The memory—and the scent—makes me feel nauseated.

I find myself counting the customers leaving Happy Endings (carrying their pink-and-gold bags) compared with those leaving my store (with our made-from-70%-recycled-material bags).

They’re beating me four to one, and my panic rises. I try to calm myself: Xander is paying attention to net profit, and Ryan’s overhead is higher than mine. He has three other staff members working today, and his larger store means higher utility costs. Plus, his paperbacks are cheaper than my hardcovers.

Still, I’m worried.

I’m ringing up a customer (Sandy Bartholomew, a regular, purchasing James McBride’s latest), when Ryan’s thunderous laugh makes me flinch.

“Are you all right?” Sandy asks.

“Yes,” I say. “Just…the noise over there. Sorry about that, I know it’s irritating.”

She shrugs, peering across the space. “Oh, it’s fine. Is that another bookstore?”

“They only sell romance.” I know Sandy’s tastes don’t lean that way.

But she lights up. “Really? My daughter adores romance. Thanks—I’ll head over there next.”

My heart sinks as I watch her cut through Beans into Happy Endings, where Ryan greets her. I despise the way my eyes seem magnetically drawn to his body, to his broad shoulders and narrow hips, his thighs in those jeans. Somehow, he makes a cardigan and old Levi’s look undeniably—the word pops into my mind before I can squelch it—sexy.

“Welcome to Happy Endings,” his voice booms. “What kind of love story can I help you find?”

And then he leads my customer away, his head bent toward hers as she tells him that her daughter adores Christina Lauren and Alexis Hall and Talia Hibbert, and can he help her find some new releases by similar authors?

My jaw clenches so tight my molars hurt.

Ryan glances back and our eyes lock. When his mouth twists in a cocky grin, a hot zing runs through me, and I whirl around. It’s irritation, this reaction I keep having to him. It must be. Not the fact that his lips are kind of lush and pouty and—

I grab a spray bottle of cleaning solution and furiously polish my counter.

—

By evening, things have quieted down. This is one of my favorite parts of the day, a chance to recharge until it’s time to start my closing duties. Happy Endings is still open, but Beans is closed. With the lights off and my back turned, I can almost forget that one side of my store is a gaping hole.

Smiling, I pull out 11/22/63. It’s not high literature, but the plot is intriguing, the characters well drawn. I can’t stop turning the pages.