“Here, let’s get these off and see how it goes,” he says, and starts removing dust jackets. “Do you have any towels? And something to put around that pipe?”

Robotically, I grab paper towels, duct tape, and more trash bags from the back room, then return to the table.

Ryan is taking the wettest books off and setting them on the floor. The books underneath the top layer just have a few water speckles on them, and the relief I feel is overwhelming.

As Ryan duct-tapes layers of trash bag around the leaky pipe, I call the plumber, who says he’ll come soon to take care of it. Ryan and I turn our attention back to the books. Some are ruined, but fewer than I expected. Fewer than there would have been, if he hadn’t come.

“Why are you helping me?” I ask, my voice wobbling.

Ryan looks up. Again, his face startles me. The strong jawline, the way his eyes catch the light, his easy, unguarded expression—it’s doing things to me. “Because your books were getting damaged?”

“Yes…but I’m your competition. You could have let everything get ruined.”

If our situations were reversed, I might have done exactly that. That’s how badly I’ve wanted to crush him.

Ryan’s forehead wrinkles; he looks genuinely upset. “Books are too important to be casualties in our war, Josie.”

His words hit me in the chest, and I nod without speaking. We work silently, stacking the ruined books in the back room, removing the dust jackets from the damp ones and spreading them across the floor, arranging the dry ones back on the table.

Ryan is meticulous, handling the books with care in his big hands, his eyes narrowed as he inspects the spines and pages. We don’t talk, and I’m glad—my throat feels swollen and raw. I keep worrying that I might start crying, not because of the damage, but from relief. From the sense of solidarity, the comfort of having someone at my side who understands exactly how awful this is.

I wonder what would’ve happened if we’d met some other way, not as competitors but as two fellow booksellers. Maybe we could’ve been…friends?

After we finish, Ryan follows me to the back room with one last armful of soggy books and sets them on the floor next to my desk. I don’t know how to express my gratitude for this unexpected kindness that I don’t deserve.

“Ryan,” I say, “I owe you—”

“Are you reading that?” he asks sharply.

Startled, I follow his gaze. He’s staring at the paperback copy of The Princess Bride on my desk.

Instantly, my hackles go up. “Yes.”

All that openness I saw earlier in his face? Gone. His eyes dart between the book and me.

“No way,” he says, almost to himself.

“Are you judging my reading choices?” I demand, hands on hips.