That was the moment I decided I wanted to be just like her, a literary tastemaker, facilitating important discussions of books. And here I am, taking another step in that direction.

—

But first: my meeting with Xander.

We meet at Beans, and I give him the good news about the sold-out event tonight while he checks his phone and nods vaguely. Then he launches into his news.

“Josie, your profits are up compared to last June,” he says. “I’m impressed.”

My heart leaps; I know this—I’ve been tracking every penny—but it’s nice to hear him confirm it.

“Unfortunately, you’re slightly behind Ryan,” he says, and my heart drops. “It’s close, though, and you have time to make a comeback. But you better pull out your A game.”

“Of course,” I say through a smile, though internally, I’m wilting.

Xander rattles on about profit margins and expenses as I try not to burst into defeated tears. I’ve been working myself to exhaustion, but it hasn’t been enough.

Thankfully, Xander is never one to linger. He stands, calling over toward Happy Endings.

“Lawson?”

Ryan appears from behind a bookshelf. “Ready when you are.”

Xander glances at his phone, then waves a hand. “Something came up—I’ll call you tomorrow.”

And he’s gone. Ryan looks over at me, one eyebrow cocked, like he’s asking how my meeting went. I give him an easy-breezy smile, and his face falls. Good. Soon enough, he’ll get the news that he’s slightly ahead of me, but until then, let him simmer in worry.

Thank goodness I have this event tonight. It might even help me take the lead.

Ryan turns and walks away, and I squeeze my eyes shut so they don’t watch his backside as he retreats, the way his broad shoulders fill out his cardigan, how he’s wearing another pair of jeans that look so worn and soft I want to rub my cheek against them.

I need to focus on my objectives: meet one of my favorite authors, schmooze the hell out of the sold-out crowd, and sell a shit ton of books.

—

Five minutes into the event, and I’m queasy. Not because of nerves—but because something weird is going on here.

The place is packed, with every seat filled and more standing in the back. Rutherford was gracious as I helped him sign all the orders, plus more stock for the store, and my introduction went off without a hitch.

But I’m getting an odd vibe.

“I’d like to talk about the inspiration behind this newest novel of mine,” Rutherford is saying. “I’m heartened that so many are willing to come hear about something that isn’t…well, comfortable.”

Three or four people in the crowd chuckle knowingly, and that’s when it hits me: every person here is a white man. That’s not typical for my events.