She starts to read again. “He slides inside me”—she hesitates, but to her credit, she doesn’t stop—“and I roll my hips, inviting him deeper. We move together slowly, learning each other’s rhythms, the unique way our bodies shift and slip against each other.”

She continues, reading about how the intensity builds between them, their defenses finally dropping after two hundred pages of keeping each other at a distance.

Under the table, I feel Josie’s foot slide up to my ankle, then back down—and I realize she’s slipped her foot out of her shoe. Josie Klein’s bare foot is brushing against my pant leg as she reads words that grow increasingly sensual, and how is this the hottest thing that has ever happened to me? I’m gripping the edge of the table with both hands, trying to keep my breathing under control as her foot slides against my leg again.

“He kneels next to the bed, wrapping his hands around my thighs. ‘Please,’ he says, ‘I’ve been dying to taste—’ ”

The band stops playing, and Josie’s voice breaks through the silence before everyone starts applauding. She closes the book; her pupils are dilated, her cheeks flushed highlighter pink.

I shift in my seat, adjusting myself subtly. She does an identical wiggle in her seat, and I’m positive she’s feeling it, too.

“What do you think?” I ask, hoping my voice sounds normal. “Would your customers be okay with turning up the heat?”

“I think…” she says, her foot pressing ever so slightly against mine. “I think we should go with that book.”

I follow her gaze to 11/22/63.

“The Stephen King one? You haven’t looked at it yet.”

“I’ve already read it,” she says.

“You have?” My heart rate quickens; here it is, the moment I’ve been waiting for.

“A few weeks ago, actually. A friend suggested it.”

“I listened to it a few years ago,” I tell her. “On a road trip with my family.”

It’s almost exactly what RJ told BookshopGirl. She glances up sharply, and my mouth goes dry. Her eyes narrow as she studies me, and I try not to blurt anything out.

Let her figure it out in her own time, I remind myself.

“It would be good for a long trip,” she says slowly.

I force the next words out. “You know my brother Robert? It’s his favorite book.”

She’s still staring at me, eyes narrowed, and I wait for the flash of realization to hit her, the way it did me when I saw her reading The Princess Bride.

Instead, she blinks and looks down. “I guess it is a really popular book,” she says, mostly to herself.