Page 89 of Battle of the Bookstores

“Yeah. Me too.” He clears his throat. “Anyway. If I can help other people who feel like they don’t fit in see themselves in a love story…I think it matters.”

“It does matter,” I say. “You’re doing good work.”

He squeezes my hand. “Thanks. That means a lot coming from you.”

“Why—because I’m usually such an uptight bitch?” I soften my words with a smile, but this is a sore spot for me, and he’s accidentally pressed on it with his thumb.

Ryan stops, tugging on my hand to make me face him. “Josie, absolutely not.” His expression is dead serious. “Because you’re good at what you do—I’m in awe. You’re deliberate about every decision you make in your store. You’re wicked smart, and I could watch you for a year and learn something new every day. So when you tell me I’m doing good work—it means a lot. More than you understand.”

I’m momentarily speechless.

“Thank you,” I say softly.

He turns and we start walking again, our conversation drifting to other topics, a peculiar feeling unfurling inside me. It’s as warm and comforting as Ryan’s hand in mine; as sweet and irresistible as the ice cream melting on my tongue. I’d call itfriendship…except I never think about friends while reaching for my vibrator. I’d call itattraction, except he has absolutely nothing in common with anyone I’ve ever been attracted to before.

Maybe I’m just confused. I’m in a state of heightened stress, my job on the line, and here’s this big, kindhearted man who listens to my ideas and says lovely things and treats me like I’m not just a college dropout who spends her days unpacking boxes and ringing up purchases and trying to prove that she’s made something of herself while battling the ever-present fear that she hasn’t.

—

We return tothe store an hour later, and I let us in the door to my side so we won’t disrupt Brigitte and Sam. Music is playing, and as we slip into the back room, I catch a glimpse of them, dancing in the flickering candlelight, gazing into each other’s eyes.

“Dance with me?” Ryan asks, and I look up to see him holding out a hand.

There’s no way I can resist. I take his hand, allowing him to fold me against him.God, he’s warm. Just a sturdy wall of gentleness. And every time I inhale, my nose is filled with that scent I can’t describe other thanRyan Ryan Ryan.I think back to dancing at his parents’ party, the strangeness of being close to him after weeks of animosity. This is different: being held by him is like coming home after a long day, kicking off your shoes, and falling into bed with your favorite book.

My cheek presses against his chest, and his chin rests on top of my head, my hair rustling slightly with each breath. Persephone slinks between our legs, purring, and I spot Hades up on a shelf, peering down at us suspiciously. I close my eyes.

One of Ryan’s hands spreads wide across my back, the other holding my hand as he rocks us back and forth. His heart is a drumbeat against my ear, and there’s definitely something stirring below his belt. I make sure to keep hold of his hand because that’s my lifeline right now, my proof that I’m not plastering myself against Ryan Lawson because I want him so fiercely I’m having trouble breathing.

We’re just dancing.

A noise out in the store distracts me—a low groan. I leanaway from Ryan to peek through the partially open door into Happy Endings.

“Oh my god,” I whisper. “I think they’re—”

“What?” Ryan says, and we’re now cheek to cheek, two Peeping Toms gazing into the store.

Sam’s in an armchair, Brigitte straddling his lap, his mouth on her neck and her hands in his hair. Quickly, I pull us both into the back room. Now Ryan and I are inches apart in the darkness, staring at each other with wide, shocked eyes.

“You told them the security cameras were running, right?” he whispers.

I nod. “I guess…they don’t care.”

We wait, scarcely daring to breathe, until another sound makes us jump: the squeak of something heavy being shoved across the floor. I reach out to shut the door and accidentally get another glance: Sam’s got Brigitte up against a bookcase, her dress around her hips. A tiny, scandalized squeak comes out of me, and I put my hands over my face.

“What?” Ryan whispers, alarmed.

I open my fingers and peek at him between them. “I’m pretty sure they’re doing it.”

“Here? Now?” He scrubs a hand through his messy hair. “What do we do? This has to be against some kind of health code. Right?”

“I’m not going to interrupt,” I say, holding up my hands. “Are you?”

He shakes his head. “I guess we…wait it out?”

And that’s what we do, both of us putting our hands over our ears when the moaning gets louder. For someone who was so willing to have mereada sex scene out loud, Ryan is remarkably flustered by anactualsex scene. I can’t helpwondering what he’d be like in bed—if he’d be pink cheeked and flushed, eager to please but a little awkward. Or like he was on the beach—intense and focused, his mouth and hands demandingmore more more.

My body flares with heat.

---