“You can’t. Not unless you’ve been stopped in the middle of sex so he can grab his Moleskine and jot down a phrase he wants to use in his latest work in progress.”

Ryan laughs—that big, booming laugh I always hear echoing from his store. It’s like a warm hug, and I’m not sure why I ever found it irritating.

“I think he hoped dating a bookseller would be helpful once he sold his Great American Novel,” I say. “But he figured out pretty fast that publishing moves at a snail’s pace, so it would entail years of investment on his part—which he wasn’t interested in. Not that I was, either.”

Like Georgia pointed out, I don’t tend to get emotionally invested in anyone I date. What’s the point, when it’s going to end anyway?

“Let me guess, he never sold his novel?” Ryan says with a grin.

“Oh, he did. To an obscure small press.”

I stretch out my legs, digging my toes into the cool sand. “I mean, it sold better than I expected. I looked it up on BookScan once—sixty-three copies in the first year.”

He bursts out laughing, and so do I, falling against him so our shoulders touch. I’m oddly disappointed when he straightens up, putting space between us. It’s got to be the champagne. Or the fact that the night is turning chilly. He’s warm; I’m cold.

“Anyway,” I say, “I’m sure that only fueled his delusions of being a misunderstood starving artist living in his two-bedroom apartment in Beacon Hill.”

“Because his parents pay his rent, of course,” Ryan says, nodding.

“He deserves it! He’s doing art!” I lift my cup. “I’m just glad he’s not doing me.”

“Cheers to that.” Ryan clinks his cup against mine, and we both take a sip. My eyes zero in on his throat, watching his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

“You’re a mystery, Josie Klein,” he says, turning to face me.

I refocus on his eyes. “How so?”

“Sitting on the sand, barefoot, drinking champagne out of a Solo cup, swapping stories about shitty relationships. But at the bookstore, you’re this self-contained, buttoned-up woman—”

“Oh, so I’m uptight.” I’ve heard these words before: Rigid. Ambitious. Cold.

“I thought so before,” he admits, “but not anymore. I’m trying to figure you out.”

My face warms as he watches me intently. It’s unnerving.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re so in control of yourself, your store, everything—”

“That’s an illusion,” I say, waving a hand.

“Why do you work so hard to maintain it?”

“I—I don’t know,” I say, forcing an awkward laugh. “My sister would say it stems from the lack of control I felt as a child.”