I blink, confused. He does seem familiar, but I can’t place him. He’s around my age, with messy brown hair and tortoiseshell glasses. He’s wearing a brown cardigan and a pink lanyard stuck all over with colorful pins. I assume the lanyard holds a name tag, but it’s flipped around, so that’s no help.

Xander is introducing us, but I only snap to attention as he says, “—and this is Josie Klein, who manages Tabula Inscripta.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say, embarrassed. “I don’t remember meeting you before.”

This isn’t unusual for me—sometimes I’m so deep into a book that even when I’m not reading, my mind is stuck on the story and I can have a whole conversation and hardly remember it.

The guy blinks at me from behind his glasses, a confused smile tugging at his lips. “I manage…Happy Endings?”

He points to his right, the opposite side of the coffee shop from my store.

It all clicks, and my stomach drops. He’s the tall guy who runs the romance bookstore on the other side of Beans. Eddie once told me he made some comment about how there’s “not enough caffeine in the entire coffee shop to keep people awake while reading the books sold at the Tab.” Eddie thought it was funny, but it hit a nerve. I grew up being teased about my adoration for books that put everyone else to sleep. And sure, literary fiction isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, but coming from a fellow bookseller? That stung.

“Oh, right,” I say. “The massage place around the corner?”

It’s supposed to be a joke, and maybe a little payback, but the man’s smile drops abruptly.

“It’s a bookstore,” he says.

Apparently, this guy can dish it out, but he sure can’t take it. Or maybe I’m “not that funny,” as I’ve been told plenty of times. Guess that’s what happens when you spend your formative years inhaling books rather than learning how to, you know, people.

“I—I know,” I say awkwardly. “You just sell romance.”

His jaw tightens, and I realize my error—I didn’t mean just romance like I’m disparaging the genre, I meant romance is the only genre he sells.

This is going all wrong—I’m operating at peak social awkwardness today; usually I enjoy making connections with other people in the industry.

“Let’s start over,” I say, sticking my hand out. What did Xander say his name was? Brian? “It’s nice to officially meet you, Brian. I’m Josie.”

He gives me a tentative shake. His hand is huge, engulfing mine. “I know who you are, and it’s—”

“Great, we all know each other,” Xander says, interrupting. “But I’ve called you both here for a reason.”