The first bookcase is now halfway into position, and I’m sweating and breathing hard. I realize with horror that the sounds I’m making are mildly pornographic, and I try my best to stifle them. I push again and flinch at the piercing shriek of the wheels.
“You know what, Brandon?” “That’s also not my—”
“If I’m annoying you so much, you could help me.”
He huffs again, this time in disbelief. “Why would I do that?” “Because I’d be done faster.” I give the bookcase one last shove and straighten, wincing. “One down, one to go.”
Ryan watches me as I head over to the next bookcase. His arms are folded across his stupid brawny chest, the expression on his face half grumpy toddler and half smirking douchebag. Like he knows he could push the shelf into place with little to no effort, but he’d rather watch me break my back.
And that’s exactly what he does. The wheels aren’t as squeaky on this one, but they’re stiff. With each shove, my feet scrabble on the polished wood floor, and I’m cursing under my breath by the end—but he doesn’t move a muscle.
My simmering frustration spikes into red-hot anger. It’s like he enjoys seeing me struggle. Like he wants to humiliate me.
Or . . .
I twist around to see his face: lips parted, pupils dilated, eyes focused on my butt. He straightens and glances away.
“Were you staring at my ass?” I snap.
“You wish.” His eyes flick to my chest for a half second before sliding away.
Heat sizzles down my spine—the heat of rage, I tell myself.
Pure, scorching rage.
I march toward him, steam practically coming out of my ears, and he stumbles back, bumping against the shelves behind him. He thinks he’s the only one who can back someone into a bookcase?
He’s towering above me, so I grab his lanyard and tug him down to my level. His eyes flash with surprise and something else—red and hot—and I realize what I’ve done: his mouth is inches from mine.
“You have something to say?” His voice is a husky rumble.
I can’t meet his eyes; I’m breathing hard, fixated on his mouth, that full lower lip. “I hate how tall you are.”
“Do you?” His tone is mocking. Like he’s thinking, Liar. “Yes,” I snap. “I hate how you always look down on me.” “Want me to get on my knees?”
Fury zings through me, and I clench my thighs together.
“What I want,” I say, “is for you to stop staring at me like you can’t decide if you want to kill me or fuck me.”
His eyes flash with heat. “Too bad,” he whispers.
He’s looking at me with blatant hunger, like he’s daring me to pull him the rest of the way down. Just a couple of inches and his mouth will be on mine. My grip tightens on his lanyard. And for a split second, I think, Why not?
A burst of laughter sounds from his side of the store—like a bucket of cold water hitting me. I release his lanyard. He straightens up.
Taking a step back, I smooth my hair and attempt to pull myself together, knowing there’s nothing I can do about my flushed cheeks. Flushed from anger—it must be. The alternative is too awful to even consider.
When I look up, he’s smirking again, like he knows how much he rattled me. Like this is all part of his strategy to crush me into oblivion.
“I think you should go,” I say, lifting my chin.
“Yeah,” he says, releasing a dark laugh. “I would have if you hadn’t—”
“Just go.”
His jaw clenches, and he turns and stalks away, and I’m involuntarily staring at his butt, at the way his worn jeans hug everything just right—
“My sister was right about you,” I call after him, and he pauses. “You’re just a basic run-of-the-mill asshole.”
His body goes rigid for one second, then two. But he doesn’t turn around, doesn’t reply. He just keeps on walking, disappearing behind the new bookcase-wall and into his store.
Excerpted from BATTLE OF THE BOOKSTORES by Ali Brady, published by Berkley, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House, LLC. Copyright © 2025
