Soon I’m laughing, imagining Ryan as a teenage hooligan shoplifting (badly) from a bookstore, then working off his debt by reading to the owner’s pet parrot.

“Nothing like erotic literature to motivate a teenage boy to read,” he says, grinning.

“I can imagine,” I say, then think about my mom and her habit of disappearing into her romances. “So reading all that…did you ever confuse reality with fantasy?”

“You mean, did I believe I was an eighteenth-century princess betrothed to a Scottish laird who is rough around the edges but remarkably tender in bed, and the first time he growled the words ‘my wife,’ I literally swooned?”

I snort a laugh and cover my mouth. “Yes?”

“No. But you can see how ridiculous that question is, right?” He leans forward, elbows on the table, his eyes bright. “When you were reading Tolkien, did you believe that you were a hobbit or an elf or a—a shieldmaiden riding into battle?”

“I wanted to be a shieldmaiden riding into battle.”

“I bet you did,” he says, grinning. “Donning your armor, brandishing a sword, sacrificing yourself to save the ones you love.”

I shrug, a little surprised by how accurate that is. “I guess so.”

Our waiter appears with our drinks and food, and I’m so hungry I dive in, closing my eyes in delight when I take my first bite of lobster mac and cheese. Ryan’s doing the same, tasting the fig and prosciutto flatbread.

After we’ve taken the edge off our hunger, he looks up again.

“So you wanted to chat about something?”

“Uh—yeah.” I take another sip of tea, regretting not ordering booze for liquid courage. “Remember how, at the beginning of all this, you said if you won, you’d hire me as your assistant?”

I sneak a glance at him; his brow is furrowed. “Yeah, sorry, I can see how that would be insulting, implying that you should be under me.” He coughs. “Work under me,” he corrects, but it’s too late; I’m already remembering what it felt like on that beach. His weight over me, his hand sliding up my ribs and under my bra.

I swallow and start over. “What I mean is: maybe you were onto something. What if we could both keep our jobs?”

“How? Xander only wants one manager.”

“Xander knows nothing about running a bookstore. And he has no idea that we have very different strengths in bookselling.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Is Josie Klein admitting I have strengths?”

“You’re great at creating an inclusive, welcoming environment. Customers adore you. Your staff respects you.” I’m surprised at how easily the list comes to me. “Remember how Xander said he wanted people to get their parenting books and their Harry Potters and their spy thrillers all in the same place?”

He shakes his head. “I must have blocked that out—I know nothing about those genres.”