Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

JOSIE

When I tell people I’m a bookseller, I’m sure they imagine me curled up in a cozy chair reading for hours, sipping coffee and discussing books, or hobnobbing with famous authors at literary events. You know, living the ultimate bookish dream, with every breath filled with that intoxicating tang of fresh ink and crisp paper.

What they don’t imagine are the endless hours on my feet, my back aching from hefting twenty-pound boxes of books, or my stomach knotting from the constant stress about razor-thin profit margins and climbing overhead expenses.

Still, there’s nothing else I’d rather do. I love flicking on the lights each morning and gazing at the shelves and stacks, all neat lines and sharp corners. I love unpacking shipments of glossy new hardcovers and recommending my favorites to customers.

But the best part—the absolute, hands-down, best part of running a bookstore—is getting to read books before they come out.

Several months before publication, publishers send galleys to booksellers, advanced reading copies that arrive in brown paper packages, covers adorned with glowing blurbs, in the hopes that we’ll read and recommend (and hopefully stock multiple copies of) this new title.

A while back, a publicist at one of my favorite imprints emailed to ask if I’d consider reading an upcoming release and providing a quote, if I liked it. And did I? Well, I stayed up until three o’clock in the morning reading, and my tears left damp spots on the final pages. I spent days writing and rewriting the perfect paragraph to encapsulate the essence of this epic, heart-wrenching story.

Last week, I got an email from said publicist telling me that advance copies were being sent out, and oh, by the way, they’d used my quote on the back cover (cue internal squeeing!). This morning, that package arrived. My hands shake as I rip open the brown paper, my eyes scanning until?—

“A stunning meditation on grief and betrayal.... Worth reading and cherishing for years to come.”

—Josie Klein, bookseller

Tabula Inscripta, Somerville, MA

My breath rushes out. They only used a fraction of the paragraph I sent.

But: It’s my quote. My name. I’ve spent the past five years becoming the best bookseller I can be, determined to prove that a college dropout can make something of her life. I may be a bookish little introvert, but I’ve got ideas and opinions to share. Someday, I hope readers throughout the city—maybe even the country—will turn to me for book recommendations.

Someday, my voice will matter.

Desperate to share my excitement, I grab my phone and pull up BookFriends, a website with discussion forums for booksellers across the country.

BookshopGirl: Guess who got an ARC with her first blurb printed on it? !

I post it in the Celebration subforum, where any user can read it, but I’m hoping to reach one specific person. Biting my lip in anticipation, I wait—and when I see the username I’m looking for, my heart soars.

RJ.Reads: What?? Congratulations! That’s amazing! Just wish you could tell us the title so I could see it.

I wish I could, too, but the forums are strictly anonymous. That way, booksellers can share honest opinions about publishers and authors without fear of negative blowback.

Grinning, I switch over to our DM thread.

BookshopGirl: There’s only one other bookseller quoted on the back of this ARC and guess who it is?

RJ.Reads: PAW?

BookshopGirl: You got it!

RJ knows all about my adoration of Penelope Adler-Wolf, owner of Wolf Books in Providence, Rhode Island. PAW is a bookseller of impeccable taste and vast influence. If she endorses a book, it’s gonna be Big. My goal in life is to be just like her.

My phone lights up again with a reminder: MEETING WITH XANDER.

I sigh. Xander Laing has spent the past few years buying up the entire block, including the coffee shop next door, though he doesn’t care about books or coffee—just his bottom line. When he bought Tabula Inscripta, Xander questioned if “a girl with nothing but a high school diploma” could handle being the manager. I convinced him to give me a shot and since I pull a profit each month, he keeps me around. Still, I always feel like I’m on thin ice.

I send a message to RJ, wishing I could chat longer.

BookshopGirl: Gotta go—have a great morning!

RJ.Reads: You too. And congrats again. I’m so happy for you.

After that, I lock the door behind me and step into a crisp, sunlit morning. My bookstore is right in the heart of Davis Square, my favorite neighborhood in the Boston area—tree-lined streets, brick-paved sidewalks, charming shops, and eclectic restaurants. It’s late May and the day is already warm, the air filled with the gentle hum of traffic and the occasional ting of a bicycle bell.

I step into Beans, where I breathe in the life-giving aroma of coffee. Xander’s not here yet, thankfully.

“Josie!” Eddie Callahan, the manager, calls. His classic Southie accent, tattoos, and gruff exterior hide the fact that he’s a total softie. “Good mornin’, sweetheart. The usual?”

“Yes, please,” I say, smiling as I walk up to the counter. “How’s the morning rush going?”

“Nearly over, thank god.” Eddie motions over his shoulder at a blonde barista, who’s struggling with the complicated espresso machine. “You know how it is—you hire someone, hoping to get some help, and it ends up taking ten times as much energy to train ’em.” He shakes his head. “I shouldn’t complain when you’re staffing that place alone seven days a week.”

“My sister helps when she can,” I say.

Eddie gives me a worried-uncle look. “You’re gonna burn yourself out, kid. Let’s get you an extra shot of espresso and a cheese croissant. On the house.” He winks.

He fusses over me like a mother hen, and I love him for it—my own mom never did, and his concern unexpectedly makes my throat tighten.

“You’re the best,” I say .

“That’s a fact.” Another wink. “I’ll have Mabel bring your order. Good luck with the boss man today.”

I thank him and turn. Xander’s arrived; he’s seated at a table next to a man whose back is to me.

“Good morning,” I say as I pull up a chair.

Xander—short and balding and with a perpetual irritated frown—gives me a curt nod, then motions between me and the other guy. “I assume you two know each other?”

“No,” I say, as the guy turns and says, “Yes.”

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.”

I turn to face him, pull out my notebook, and write the date in the top right corner. I consider writing brIAN, too, so I can commit the name to memory, but I’m worried he’ll see it.

“Here you go!” a cheery voice says, and I look up to see the new barista, Mabel. She sets a drink in front of me. “An iced white-chocolate-chunk macchiato with two extra pumps of vanilla, miss.”

“Oh, this isn’t mine,” I say, handing it back to her. “I had an Americano?”

Mabel gasps. “I’m sorry! Eddie said to bring it to this table, I figured since you’re the only woman here?—”

“It’s mine,” Brian mumbles .

Xander chuckles. “Should’ve been obvious—he’s the one who works at the girly bookstore.”

Mabel scurries off as Brian’s ears turn pink. My stomach clenches. I know how it feels to be on the receiving end of Xander’s digs.

“Xander,” I say, “that’s not?—”

“And your coffee order is like your books, right, Josie?” Xander continues, grinning. “Boring and bitter. What’d you call her store, Lawson? A bleak wasteland of existential dread?”

He laughs and nudges Brian, who huffs out a half laugh before stopping himself. But he doesn’t correct Xander.

I press my lips together, seething. I won’t make the mistake of feeling bad for him again.

Xander’s phone buzzes on the table and he answers it, holding up a finger to indicate that we should wait. Then he stands and walks a few steps away, barking into his phone about a construction project.

Mabel reappears with my drink. “Here you go—Americano, no milk, no sugar.”

“Thanks,” I say.

Brian’s lips twitch, like he’s trying not to smirk. Probably thinking his good pal Xander really nailed me: Boring and bitter.

I know I should ignore him, but this guy is getting to me. So many people see a buttoned-up bookseller and assume I’m timid. But when it comes to defending my store—and the stories within it—I don’t hold back.

I face him. “Excuse me?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Well, you sure seem to have an opinion about my coffee choice.” And my books. “Please, do share.”

Brian blinks and licks his lips. “Just wondering... does anyone actually enjoy that kind of drink? Or do they order it because”—his eyes flick toward my store—“they think it impresses other people? ”

My jaw tightens. I’ve always believed that book people are the best people, but there’s an exception to every rule.

“Maybe I’ve learned to appreciate complex, nuanced flavors,” I say, and take a sip of my Americano. It burns my tongue, and I wince.

His eyebrows lift.

“It’s hot,” I say, too defensively.

“Okay.” He takes a long, long sip of his drink and I suppress a sigh, telling myself not to let him get under my skin.

When Brian sets his cup down, there’s a dot of whipped cream on his upper lip. My eyes zero in as his tongue slips out and licks the cream away. Something prickles across my skin, like static electricity.

I shake myself and look away.

“What?” he says.

“Nothing. Just seems like you’re really enjoying your drink.”

“I am.”

“Great. It’s important to know what you like, Brian?—”

“You have no idea what I like,” he says, eyes flashing. “You don’t even know my?—”

“Can we keep moving?” Xander says, returning to his seat. As if we’re the ones who interrupted the meeting.

“Absolutely,” I say, picking up my pen again and facing him. The sooner this ends, the sooner I can go back to avoiding Brian. “You had something to talk with us about?”

“Yes,” Xander says. “I’m combining your stores and Beans.”

Brian chokes on his drink.

I stare at Xander. “Combine . . . our stores?”

Xander nods. “It’s been my plan all along, and the pieces are finally falling into place. This neighborhood doesn’t need two bookstores so close together. It’s bad for business, built-in competition.”

I’m about to tell him that my clientele is entirely different from that of a romance bookstore, but Xander’s still talking .

“And you know what people like to do when they shop for books? Drink coffee. Eddie says customers are always coming here and reading. So I figured, hey, let’s combine it all. One big bookstore with a coffee shop in the middle. People can get Harry Potters and parenting books and spy thrillers and sit right down and read them. You know?”

I’m speechless. Appalled. A little nauseated.

Tabula Inscripta has always been a small, boutique bookstore focusing on literary fiction and select non-fiction. I spend hours each season curating my selection, just as the prior owner, Jerome, taught me. I imagine his bushy gray eyebrows rising in horror at all these changes.

“But our bookstores are totally different,” Brian says.

“Yes, completely different customer bases,” I say, nodding. “We’re not in competition.”

“Well, you’ll figure it out,” Xander says. “I mean, one of you will.”

I blanch. “What?”

“No reason for me to pay two managers for one store.”

“So—one of us is out of a job?” Brian sounds horrified.

“Who?” I ask, instantly sick. Xander is a man’s man. I know he’s going to choose Brian—the two of them already seem chummy.

“I’m not deciding right now,” Xander says. “Here’s the plan.”

He launches into a detailed explanation, and I do my best to take notes, even though my head is spinning. Construction will start in a couple of weeks, and the stores will stay open during the process. Xander anticipates the process taking three months, and the manager who earns the most profit during that period will be the manager of the new store. The other will be looking for a new job.

“So you’ll hire either Brian or me, based solely on financials?” I hate the idea of being judged by profit—if Xander knew anything about bookselling, he’d know that owning an indie bookstore will never make him rich—but at least it’s an objective measure.

Brian frowns. “It’s actually?—”

“Exactly,” Xander interrupts. “I anticipate making my decision by Labor Day.”

I sneak a glance at Brian. I can’t get a bead on him. The cardigan, lanyard, and tortoiseshell glasses are giving “small-town librarian,” which isn’t a terrible vibe for a bookseller. The messy hair, I’ll admit, bothers me; he can’t take the time to comb his hair before work? But maybe that’s a good thing—maybe he’s a mess in other aspects of his life, including his managerial skills.

Brian’s eyes flick over to meet mine. My skin prickles again. Behind his glasses, his eyes are warm golden brown, like dark honey, and my stomach coils tight with the strangest sensation. For one split second, I get a flash of us sitting at this table, each with a coffee and a book, reading together.

Ha. No way—he’d probably make snarky comments about my book being better than Ambien.

Plus, he’s my competition.

Brian shifts his weight, which makes his lanyard slip forward, revealing some of the colorful pins. They say things like morally gray , book whore , in my smut era , spread those pages .

And one that I cannot for the life of me understand: stfuattdlagg .

Focus, I tell myself. This man has disparaged my books, my store, and my personality. Now he could end up with my job? Everything I’ve worked for in the past five years, the reputation I’ve built, the clientele I’ve cultivated—all my goals for the future are riding on this. I’ve pulled myself out of the humiliating hole of my past to create a career I’m proud of.

I can’t let this guy take that away.

At least my chances of winning are decent. I mean, how many books could a romance bookstore sell, anyway?