Page 45 of Battle of the Bookstores

“I was here,” I tell them both. “I could have helped.” I feel a twinge of guilt, even though I had no idea what was going on.

Josie scoffs and turns to look at me for the first time this entire conversation. There’s that death glare again. “Oh, come on. You wouldn’t have helped me.”

“Of course I would have,” I insist.

“Would not.”

“Would so,” I volley back, cursing Josie Klein for luring me into this childish game.

“Give me a break, Brayden,” Josie says, and her intentional use of another wrong name grates on my last nerve. “You would have just stood there and watched me struggle.”

“That’s not—”

“That’s exactly what you did the other day with the bookshelves,” she says, her voice rising an octave.

That twinge of guilt turns into a gut punch; she’s right. I was an asshole. But the circumstances were completely different.

“Your life wasn’t in danger!” I say, my voice matching hers in volume and intensity. “Eddie, tell her I would have saved her if she was really in trouble.”

Josie lets out a bitter laugh. “Eddie, tell him to get over his hero complex. Not all women need to be rescued.”

Ouch.Her words hit a nerve; it’s not the first time the word “hero” has been used to describe me in a less-than-flattering way. Is it my fault that I like to help people?

Hell, Josie is mad at me fornothelping her. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.

“Ryan,” Eddie says, drawing out my name and looking at me somberly. “The next time you see a bunch of scary-ass white guys over at Josie’s, go help her.” He turns toward Josie. “Josie, the next time you see a bunch of white guys over at Ryan’s…call me.”

He laughs at his own joke, defusing the tension.

Josie looks like she’s on the verge of laughing, too, until Mabel walks over and attempts to hand her my drink. “Here’s your frappe,” she says.

Josie’s expression goes blank, but her ears turn even more pink.

“That. Is not. My drink.” Her tone is deceptively flat, but her eyes are that fiery green color I’ve become familiar with.

I can’t look away, my own eyes drifting across her face: the faint freckles on her nose, the curve of her lips, the clench of her jaw. A few strands of dark, curly hair have come loose from her bun, tickling the nape of her neck, where the skin is a creamy shade of peach. I imagine how it would feel to press my lips right there.

I feel weirdly hot. Claustrophobic. And when she turns on her heel and walks back to her side of the store, I can’t decide if I’m disappointed or relieved.

“I would have helped her,” I tell Eddie once she’s gone.

“I know,” Eddie says solemnly. Then his lips curve in a suggestive smile, and he shakes his head. “Oh, I know, Ryan.”

Beneath her layers of anger and hurt, I hope Josie knows it, too. This guy she’s made me out to be—her enemy—he’s not me. I don’t even like sports because someone has to lose. I run a romance bookstore, for Pete’s sake. I’m not a bad guy.

But deep down, I know it’s not all Josie’s fault that she sees me this way. I should have helped her with those damn bookshelves. Of course, if I had, she probably would’ve accused me of upholding the patriarchy. No matter what I do, I can’t win.

But I can’t lose, either.

Not this competition, and not my store.

—

Later that night,I’m doing dishes and listening to my audiobook when my phone chimes.

BookshopGirl:Hey, how was your day?

I sigh; I’m still bothered by that argument with Josie—I hate that she thinks of me as that kind of guy. And that I’ve been acting like that kind of guy.

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