Memories invade my mind as I walk past all the tourists on King Street.

I’ve been excited, anxious, nervous—everything—since I found out one of my book tour stops was in Charleston. My publisher arranged the schedule, and there was no changing it, although I wasn’t completely sure I would’ve wanted to. However, being back is bringing a mixture of feelings, and I don’t know what to make of them.

Especially with the way I left—the last time I saw Ethan.

I’ve heard his voice, but we haven’t talked since that last day I was here.

Leaving Charleston in tears doesn’t give this city the best feeling of returning, but I’m not running away. At least, not yet.

It’d be impossible to forget a guy like Ethan, especially when my latest novel was primarily inspired by him. As cliché as it sounds, he really did bring something out of me that had been missing all this time. My writer’s block was gone, and I couldn’t get the words out fast enough.

Who knew my week with Ethan Rochester would lead to writing the best novel of my life?

When I returned home, I couldn’t write because I was so hurt and upset. But eventually, anytime I thought about Ethan and our time together, which seemed to be all the time, my inspiration fire would reignite. I tried to push away all the negative thoughts and only focus on the good that happened between us. It was the best week of my life until I ran into that witch of a woman, and she ruined everything. My trust had been broken, and I was too scared to start over, not knowing the difference between his truths and her lies. It was too much.

As soon as I presented the new book idea to my agent, she ate it up. The novel practically wrote itself, which, as a full-time writer, I can confidently say has never happened to me before. Once I finished the first draft, relief rushed through my veins. My agent insisted my characters get a full happily-ever-after, even if I didn’t.

So of course, they did. Complete with a big southern wedding and lots of babies.

Ethan had done what he promised all along—helped me find my writing inspiration. It’s safe to say it wasn’t the southern air or lifestyle—it was all him.

Our story ended with my heart broken and me crying in the plane bathroom. I knew the moment I told Nora, she’d tell me to talk to him and find out what happened. And if what Harmony said was true, she’d say to give him a piece of my mind. Hell, she was ready to fly to Charleston and do it for me like the mama bear she is.

Suffice it to say, I didn’t do either of those things. Everything from my past resurfaced, and it was the same issues and lies from all my failed relationships all over again. Fear, self-doubt, depression. It all kept me from making that step, from going back to Ethan.

He’d called and texted dozens of times. They were all left unheard and unread. I was being childish, and I knew that, but I couldn’t bear to hear if everything Harmony said was actually true. I couldn’t bear to hear him lie to me either. I needed more time to think, and I had major deadlines to worry about on top of that.

Until one night, I finally braved listening his voicemails. It took two bottles of wine, of course.

The sound of his voice crippled me. God, it was so sexy when he spoke, but I could hear the pain in his tone. It was evident, yet I couldn’t bring myself to hit the call back button. I was pathetic and weak, I knew that.

In the beginning of his messages, he desperately begged me to tell him why I left and what happened. Those messages broke me down. I was the spitting image of Carrie Bradshaw crying in her wedding dress—except I was alone with an empty glass of wine and my cat.

Later, his messages changed because he had found out about Harmony and knew she’d said something to me. He pleaded with me to tell him what she said so he’d know how to fix it, but that was the thing. It couldn’t be fixed. Even if her words were complete lies, the fact that I let a guy like him affect me in only a week scared the shit out of me, and a part of me was running. Running from the reality of what happened so quickly. I’d become too vulnerable, and it was a hard lesson in trusting another guy with my heart. The pain made it impossible for me to move forward.

Part of me wanted to go back to him, hear what he had to say, and fall back into our easy ways. However, the logical part of me knew it was a formula for disaster. My life is in Chicago and his is in South Carolina. We both knew this; yet he didn’t give up.

After one bottle of wine was emptied, I continued to the other, listening to another handful of his messages. God, they made me hate myself. I wallowed in guilt and self-sabotage. Yet, I continued to convince myself that staying away was for the best. It’d be better to get over him now before I really fell hard because if it didn’t work out the second time around, my heart would be destroyed beyond repair.

I lied to myself, even if I didn’t want to admit I was. Eventually, I started believing those lies.

Nora’s words from earlier repeated in my head. Give the boy something, Vada. Whether it’s an explanation for your silence or just to say you want him to stop calling, give him some kind of closure.

I knew she was right, but I couldn’t work up the courage. Until I’d emptied those two bottles of wine and that’s when I finally hit the call back button.

He didn’t answer, of course. It was well after two in the morning, which meant it was even later where he was.

The next morning, I woke with the worst headache of my life. I rarely drank, and when I did, it was one or two glasses max. I was certainly paying for it now.

A loud knock echoed through my apartment, and I groaned, unable to deal with anyone or anything. It was well into the afternoon, so it could only be Nora.

“Use your key,” I hollered, hoping my words would make it to the front of my apartment. After a moment, the knocking continued. “Dammit, Nora,” I grumbled, pulling myself from the bed and opening the front door.

“Miss Collins?” an older man’s voice rang.

Blinking, I finally lifted my head and saw he was holding a large vase of red roses.

“Yes?”

“Floral delivery, miss. Here you go.” He handed them to me with a smile.

“Oh, um, thank you.”

“My pleasure, miss. Have a great day.”

After closing the door with my foot, I walked the vase of flowers to my kitchen and set them down. Searching for a card, I found one after my vision cleared.

Dear Vada,

I miss you more than I can express, but I’m willing to give you space if that’s what you need to think everything through. I’ll wait for you until you’re ready.

You know where to find me when you are.

-Ethan

P.S. Don’t think I won’t stop reminding you how much I care and miss you though.

P.S.S. Hope you’re feeling okay this morning. Take an Ibuprofen and drink lots of water. Hangovers are the worst.

“What?” I gasped aloud. I racked my brain, saw the empty wine bottles on my living room floor, and reached for my phone. I checked my calls, and that’s when realization hit.

I called him nine times last night. Left him voicemail after voicemail, worst—drunk voicemails.

“Oh my God,” I murmured. “Fuck.”

Why in the world would he even want to talk or see me again after that? I probably mentioned his cock and how I wished I could fuck his brains out just to use him the way I felt used. Oh my God. This was fucking awful.

After telling Nora the story, she laughed her ass off. Completely at my expense, of course. She even said she heard me rambling through the walls, and when I cursed her out for not trying to stop me, she said it was for my own good.

One thing I know for sure is that I told him I needed space, which was true. It was why I didn’t respond to his messages because I knew the minute I did, I’d throw everything out the door. I needed to stay focused, work on my novel, and not let a man chase away my dreams.

Space was good. He knew writing was important to me and respecting that made me fall for him even harder.

After that night, I stayed on track and kept writing. His calls and text messages stopped, but the flower deliveries didn’t.

Every week like clockwork, a new bouquet showed up at my door. Every week, a new note.

I miss you, Vada.

You’re beautiful. Just thought I’d remind you.

I’ll wait for you. No matter what.

I was tempted to call him several times, but I didn’t want to lead him on. Truthfully, I didn’t know what I wanted. I hated to cause him more pain, not knowing if I’d ever be able to be who or what he needed. Space and time couldn’t heal everything, and there was no guarantee when that would even be.

“You’ll always have a deadline, Vada. Go to him,” Nora insisted.

If I was being a hundred percent honest with myself, it was fear keeping me from making that step.

Fear of putting my heart back on the line.

Fear of losing my creativeness.

Fear of giving it all up for him.

Fear that I wouldn’t be able to trust him even if he’d given me no reason not to.

Even after a year, I kept all the dried rose petals from dozens of flowers that sat in a box on my nightstand. I looked at them every day and tried to remember the way he smelled. He always smelled so damn good. Purely male mixed with a hint of amber. It was heaven.

Even though I essentially ignored him for months, he refused to let me forget him, as if I could. One note he sent hit me hard. It said he was giving me all the space I needed, knowing I was working on my book, and that he’d be there when I was ready. He wasn’t giving up—no matter what.

Part of me wondered how long he was going to keep it up and if he was still thinking of me as much as I was thinking of him.

Then the flowers stopped coming a month ago. Right after the book’s release.

First, a week went by, and I didn’t think much of it. I’d been preparing for my book tour, but when another three weeks went by, I knew I’d run out of time. A million thoughts tumbled through my mind. Had he finally gotten over me? Did he meet someone else? Was he done trying? Had I fucked up by not giving him some kind of response that wasn’t wine-induced?

Or worse. Did he see the book and now hate me for it, for sharing those intimate parts of our relationship?

I knew the only person I could blame was myself and admitting that brought more pain than anything else. I was heartbroken all over again, and it was my own damn fault.

“Vada!” Olivia, my new assistant shouts. She’s been traveling with me and helping keep my schedule straight. The promotional tour for this new book is the biggest and longest I’ve ever done, so my agent suggested bringing someone to help me. Considering there’d be a lot of events and meetings to keep track of, I took her advice and went through an agency to find a highly-qualified assistant.

Blinking, I realize she’s waving her hand in front of my face. “You need more caffeine,” she mutters, pointing to the Styrofoam coffee cup on the table, silently telling me to chug it down.

“I’m fine,” I finally reply, grabbing for the cup anyway. She catches me daydreaming all the time, so I know she’s used to me zoning out on our conversations. “What is it?” I ask before taking a large sip.

“Which outfit do you want to wear?” She’s holding up a dress in each hand. “You have the brunch meet-n-greet at eleven and then the signing from one to four.”

I narrow my eyes, studying each one. They both work just fine, but being in Charleston has me thinking I could maybe—just maybe—see Ethan. As quickly as the thought enters, I push it back out.

“The navy blue one,” I say, pointing to the one in her right hand. “With my cream-colored heels.”

“Great.” She hangs them up. “You can wear your new blazer over it for dinner.”

“Dinner?” I rack my brain, but I can’t remember.

“Yes. You have an intimate meet-n-greet from six to eight.”

I put it in my mental calendar, although I know I’ll forget. Every day of this tour has me so jam-packed that I have a hard time keeping track.

“Thank God you have a great memory.” I sigh.

She turns around before grabbing something and walking toward me. With a loud plop, she tosses a fat notebook on the table.

“I have a great planner,” she corrects. “This is your Bible.”

I arch a brow, amused by her dramatics. “The Bible?”

“Yes, the Bible.” She starts petting it. “Treat it as such, anyway. It has everything in here from your schedule, your coffee orders, your outfit options for each event, your flight itineraries, your sleep schedule.” She pauses to blink up at me. “Everything.”

“Jesus, Liv.” I pull it toward me and start flipping through pages. “Surprised it doesn’t have my menstrual cycle in here.”

“Page twenty-two,” she says, not missing a beat. I look up at her with an arched brow, and she winks. “You think I just know when to pack extra chocolate and pads?” She taps her temple with a finger. “My number one job—keep my author happy.”

I smile. “Wow, I never realized how much you do behind the scenes. Thank you.”

She blushes, and I know our little moment is over. “Okay, well you have twelve minutes to finish your breakfast.” She gives me a pointed look that tells me I better eat.

Grabbing the planner off the table, she walks back to her makeshift office in the opposite corner of the hotel suite while I finish my breakfast.

Exactly twelve minutes later, Olivia is pushing me into the shower and reminding me to shave my legs.

I look down and realize she’s right.

“How did you—” I shout from behind the curtain.

“The Bible!” she yells back, and I smile.

Less than two hours later, we’re heading to one of the hotel’s meeting rooms where a group of readers are waiting for me. No matter how many events I do, it still feels surreal. I’m completely humbled that people read my words and even want to meet me. It’s an intoxicating feeling, and every time I leave one of these events, I have to pinch myself because this is my life.

“You have one hour and forty-five minutes, and then we have to get you to the bookstore for the signing. Ready?” Olivia asks as she brushes one of my flyaway hairs off my forehead. She really is my right-hand woman.

“Absolutely!” I say, confidently and smile.

She opens the doors for me, and I’m greeted by a dozen women who all smile and start clapping as soon as I walk in. It’s so overwhelming, yet I can’t deny how great it feels. They stand up from the table, so I can give them each a hug while they introduce themselves to me.

Meet-n-greets are intimate and personal, which is one of the reasons I love them so much. I meet a lot of readers online, but there’s nothing like connecting with them in person.

Once we’re all seated and settled with our plates of food, questions start flying. “So does Nathan know you wrote a novel about him?” Amelia, a woman around the same age as me, asks. “I mean, he’d have to, right?”

Everyone leans over the table, itching closer to hear my response.

The New York Times reached out to my publisher and requested an interview with me and printed it right before the book’s release where I confirmed the rumors about this novel being inspired by true events. Considering this was a steamy romance novel, they were intrigued, along with thousands of readers. So, of course, the million-dollar question everyone wants to know—did “Nathan” know I wrote this book primarily based on our week together?

Of course, Nathan was actually Ethan, but I haven’t confirmed whether or not he knew because honestly, I didn’t. I had no idea if he followed my social media pages, but I haven’t come out and told him personally. Hell, I haven’t even spoken to him. Concern on how readers will react to that truth is why I haven’t publicly revealed that. Part of me worries my readers would be upset if I told our story without his permission, and the other part of me stresses they wouldn’t connect with the characters if they knew the real-life love story didn’t end the same.

“I don’t think so,” is all I offer to Amelia.

“Do you think he’d be mad if he found out?” another woman asks. “Like now that the book is released, he could know, right?” There’s hopefulness in her tone.

“Sure, he could. Not sure he follows romance books, but never say never,” I say with a forced smile. I knew going on tour and having these meet-n-greets would bring up uncomfortable questions and memories of Ethan, but being in the same town as him and where the story took place is affecting me in more ways than one.

The brunch ends on a high note when I announce there’ll be more standalone books in the series. My agent ended up getting me a three-book deal for the series once she sold the first one, and after I sent in summaries for books two and three.

“You did good,” Olivia praises. “I am starting to wonder if this Nathan guy is real though.” She flashes me a wink, and I roll my eyes.

“Sometimes I wonder the same thing,” I say with a chuckle.

“The more you talk about him, the more he sounds too good to be true.”

“If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is,” I say, confirming what she already expected. Ethan’s the full package, and anyone that meets him would probably agree. However, that doesn’t void the fact that we were destined to end this way.

His emotional baggage mixed with my trust issues was a disaster waiting to happen. But I can confidently say that if I had to do it all over again, I undoubtedly would.

The afternoon and night go by fast. The signing is a huge success and meeting readers who want my autograph and picture has me floating on cloud nine. I’m not a social person by nature, but as soon as I enter that room filled with people whose eyes are all on me, something in my brain switches.

I’m suddenly the most social person ever, remembering to smile and hug people. I pose for pictures and thank them for coming. Nora calls it Vada 2.0.

I laugh, thinking back to the conversation. She knows how introverted I am and often teases me for all the food deliveries I get.

“You have more men coming and going from your apartment than the Playboy mansion,” she mocked.

“Well, what can I say? Food is my weakness.” I smirked, earning a groan from her.

“One of these days, I’m teaching you to cook a damn meal for yourself. How are you ever going to be able to cook dinner for your future husband?”

I gave her a look that told her that wasn’t something I’d have to be concerned about anytime soon.

“You could go out every once in a while. Meet up with some friends,” she encouraged.

“I don’t have friends.” I deadpanned. “Except you and Oliver.”

“Oliver and I don’t count, although I don’t appreciate you putting me in the same category as your damn cat.” She grunted. “I mean, real friends. Girlfriends the same age as you. Go out and have fun. You’re always worried about the next deadline.”

“Because I’m always on a deadline.” I half-laughed, half-cried because it’s the truth. Deadlines on deadlines. “Plus, I don’t want to be that social anyway.”

“How’s it you can’t socialize with people your own age, yet you go on tour and socialize with hundreds of strangers?”

I shrugged with a grin. “One of life’s many mysteries I guess.” I flashed a smug smile.

“It’s like you have an alternate personality. Vada 2.0.”

I laughed, rolling my head back because I’d never thought about it like that.

“You’re absolutely right, Nora. But Vada OG is my comfort zone.”

Considering my writing schedule and hectic lifestyle, cooking just isn’t a priority right now. Neither is going out and socializing. I know I’ll probably look back one day and wished I’d formed some close friendships, but people who don’t read or write just don’t understand the passion. I’m better off in my own bubble with online friends who share the same interests and night owl schedule.

“Okay, that’s it for the day,” Olivia says with a deep breath. “You’re officially off-duty.”

“I can finally take off these heels then.” I sigh with a choked laugh. “My writer’s uniform is so much better.”

“Wearing the same clothes for a week isn’t a uniform, Vada. It’s right up there next to homelessness.” She eyes me, daring me to challenge her. “Plus, you look good in a dress and heels. You should go out and show yourself off.” Her eyes light up at her suggestion.

“Sorry, Vada 2.0 is officially down for the night. Plus, I should get some writing done tonight. My agent is already clawing at me for the next part.”

Sighing, she nods, and we head toward the doors and walk out together. Charleston is beautiful this time of year; a warm breeze blows across us as the sun starts to set. I close my eyes briefly, letting all the memories soak in.

“You okay?” she asks, adjusting her purse on her shoulder.

I blink and inhale a deep breath. “Yeah. I’m good.” I smile wide.

Stepping out onto the sidewalk, Olivia plays on her phone, and just as we round a corner, I hear someone calling my name.

“Vada!”

The voice is deep and recognizable.

Spinning around, my eyes search for him, and it doesn’t take me long to spot him. His hands are shoved into the front pockets of his dark-washed jeans. Dark shaggy hair tamed to one side. Piercings in both ears. Scruffy jawline.

He’s as gorgeous as I remember. Every bad boy stigma.

A single girl’s wet dream.

Ethan.