“Because it’s not just about the sex, it’s about the connection. Elaine, the woman who started the store, she used to say that the fantasy is less about the woman getting seven orgasms and more about the man wanting to give them to her. Caring about her experience. Apparently, this is so rare that women had to invent an entire genre to get that.”

I can’t help it; I blush. “Okay…”

He leans back and glances at me, his eyes twinkling like he’s enjoying my reaction. “Anyway. The reason I love romance, and why I’m so passionate about promoting diversity in the genre, is because I love helping people find love stories they can see themselves in.” He tilts his head in my direction. “So why do you like literary fiction? To me, it’s always seemed like homework or something.”

“You’re right, it’s not easy to read,” I say, and consider how to explain it. “It’s like…like mining for diamonds, and sometimes you’re stuck in the dark, chiseling through rock—but when you uncover those jewels…” I sigh happily. “It’s so worth it, more so than if they were right out in the open.”

I glance over at Ryan, hoping he didn’t take that as me insulting his favorite genre. But he nods and says, “Interesting. For me, reading is for relaxation. Escape.”

“It’s an escape for me, too. Disappearing into a story, feeling the emotions of the characters, experiencing a different life—”

“So how do you handle it when the story ends badly?”

“Badly?” I repeat. “You mean, a tragic ending? Because those aren’t bad if they’re right for the story. When I was a kid, I loved books that made me cry—Charlotte’s Web, Where the Red Fern Grows, Bridge to Terabithia—”

“I hated those books,” he says, shaking his head. “Isn’t life hard enough?”

“But reading is different—you always know you can close the book if you need to. Whereas if you’re going through an actual tragedy…”

“You can’t close the book,” he says, nodding.

“Exactly.” I smile over at him. How is this the same guy I called a basic run-of-the-mill asshole? This guy is articulate, thoughtful, and interesting.

“Now back to the prior topic,” he says, and I refocus. “Have you ever hooked up with a customer?” When I wince, he grins, his eyes glinting in the moonlight. “You have!”

“I only made that mistake once.”

“Details,” he prompts. “I told you about the blue alien thing.”

I laugh, then take a long sip of champagne, draining the cup.

“Let’s just say that MFA candidates who idolize Vonnegut and write about the existential pain of being a white man in America are—shocker!—not great boyfriends.”

“I can imagine,” he says, smiling.