“So,” Emil says to me as I balance my cell between my shoulder and chin and I straighten my tie. “We just sold rights to three more countries. That brings it to thirty-one, and twelve weeks as a NY Times Bestseller. How does it feel?”

“Pretty fantastic,” I say, checking my face in the mirror. I’ve had enough coffee to wire half the city, and the dinners on tour have been feeding me so well that I’m sure I’m going to come off this twelve-city fling with at least a dozen extra pounds. “Where am I today?”

“Chicago, baby,” he says. “Memphis tomorrow.”

Right. All the back rooms of bookstores look the same. This Barnes & Noble, has more refreshments set up for me than I can eat in a year, as well as a pile of letters and signs from my fans. Fans. Outside, the line started to form for me about three hours ago. From the din outside, it sounds like a full house. It’s a little surreal, but after a number of starred reviews from the major publications and a rave review from the NY Times Book Review that called my book one of the greatest works of the century, this is my reward.

I love it all, truthfully, I do. I’m the Next Big Thing, maybe just for now, until a new one tops the lists. But I’ll never take it for granted that I get to stay home and work on my new book. This is my career, after all, and it pays the bills. But there’s only one thing that would make this tour better . . .

As I pull on my blazer, a microphone crackles outside. I check my watch. Eight PM on the dot. The bookstore manager’s voice can be heard outside. “Got to go, Emil,” I say into the phone. “I’m on.”

“Good luck, man,” he tells me, and I end the call. I put on my spectacles and give myself another once-over. Oh yes, I look sufficiently like the man in the photo on the book jacket.

“We are honored to introduce bestselling author of THE OUTSIDE WORLD, Cain Hill!” she shouts, and the crowd erupts in applause.

I step out of the door and onto the podium, noting that the line snakes through the stacks, and straight out the door. Holy shit, this is bigger than New York. It’s a mix of men and women, old and young—I’ve managed to captivate them all, somehow, with THE OUTSIDE WORLD. I wave and smile politely at everyone, then sit down at the table surrounded by stacks of my hardcover. I pick up the Sharpie and look up at the first customer, an old woman who is holding five copies of my book. “You’re my favorite author,” she gushes breathlessly. “This book truly astounded me! I’m buying a copy for each one of my sons!”

“Thank you,” I say, again and again as she continues to recount the entire story to me in such minute detail, you’d think the characters were real people. It floors me, every time, that a creation from my own head could have so many people so emotionally invested. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

As I sign each book, she hugs them to her chest like prized possessions. This. This is what makes all of those hours toiling alone, thinking I’m churning out absolute shit, worth it. When I told that to Addison, she said that I should enjoy it to the fullest. I knew she was thinking of her father. He’d only ever toiled in complete misery, and never gotten a chance to enjoy the fruits of his labor. Maybe he never knew fruit this sweet existed.

And dammit, it’s really sweet, I think, as another fan comes up for my signature. It’s an attractive young woman with blonde hair that reminds me of Addison’s, in a midriff-baring top. She asks me to sign her stomach, like I’m a rock star. I shake my head. “I’m sorry, books only,” I explain.

She shrugs and pushes a book over to me. “Everyone says it’s the best book they’ve read,” she coos. “And from the sexiest author, too.”

Addison may want me to live this life to the fullest, and I’m sure she worries I’ll do as her father had, and spread myself around to the many gorgeous women who show up at my signings. But truthfully, I’ve never been tempted. I have all I need, now. And I’m not even a stockbroker.

“Very sexy,” someone behind me agrees.

I look up and see Addison, smiling down at me.

Jumping up, I pull her into my arms, like a mirage I have to hold to make sure it’s real. I stare at her, blinking with the thought I might wake up and realize it’s a dream. “What are you doing here?” I ask her. “In . . .”

I forget. “Chicago,” she reminds me.

“Right. Chicago. I thought you were working on your novel.”

“Just finished,” she says, smiling. She’s gorgeous and flushed and wearing the white fisherman’s sweater I’d gotten her for Christmas. She pats her bag, which is brimming with a large stack of pages. “And I want you to read it. I’m sure it’s purely C work, though.”

“Oh, you’re a B, at least,” I tease her, still dazed that she’s standing in front of me. I’d expected I’d see her when the tour got through, two weeks from now, for Christmas. I touch her hair, inhaling the intoxicating strawberry scent she carries everywhere she goes. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

“Disappointed?” she asks.

“Far from it.”

That’s when I look up and realize we are far from alone—there are crowds of people gathered around us, hanging on our every word. The bookstore manager grins and says, “Is this your girlfriend?”

I nod and scratch my chin, as the thing I’ve been thinking most about comes to mind. As it does, and idea blooms in my head. “Possibly more.”

Addison raises an eyebrow. “Possibly more?”

That’s when I decide to go for it. I’d been waiting for a quiet Christmas Eve in my apartment, our apartment, even though that’d felt so cliché. I’d wanted something romantic, something “us.” And what could be more romantic and “us” than a giant bookstore, surrounded by hundreds of bibliophiles? The fact that I haven’t taken the tiny velvet box out of my jacket since I bought it only seals the deal. This is the right time. All signs pointing this way. Fate.

Right on the podium, I reach into my pocket and unveil the box. I kneel, and pull back the lid to reveal the diamond solitaire.

She gasps. Along with the rest of the people on line. Some of them hug each other as her mouth drops open. This is where I’m supposed to ask the question, but at this moment, everything I’ve ever wanted is right here, happening for me. It leaves me speechless.

“Mr. English, at a loss for words,” she murmurs, her voice trembling. “Are you asking me what I think you’re asking me?”

I nod.

She nods, too, and I pull her into my arms, kissing her to the applause of the crowd. We don’t need words. I’m a man of English, of many words, but I’ve been through the whole dictionary, and trust me: There isn’t a poem or a word on this earth that can describe this kind of perfection.