I take his hand, lacing our fingers together. In contrast to the hand touching that happened at the library, this feels natural, comfortable, fingers interlocking, palm against palm.

“I’m sorry about JR,” I say.

“Yeah. Me too.” He clears his throat. “Anyway. If I can help other people who feel like they don’t fit in see themselves in a love story…I think it matters.”

“It does matter,” I say. “You’re doing good work.”

He squeezes my hand. “Thanks. That means a lot coming from you.”

“Why—because I’m usually such an uptight bitch?” I soften my words with a smile, but this is a sore spot for me, and he’s accidentally pressed on it with his thumb.

Ryan stops, tugging on my hand to make me face him. “Josie, absolutely not.” His expression is dead serious. “Because you’re good at what you do—I’m in awe. You’re deliberate about every decision you make in your store. You’re wicked smart, and I could watch you for a year and learn something new every day. So when you tell me I’m doing good work—it means a lot. More than you understand.”

I’m momentarily speechless.

“Thank you,” I say softly.

He turns and we start walking again, our conversation drifting to other topics, a peculiar feeling unfurling inside me. It’s as warm and comforting as Ryan’s hand in mine; as sweet and irresistible as the ice cream melting on my tongue. I’d call it friendship…except I never think about friends while reaching for my vibrator. I’d call it attraction, except he has absolutely nothing in common with anyone I’ve ever been attracted to before.

Maybe I’m just confused. I’m in a state of heightened stress, my job on the line, and here’s this big, kindhearted man who listens to my ideas and says lovely things and treats me like I’m not just a college dropout who spends her days unpacking boxes and ringing up purchases and trying to prove that she’s made something of herself while battling the ever-present fear that she hasn’t.

—

We return to the store an hour later, and I let us in the door to my side so we won’t disrupt Brigitte and Sam. Music is playing, and as we slip into the back room, I catch a glimpse of them, dancing in the flickering candlelight, gazing into each other’s eyes.

“Dance with me?” Ryan asks, and I look up to see him holding out a hand.