“Those women you sent over to ruin my event! They’re asking ridiculous questions. ‘Did anyone else think the serial killer was hot?’ Complete lack of social propriety, no respect for the gravity of this novel.”

Slowly, understanding dawns on his face. “Oh. The Sluts.”

“Huh?”

“Five middle-aged women in matching pink T-shirts?”

“Yes.”

“Those are the Book Club Sluts—their name for themselves,” he adds hastily. “They join all the Boston book clubs. They’ve never come to your store before?”

“No.”

He shrugs, as if to say, Well, that’s kind of sad. “They were at Knitting and Knotting—they must’ve seen your sign advertising the event.”

“But that was just yesterday.” I pause, my frustration cooling. “Though I guess that explains the inappropriate questions—they didn’t even read the book.”

“They read fast. But they also pregame before most events. They’re probably tipsy.” The corners of his eyes crinkle, like we’re sharing a joke. It might be cute, on anyone else. On him, it looks like he’s mocking me.

“But it’s eleven a.m.!” I say.

“Mimosas at the Painted Burro,” a voice chimes in. It’s a middle-aged woman with cartoonishly bright red hair, emerging from the labyrinthine book stacks.

I blink at her, confused, then turn back to Ryan. “They said a bookseller at Happy Endings told them about my event.”

The red-haired woman stifles a laugh, and Ryan shoots her a surprised look. The cat wriggles in his arms, and he kisses the top of her head before setting her down. Again, cute—from anyone but him.

“Well, it wasn’t me,” he says, “though I bet those Sluts buy a hundred dollars’ worth of books each.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling somewhat better. But then I look around at the chaos, and claustrophobia hits me again. The words slip out under my breath: “How can anyone stand this place?”

Ryan’s expression turns rock hard. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I shift my weight uncomfortably. “Nothing. It’s just, it’s so…”

“Lowbrow? Unsophisticated?” His eyes flash.

“That’s not—”

“Just because we don’t cater to the ‘literary elite’ doesn’t mean we’re worthless or stupid or embarrassing, okay? At least my store isn’t cold and lifeless—”

“Lifeless?”

“Soulless. Joyless. Devoid of any warmth or magic.” He takes a step into my space, crowding me against an ornate purple bookshelf.

He’s so close I get a whiff of his scent, warm and masculine, and my knees nearly buckle. I’m acutely aware of our size difference, how he’s twice as broad as me and a foot taller, how easily he could pick me up and press me harder against this bookshelf and—

I clear my throat and sidestep away. “Just because my bookstore is clean and orderly doesn’t mean it’s boring and pretentious.”

“Just because my bookstore is cozy and homey doesn’t mean it’s dirty.”