“And you knew my sister’s name.” I can’t believe I didn’t make the connection before. “You knew my mom read bodice rippers. Things I didn’t tell RJ, things I told Ryan. Or vice versa. Whatever. Fuck. I can’t—” My voice is getting hysterical. “He’s been you the whole time? You’ve been him? The whole fucking time?”

The world tilts, and I look for somewhere to sit. To calm myself down so I can approach this rationally.

“Wait, don’t go—” Ryan puts out a hand and grabs my arm. “Can you give me ten minutes? Five minutes? I don’t blame you for being upset, but let me explain. Please.”

The rawness in his voice jolts me out of my dizziness and confusion, and I force myself to look at him. Really look at him. He’s an absolute wreck, his eyes teary, his hand still clutching the daisies. The expression on his face is complete and utter despair.

And then it all crystallizes.

The two men I’ve been torn between are one and the same. RJ is Ryan and he’s standing in front of me, staring at me like his heart is cracking in pieces. That ache in my chest? It’s the pain of realizing what I’ve missed out on all these weeks. I could’ve had him—all of him—if I’d been brave enough to meet him the first time he asked.

And I’ll be damned if I miss out on a moment more.

Without a word, I put my arms around him. He hesitates briefly before wrapping his arms around me in the best hug I can imagine, like being wrapped in a blanket fresh out of the dryer. He’s rubbing my back, whispering that he’s sorry, that he wanted to tell me but didn’t know how, that he’s crazy about me, that he’ll do anything to make this up to me. My hands clutch his suit jacket, my eyes leak tears onto his shirt, and I inhale his scent in deep, calming breaths. It’s my favorite smell in the entire world.

“Don’t cry, BookshopGirl,” he whispers, so quiet I almost don’t catch it. “Don’t cry.”

“Can we go somewhere?” I say, my face still buried in his chest.

“I put our name in for a table. We can talk more. I know this is all such a mess, but I’ll try to explain everything.”

That’s the smart thing to do. Sitting down for dinner and hashing it all out, discussing what this means for our partnership at the bookstore, if we should let our relationship go further. This is my usual approach: keeping my distance, avoiding my feelings, compartmentalizing everything into manageable, safe categories.