We’ve been here for more than an hour, brainstorming and building off each other’s ideas. Now the server clears our dinner plates, and we start looking through the books we brought to consider for our collective book club—another of Josie’s ideas to start bridging the gap between our customer bases.

I have two historical romances (the historical aspect might appeal to her crowd), a romantasy (this genre has broken every single barrier people tried to set on it), an enemies-to-lovers story (for obvious reasons), a romance novel that leans literary, and a few other faves (mine, not my brother’s).

At the last minute, I added my personal copy of 11/22/63 to the stack. I genuinely think the book will appeal to both our reader groups, but it’s also a subtle hint to help her see me for who I am without breaking my promise to respect her decision not to meet RJ in real life.

The stack of books Josie brought is…overwhelming. It’s full of big, thick tomes. I’ve only read one of them—A Little Life—because it was on BookshopGirl’s Favorites bookshelf. It took me more than a week to get through the thirty-three-hour audiobook and left me ugly-crying on the T.

The one I’m currently flipping through might make me cry of boredom. It’s about a man who spends a decade in his garden, contemplating the way grass grows, as he loses everything in his life that he thought he loved.

But I’m not a quitter, so I turn the page and persevere.

“You’re reading out loud,” Josie says. It’s more of an observation than a question.

I look up, brushing my hair away from my eyes. “Sorry, is it bothering you?”

“No.”

“Good—otherwise we might have to read at separate tables.”

Josie raises an eyebrow. I suppose now is as good a time as any to tell her. Maybe if I share something vulnerable with her, she’ll see that she can trust me, Ryan, as much as she seems to trust me, RJ.

Here goes. I blow out a breath and tell her what I’ve only admitted to a handful of people. “I told you I wasn’t a good reader when I was a kid,” I say. “Well, it can still be a challenge for me. Reading out loud helps me understand the words on the page because, well…” God, I’m starting to sweat. This shouldn’t be so hard. I look back down at the page, and the words come out in a rush: “I have dyslexia.”

There’s a slight pause, then she says, “Oh, okay.”

I glance up, nervous to see her expression. She seems completely unfazed. Even still, all the residual shame left over from my childhood bubbles up and I say, “It’s just…booksellers are supposed to be good readers. And Lawsons are supposed to be smart—you met my brothers.”