I say the words casually, though they feel like shards of glass in my mouth. Thankfully, there’s no surprise or—worse—pity in his expression. Instead, he just nods and says, “Do you ever think about going back?”

“No,” I say immediately. “What would be the point? I don’t need it for my job.”

“What was your plan for a career, back when you were in college?”

I shrug. “No idea. I was an English major—”

“Of course.”

“—and I had this vague idea of spending my life reading Big Books and having Important Conversations.”

“Which is what you do now.” He nods. “And you’re great at it—if we had a sticker chart, your row would be filled with gold stars.”

I laugh—then stifle the sound as a patron glances our way. “If we’re going strictly by books sold, you’d have more gold stars.”

“But there’s so many other ways to get gold stars.” He leans forward on his elbows, and I do the same, like we’re co-conspirators. “Gold star for each organized shelf. Gold star for your efficient stock tracking system.”

“Gold star for helping tiny elderly ladies reach the top shelf,” I say. “And another for having a staff that genuinely respects you.”

He smiles; my stomach goes flip, and I look down. His left hand and my right are resting flat on the table, a millimeter of space between our fingertips. My palm tingles, remembering how it felt to slide under his shirt, his skin fever hot. The broad span of his back, the cords of muscle flexing beneath my fingers.

My breath quickens, and I slide my hand forward a fraction of an inch.

He does the same. Our fingertips graze. My nervous system is going haywire, the touch of his skin on the sensitive pads of my fingers sending golden light darting up my arm. He turns his palm over, an invitation, and when I slide mine into his, his thumb sweeps across the back of my hand, then down each finger one by one, like he’s committing their size and shape to memory.

I’ve never considered the aesthetics of a man’s hands before, but Ryan’s are near perfect: thick fingers, a palm as comfortable as a well-worn baseball glove, knuckles that are just a bit knobby. I starfish my hand flat against his, then curl it, stroking his palm with my fingertips, feeling the scrape of calluses. When I sneak a glance at his face, he’s focused on our hands, too, but then his lashes lift, and his gaze meets mine for the span of one shaky breath. It’s too intense, the eye contact and the hand contact, so I look back down as his hand slides up and wraps around my wrist.