After bawling my eyes out and sleeping eleven hours straight, I wake up with newfound conviction.

It’s time to let go of James Beckett.

Easier said than done, of course, but I begin the process by retrieving a shoebox from the attic. Inside are the letters I wrote him and never sent, as well as the stack of letters from my father. The latter, I put back in the box.

I spend the morning reading with a box of tissues handy. When I finish, I throw them in the trash. Ten minutes later I retrieve them. Then I trash them again. After repeating the cycle another few times, I finally call Claire. She comes over, listens to me rant and rave, and grabs the letters from the trashcan.

“Hell no are these getting dumped. You’re famous. I might need them someday.”

She stuffs them in her purse, fierce expression daring me to object. I don’t. I’m just relieved to have them gone.

The bulk of the next few days are spent doing homeowner-ey things like stocking my pantry and fridge, mopping the floors, doing laundry, and decorating walls with various paintings and photos that I never found time to hang.

By Saturday afternoon, I’m restless. I have plans to meet Claire and Griffen for dinner this evening, but I can’t spend one more hour pretending I’m too busy cleaning to write.

Hoping for inspiration, I pack a thermos of coffee and my journal and pens and head to Bluebird Books. Inside the warm, bustling store, the tables and furniture are back where they normally are. No traces of Thursday’s event remain save the display table devoted to Beckett’s works.

In one of the side rooms, I’m lucky enough to spy an empty armchair. The alcove holds two, and in the other sits a student with headphones on and a laptop on their knees, a stack of reference books at their feet. Perfect.

I take off my coat and toe out of my rain boots, then sit crosslegged in the chair. Diluted sunshine floats through the window at my back, wreathing my shoulders. With a sigh, I settle back and close my eyes.

Fingers on paper. Dust and ink. Whispered voices, a few louder ones. The muted ting ting of a cash register. Clacking of computer keys as the student writes.

The sounds and scents are a writer’s lullaby, coaxing me to sleep.

* * *

“Book tours are exhausting, aren’t they?”

My eyes snap open at the familiar voice. Mind muddled by the unexpected nap, I lift my head and look around blearily. The window behind me shows a dark sky, and the student has been replaced by sexy British man.

“Hello, Iris.”

“Shit,” I reply, sitting up and rubbing my face roughly.

His lips tilt sardonically. “I’ve been called worse things, I’m sure.”

Still struggling for clarity, I blurt, “Am I dreaming?”

“Do you dream of me often?”

This time, there’s no controlling my blush. “No,” I lie, scowling. “How long have you been sitting there?”

“Long enough to become reacquainted with your snoring.”

My mouth drops. “I don’t snore!”

He winks. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell a soul.”

Groaning, I rummage in my coat for my cell phone. It isn’t there, so I grab my messenger bag from the floor.

“What time is it? What are you even doing here?”

“Late for a date? And I’ll have you know I’m a frequent visitor here.” He holds up a familiar black journal, then nods to the one still in my lap. “I think we had the same idea.”

My fingers close on my phone. I check the time and curse, then send Claire a text to let her know I’m going to be late to dinner.

“A date?” asks James.

“I heard you the first time, and like the first time, I’m ignoring you.”

Chuckling, he watches me stuff my journal into my bag. When I stand, he stands with me. We’re close enough that I can smell his cologne, which triggers a powerful wave of sensory memory.

My heart dusts itself off and kicks hard. Lifting my chin, I force myself to meet his eyes.

“Don’t you have a girlfriend to get home to?”

His smile turns sharp. “We don’t live together.”

I smother a flinch. “Well, either way, you need to stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

I wave a hand in his direction. “You know, like that.”

He takes a step forward, his eyes never leaving mine. The warmth of his body radiates onto my skin. I’m frozen in place as he bends his head to whisper in my ear.

“I’m still a prick, little muse. And I still want to fuck you silly.”

I reel backward, both in surprise and shameful arousal. James grabs the lapels of my coat before I tumble into a cabinet full of books.

“And besides,” he says lightly, “Jessica and I have an agreement.”

“An agreement?” I echo. “What the hell does that mean?”

He shrugs a shoulder. “We’re not exclusive. And definitely not getting married.”

Slowly, anger outshines my desire. “Are you serious right now? You’re propositioning me while in a relationship with another woman?”

“An open relationship,” he corrects. “And yes, I suppose I am. You’re even more stunning than I remember. I’d be an idiot not to at least make an attempt.”

Disgusted and no longer the least bit aroused, I yank away from him. “Who are you and what have you done with James?”

He smiles but it’s distant and cool, not reflecting in his eyes. “I’m a pragmatist, pet. And perhaps a bit of a masochist. You handed me my bleeding heart on a platter three years ago. I’m not offering it to you again. But I have very fond, very vivid memories of that sweet, tight little body.”

“Stop! Just stop. Is this revenge? A way to get back at me for a stupid lie I told out of fear?”

James blinks in surprise; belatedly, I realize my error.

“You lied,” he growls. “You weren’t seeing anyone.”

With a soft cry of frustration, I snap, “Of course not. With everything I was dealing with at the time, did you really think I’d found some random guy to date? My delayed PTSD from the night of the accident was so bad I barely left my apartment.”

Agonized, angry green eyes find mine.

“Damn you, Iris.”

He brushes past me and disappears around a corner. I hear the bell of the front door, and moments later see him stalk past the window, head uncovered and bent into the light rain.

He was right—the truth isn’t always black and white. But whatever color it manifests as, sometimes it just hurts.