“Ah man, been there, done that,” I say, remembering when a local author gave off subtle pedophilia vibes at one book launch we hosted. “Just say no if an author named G. T. Offman comes knocking…”

“Same goes with Kenneth Michael Rutherford,” Josie says, a bite in her tone.

“Wait, you brought that guy into your store?”

Rutherford was trending on BookFriends last night. The Literary forums aren’t usually my jam, but I came across the post since it was started by BookshopGirl. The things people were saying about this guy…

Josie presses her palms against her eyes as if she’s trying to block out the memory.

“I hope you kicked him out on his ass,” I say.

I would have liked to see that, someone else being on the receiving end of Josie Klein’s death glare.

“She couldn’t kick him out,” Eddie says, shaking his head. “The crowd was all white guys—no offense.”

“None taken,” I say, confused by why that matters.

But then I remember that someone on BookFriends said Rutherford has been linked to a bunch of violent, bigoted organizations, and it makes sense. Josie nearly always works alone—of course she wouldn’t feel comfortable standing up to Rutherford and his fans without any support or backup.

“She was afraid for her safety,” Eddie continues, putting a hand over his heart. “I wish I’d been here to help you, Josie.”

“Me too,” Josie says quietly.

“I was here,” I tell them both. “I could have helped.” I feel a twinge of guilt, even though I had no idea what was going on.

Josie scoffs and turns to look at me for the first time this entire conversation. There’s that death glare again. “Oh, come on. You wouldn’t have helped me.”

“Of course I would have,” I insist.

“Would not.”

“Would so,” I volley back, cursing Josie Klein for luring me into this childish game.

“Give me a break, Brayden,” Josie says, and her intentional use of another wrong name grates on my last nerve. “You would have just stood there and watched me struggle.”

“That’s not—”

“That’s exactly what you did the other day with the bookshelves,” she says, her voice rising an octave.

That twinge of guilt turns into a gut punch; she’s right. I was an asshole. But the circumstances were completely different.

“Your life wasn’t in danger!” I say, my voice matching hers in volume and intensity. “Eddie, tell her I would have saved her if she was really in trouble.”

Josie lets out a bitter laugh. “Eddie, tell him to get over his hero complex. Not all women need to be rescued.”

Ouch. Her words hit a nerve; it’s not the first time the word “hero” has been used to describe me in a less-than-flattering way. Is it my fault that I like to help people?