Georgia’s been so busy studying we’ve hardly seen each other. But one look at her, and I know they must have gone well: she’s glowing, her dark hair in a loose braid, big hoop earrings swinging from her ears.

I wait for her to ask why I’m so flustered, but she’s not looking at me—she stops in the middle of the store and turns slowly, eyes widening. “Wow! The place looks great!”

“Really?” I say, grinning.

I’ve noticed that people spend more time in Ryan’s store compared to mine—despite the chaotic hodgepodge of mismatched bookcases and shelves. Or maybe even because of them. His customers stick around, hunting for the perfect title or discovering new ones. My customers don’t spend a ton of time browsing—they find what they need and head out.

So I’ve shifted a few bookcases out of their neat rows and made room for a reading area. I’ve also highlighted specific books to draw the eye along the shelves and hopefully keep people interested. I’m impressed at how such simple changes can have a big effect. Customers are spending more time here. Buying more, too.

“You’re going to kick Ryan’s big dumb ass,” Georgia says, reaching out her hand for a high five.

My smile fades, and I give her palm a half-hearted slap. “Yeah. That.”

“What? Do we not hate Ryan anymore?” Georgia leans her cane against the counter and plops into a chair. “You haven’t told me much about your trip to Kennebunkport.”

As if summoned, Ryan walks from his store to the counter at Beans. He’s framed in the gap between the two bookcases that form the wall. When he catches my eye, his entire face brightens. My stomach does a weird flip.

“Hi! Good morning!” he calls, brushing his hair off his forehead.

“Morning,” I say, smiling in a way that hopefully says, How do you do, fellow bookseller, and not I’m having filthy thoughts about what’s underneath your cardigan.

“See you later?”

“Sure.”

With another smile, he grabs his coffee-flavored milkshake and heads back to his store.

“Ohhhhh,” Georgia says.

I look up. “What?”

She’s staring at me knowingly. “Classic body language of attraction: Prolonged eye contact. Mirrored facial expressions. Preening gestures.”

“Preening?”

“He brushed his hair back. You licked your lips.” She leans forward. “Something happened between you two.”

I want to protest, to insist I’m not attracted to him, that we definitely still hate him. But there’s no use in lying to my psychologist-in-training sister.

“We, uh…may have made out on the beach after his parents’ party.”

Though I’ve never gotten so hot and bothered making out. I’m not sure I’ve had actual sex that got me so hot and bothered.

Georgia’s eyes widen. “My sister, making out with a guy on the beach? Like, in the sand?”