Page 32 of Battle of the Bookstores

My cheeks warm. I’m remembering the feeling of being crowded against the bookcase, Ryan’s eyes blazing with fury as he glares down at me.

“That sounds about right,” I say, though somehow, I know it’s not. There’s a coiled intensity in Ryan’s muscles that speaks to some level of confidence in bed, and my mind flashes to an image of him shirtless, those honey-brown eyes burning with desire instead of rage.

We’re almost to Tabula Inscripta, which is good, not only because I need something else to think about, but because Georgia is limping a little. I know she won’t want me to mention it. She’s fiercely independent and, as she likes to remind me, has surpassed all medical expectations following her accident.

Still doesn’t stop me from worrying about her.

“All things considered,” Georgia says, “he strikes me as a basic run-of-the-mill asshole. Avoid him.”

“I’m doing my best,” I say as we stop in front of my store. I fish out my keys, unlock the door, walk in, and flick on the lights.

We both gasp.

The walls separating Tabula from Beans, and Beans from Happy Endings, are gone. All that’s left are a few vertical studs and drywall dust on the floor.

I knew a bunch of construction happened last night—the contractor asked me to close the store early so his guys could work late, and he left behind some tarps for me to cover my bookcases—but I didn’t expect this.

Beans is open and bustling, and I can see past the throngs of coffee-craving customers into Happy Endings: the motley assortment of bookcases, the multicolored chairs, the haphazard stacks of books. I even catch a glimpse of the damn black cat.

Turning to my sister, I can tell by her horrified expression that she’s thinking the same thing I am:

Avoiding Ryan the Repugnant just got a lot harder.

—

Georgia leaves forclass, and I remove the protective tarps and straighten my shelves, hyperaware of what’s happening on the other side of Beans. Ryan walking in, his feet stomping on the floor. Ryan calling good morning to his staff, his voice somehow rising above the coffee shop chatter and noise.

He’s not just big, he’s loud. And his voice is like sandpaper, scraping against my brain.

The whole vibe of my store feels off. My customers come here to browse in peace and quiet, which is impossible now. The tinkling chime of the Happy Endings door makes me want to stick cotton balls in my ears. And there’s the smell, thick and musty, like someone is burning incense, mixing with the familiar scent of coffee. It reminds me of one of my mom’s old boyfriends, a white dude with dreadlocks who wore Rastafarian colors and texted my mom “Every little thing’s gonna be all right” when he dumped her.

The memory—and the scent—makes me feel nauseated.

I find myself counting the customers leaving Happy Endings (carrying their pink-and-gold bags) compared with those leaving my store (with our made-from-70%-recycled-material bags).

They’re beating me four to one, and my panic rises. I try to calm myself: Xander is paying attention to net profit, and Ryan’s overhead is higher than mine. He has three other staff members working today, and his larger store means higher utility costs. Plus, his paperbacks are cheaper than my hardcovers.

Still, I’m worried.

I’m ringing up a customer (Sandy Bartholomew, a regular, purchasing James McBride’s latest), when Ryan’s thunderous laugh makes me flinch.

“Are you all right?” Sandy asks.

“Yes,” I say. “Just…the noise over there. Sorry about that, I know it’s irritating.”

She shrugs, peering across the space. “Oh, it’s fine. Is that another bookstore?”

“They only sell romance.” I know Sandy’s tastes don’t lean that way.

But she lights up. “Really? My daughter adores romance. Thanks—I’ll head over there next.”

My heart sinks as I watch her cut through Beans into Happy Endings, where Ryan greets her. I despise the way my eyes seem magnetically drawn to his body, to his broad shoulders and narrow hips, his thighs in those jeans. Somehow, he makes a cardigan and old Levi’s look undeniably—the word pops into my mind before I can squelch it—sexy.

“Welcome to Happy Endings,” his voice booms. “What kind of love story can I help you find?”

And then he leadsmycustomer away, his head bent toward hers as she tells him that her daughter adores Christina Lauren and Alexis Hall and Talia Hibbert, and can he help her find some new releases by similar authors?

My jaw clenches so tight my molars hurt.

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