Part of the dilemma, as I see it, is that Bluebird Books is three blocks from my house. It also happens to be one of my favorite places to spend an afternoon. Or evening, as the case may be.

But that’s not what makes me jump in the shower after a restless few hours of sleep. It doesn’t guide my hands as I blow-dry my hair into loose waves, apply eyeliner and mascara to make my dark eyes pop, and paint the barest hint of rose on my lips. And it’s not why I change my clothes several times before deciding on dark jeans and a dove-grey sweater that Claire once told me makes my skin glow.

The real problem is that I can’t help myself. It’s been over two years since I’ve seen him face to face. Two years is a long time. I’m not the same woman I was then, and I’m definitely not the same woman who, three years ago, so carelessly threw him away.

“You can do this,” I tell my reflection. “You are a mature, confident woman and a bestselling author. Be kind and polite. Don’t do anything stupid. He doesn’t hate you. You’ll be fine.”

Chin up, Buttercup.

Heart pounding, I pull on rain boots and grab my scarf and coat. Wallet. Phone. House key. Lastly, I tuck my hardcover copy of my father’s biography safely beneath my coat.

Outside, I’m relieved to find the rain on pause for my walk, and further gratified when despite the low temp, my knee barely twinges. My joy at being home is so great, I’m not even bothered when my carefully styled waves fall prey to the moist air and wind.

By the time the glowing facade of Bluebird Books appears, I’m feeling every inch as confident as I hoped to. I hang onto that confidence by the skin of my teeth as I duck inside and join the growing crowd. The central space of the bookstore has been cleared to make space for forty or so occupied folding chairs.

“Iris!”

My gaze snaps in the direction of Claire’s voice. She and Griffen are grinning and waving from the front row. I watch with dawning horror as Claire points to the seat beside hers.

An empty seat.

For me.

In the front row.

Chin up.

As I skirt around the crowd, I hear my name several times, but I’m too focused on trying not to trip to acknowledge anyone with more than distracted smiles. At the front, I cross the empty space between a single, vacant armchair and a table set up with a variety of hardcovers, including his most recent thriller that was released several months ago.

I barely make it to the seat beside Claire before my knees buckle.

She puts her head on my shoulder. “You look amazing. I knew you’d come. He’ll be so glad to see you. You’re my hero. Have I told you how gorgeous you look? That sweater is the perfect color—”

“Okay, okay,” I say, laughing in spite of my nervousness. “I’m here. You won, my manipulative little fiend. I mean friend.”

She giggles and checks her watch. “He’s late.”

Griffen leans forward to give me a meaningful look. “Why am I not surprised?”

I laugh, shaking my head. “If I had a dollar for every time Beckett was late to class—”

The rest of my sentence is lost in sudden applause. I turn forward just as James emerges from adjacent stacks and crosses to the armchair with a little wave. His denim-clad legs pass not three feet from mine. Over an untucked dress shirt, he’s wearing a hunter green sweater that I know makes his eyes electric—if I had the nerve to look at his face.

Instead, I stare at his scuffed brown boots as he sits. Watch his hands as he uncaps a bottled water sitting on the small table beside his chair.

The feverish applause continues. It occurs to me that I’m not clapping, but I can’t seem to make my arms move. Only when Claire elbows me do I snap out of it and bring my numb hands together.

“Alright, that’s enough,” comes his humored, achingly familiar voice.

Someone whistles loudly and James laughs. The sound pours into my ears and down my body, lifting goosebumps. I’m seconds from bolting when Claire’s hand clamps on my bouncing knee.

Eventually the applause fades. A bookstore employee walks into the space before James’ chair.

“On behalf of Bluebird Books, I want to thank everyone for this incredible turnout. Consider yourselves the lucky ones—we’re at capacity and no one else is getting in!” She waits for a round of cheers to subside before speaking again.

“As you all know, tonight our guest is the legendary James Beckett. Acclaimed poet, novelist, and Director of the Creative Writing program at our very own U-Dub. The agenda this evening is flexible as per the author’s request. He’ll do a brief reading from Indigo, his newest thriller, then we’ll, uh…”

James leans forward. “See how the night goes.”

Laughter from the crowd.

Terrified and hopeful, I will my gaze to his face. But he’s not looking at me, instead busying himself with several hardcovers on the display table. I take the time to absorb his features, to catalogue the evidence of years.

His hair is shorter on the sides but still a mess on top. He’s clean shaven. Elegant and piratical. Exactly as I remember him, as though no time at all has passed.

Releasing a breath, I slump back in my chair.

“Looks the same, huh?” whispers Claire, and I nod.

The bookstore employee disappears and slowly, quiet descends on the gathering. James settles back in the chair, idly flipping pages until he finds the passage he wants. Bookmarking it with a finger, he looks up.

I look down.

“Thanks for coming, although I’m guessing most of you are my students. For your information, attendance this evening will not be counted as extra credit, a concept I firmly believe should be abolished from all centers of higher learning.”

As laughter and groans sound, I glance around me. Sure enough, most people in the crowd are in their early twenties, faces bright and fresh.

“And what’s this? Do my eyes deceive me?”

Light, teasing tone. I wonder if anyone else can hear the undercurrent of true surprise.

My gaze snaps to him. To startled green eyes aimed directly at me. My heartbeat thunders, breathing going shallow. I give him shaky smile, unable to look away, unable to keep the emotion from my face.

God, I’ve missed you.

James clears his throat and breaks eye contact. “Friends, we have among us a legend in her own right.” A graceful hand extends toward me. “Iris Eliot, everyone.”

I don’t hear the applause, don’t feel Claire’s shoulder nudging mine. All I see is the casual affection that was in his eyes when he looked at me. Not desire. Not need. Just the look of someone staring at the past with no ill feelings. Someone who’s made peace and moved on.

I lift my hand in a little wave to the appreciative crowd. Force a smile onto my face. Grip the hardcover in my lap like it’s a life preserver.

All while my heart pounds, and withers, and turns to ash.