My cheeks warm. I’m remembering the feeling of being crowded against the bookcase, Ryan’s eyes blazing with fury as he glares down at me.

“That sounds about right,” I say, though somehow, I know it’s not. There’s a coiled intensity in Ryan’s muscles that speaks to some level of confidence in bed, and my mind flashes to an image of him shirtless, those honey-brown eyes burning with desire instead of rage.

We’re almost to Tabula Inscripta, which is good, not only because I need something else to think about, but because Georgia is limping a little. I know she won’t want me to mention it. She’s fiercely independent and, as she likes to remind me, has surpassed all medical expectations following her accident.

Still doesn’t stop me from worrying about her.

“All things considered,” Georgia says, “he strikes me as a basic run-of-the-mill asshole. Avoid him.”

“I’m doing my best,” I say as we stop in front of my store. I fish out my keys, unlock the door, walk in, and flick on the lights.

We both gasp.

The walls separating Tabula from Beans, and Beans from Happy Endings, are gone. All that’s left are a few vertical studs and drywall dust on the floor.

I knew a bunch of construction happened last night—the contractor asked me to close the store early so his guys could work late, and he left behind some tarps for me to cover my bookcases—but I didn’t expect this.

Beans is open and bustling, and I can see past the throngs of coffee-craving customers into Happy Endings: the motley assortment of bookcases, the multicolored chairs, the haphazard stacks of books. I even catch a glimpse of the damn black cat.

Turning to my sister, I can tell by her horrified expression that she’s thinking the same thing I am:

Avoiding Ryan the Repugnant just got a lot harder.

—

Georgia leaves for class, and I remove the protective tarps and straighten my shelves, hyperaware of what’s happening on the other side of Beans. Ryan walking in, his feet stomping on the floor. Ryan calling good morning to his staff, his voice somehow rising above the coffee shop chatter and noise.

He’s not just big, he’s loud. And his voice is like sandpaper, scraping against my brain.

The whole vibe of my store feels off. My customers come here to browse in peace and quiet, which is impossible now. The tinkling chime of the Happy Endings door makes me want to stick cotton balls in my ears. And there’s the smell, thick and musty, like someone is burning incense, mixing with the familiar scent of coffee. It reminds me of one of my mom’s old boyfriends, a white dude with dreadlocks who wore Rastafarian colors and texted my mom “Every little thing’s gonna be all right” when he dumped her.