Even when I’m stone-cold sober.

—

When we pullup in front of my building, Ryan asks the Uber driver to wait while he walks me to the door.

“So, um…thanks for tonight,” I say. “It was fun.”

“Thanks for coming.” In the light of the streetlamp, his eyes are shadowed, and I can’t read his expression.

“You want to think about it overnight?” My voice squeaks on the last word. “My proposition?”

His eyebrows lift, and I laugh nervously. The point of this evening was not to get all giggly and touchy-feely with Ryan Lawson. It was to talk business.

“About convincing Xander that he needs us both as co-managers,” I say.

“No.”

The disappointment hits me like a rock. “Oh.”

“No, I don’t need to think about it overnight. I’m in.”

“Yeah? Amazing!” A balloon of excitement rises in my chest—and I pull out a mental thumbtack and pop it, especially after what just happened in the reading room. The more time I spend with Ryan, the more I realize how much I enjoy his company. Add that to the attraction we clearly both feel…and that’s a complication I cannot afford right now. “Um—there’s one more thing. You know what happened after your parents’ party?”

He leans toward me the slightest bit. “Yes.”

“I think…if we’re going to be working together…we should keep things professional.” I’m unable to maintain eye contact, so I stare at the buttons on his shirt, the fabric pulled tight across his chest. “I’m going to put my entire soul into convincing Xander we both deserve this. I know you feel the same way. It would be best if we didn’t let ourselves get…distracted.”

Maybe he hasn’t been distracted, but I sure have, and tonight isn’t going to help matters.

“Sure,” he says after a beat. His voice hovers in the air above me. Stiff. A little strained. “If that’s what you want.”

Then he says good night and turns to go, leaving me with a question:Isit what I want?

22

Ryan

Last night’s “date”with Josie was worthy of a gold star. If it was a book, I’d have given it a four point five, rounded up to five.

There was one beautiful moment where I thought the night might end with a kiss. It didn’t—which is what knocked it down half a point. Not that every date has to end in a kiss, but I was hoping this one would.

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