I’ve never been surrounded by this many women in my life. I had no idea Julia was so popular. The line for her signing stretches across the carpeted ballroom floor, winding around several booths. I can see her up at the table, alongside two other women. She’s laughing, chatting, tossing her hair. Something she says makes the woman she’s signing for burst into raucous laughter. Julia’s good at putting people at ease.

“Oh my God, I love this. I so rarely see dudes in this kind of line,” a woman behind me says. She grins up at me, a pile of books in her arms. She’s got curly black hair and dark skin, and wrinkles her nose as she studies me. “You sure you’re in the right place, hon?”

“I love romance novels,” I say, as neutrally as possible. Hopefully, I sound like I’m telling the truth. Playing along with other people’s assumptions can be part of a lawyer’s job. “This series with, ah, all the sex. Fantastic. Can’t get enough.”

“Wow. This is so weird,” the woman says. She laughs, and even slaps me on the arm. “I love it. Good for you, man.”

“Thanks,” I say, bemused as a couple of other ladies turn to gawk at me, like I’m some kind of mythological creature on display, a manticore reading Nora Roberts.

The line moves forward a bit, then halts, and I stop short. The woman from behind bumps into me, spilling her books. I pick them up for her. Damn. She’s been balancing—five, six—eight paperbacks.

“Let me hold onto some of these until you get to the front,” I tell her. She makes a gasping noise of relief. “Would’ve thought you’d have a tote bag or something. That’s one thing I’ve noticed about publishing conferences; they give away totes like they’re candy or something.”

It’s true. I saw a woman with five bags slung over her arms, who then ran to grab another free tote at the Ballantine table. Some mysteries I will never understand.

“Mmm, totable candy,” the woman laughs. She nods. “Yeah, I always get too many books. It’s my big problem. I mean, I read like crazy. Makes my morning commute easier. Sci fi, fantasy, thriller, you name it. Sometimes I pick up whatever Oprah tells me to. But romance is kind of my main passion. No pun intended.” She grins. “Too many books. So yeah, not enough totes in the world.”

“Maybe I can snag you one at the front, get it autographed. I know the author,” I say.

The woman gasps and claps her hands over her mouth. It’s kind of fun, being the one with the inside track. It feels like I know a celebrity. Hell, maybe I do.

“How do you know Julia?” the woman asks, suddenly turning coy. I play along, lifting an eyebrow.

“I know her very well,” I tell the woman, leaving a hint of suggestion in my voice.

The woman giggles and even blushes. Christ, I need to tell Tyler about romance conventions.

“Maybe she based one of her alphas on you. Rolph Armani, maybe.” She really seems to like that idea.

But . . . Rolph Armani? I can’t help barking out a laugh.

She giggles as well. “Yeah, I know. Some of the names are kind of ridiculous. But isn’t that half the point? It’s a fantasy, after all. Like, if I met a guy on the street named Clint Embers, I’d know he was either a hustler or a wrestler. But in fiction? Totally normal.”

“Right,” I say, moving up the line and still carrying her books.

I’ll admit it; I’d sort of imagined Julia signing books for a bunch of sad, lonely housewives who’ve never held a job in their lives and need someone to fix all their problems. You know. Someone who thinks the names Rolph Armani or Clint Embers belong to actual human beings. But as I chat with the woman—Maria, as she introduces herself—I see my idea was pretty mean-spirited. All right, I’ll say it: idiotic. Maria’s a pharmacist who rock-climbs in her spare time. Corinne, who’s right ahead of us and couldn’t help overhearing the conversation, introduces herself as a forensic scientist. Like Maria before her, Corinne is dumbstruck by my presence and all but starts prodding me to make sure I’m real and not a hallucination. It turns out that having a young man in this signing line is kind of like finding the Holy Grail, if the Holy Grail had a penis.

Women are peering at me, looking sideways or standing on tiptoe. And a lot of them seem to already know each other.

“Look, I’m kind of over the whole billionaire thing,” Maria says, offering me a gummy peach ring. I decline, and she chews thoughtfully. “Like, I get kind of tired of the over-the-top wealth porn. But that’s why Julia’s books are so amazing. She gives you the old clichés, the ones you think you’re going to hate. You know, the one where the girl has to pretend to be the billionaire’s secretary to get information for the cops, and then he becomes her Dom, all that kind of stuff. Except that her characters have, like, actual quirks of their own. One of her Doms was really into collecting, like, vintage Pogs from the 90s. And her women are all ballsy.”

“Not a lot of damsels in distress,” I say as we head up to near the front of the line.

Maria actually laughs at that. “Oh, hell no. Like, when I was reading my mom’s Harlequin romances from the eighties, I read a lot of ladies crying in corsets or fainting in Monte Carlo or something. I know there’s a place for all that, but it’s not relatable anymore, you know? My husband can’t afford for me to sit at home all day, and I wouldn’t want to.” She shrugs. “It’s fine if that’s what you want, but most of us can’t afford that lifestyle.”

“You’re very action-oriented,” I tell her.

Maria laughs. “Yeah, I’m all about action.” She nudges me in a very wink-wink way. “That’s probably what I like best about Julia: the sex scenes are fucking hot, man.”

I laugh along with her, but she’s absolutely right. The memories of last night are still a little hazy, but I distinctly remember growing hard as Julia read to me. It was the words, sure, but even better was how they were enhanced by the softness of her voice, the way she twirled her hair, the little smirk that graced her lips whenever she read something she thought sounded particularly good.

She’s good at what she does, and she loves it. That’s incredibly sexy.

Finally, we’re at the front of the line. I deposit Maria’s books on the table in front of Julia, but she’s finishing up a conversation with a woman who’s moved off to the side. The woman’s crying, or has finished crying pretty recently. Her eyes are still watery, her cheeks red. Julia gives her a tissue. I notice she’s holding on to the woman’s hand.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to gush like that,” the woman says, her voice soft and shaking. “I just wanted you to know how much it means.”

“Trust me, I feel the same,” Julia says, grinning. She’s even wiping her own eyes now.

As the woman leaves, Julia looks up at me and waggles her brows. “A tall, dark stranger enters my midst. Anything in particular you want signed?” she asks, brandishing her pen. “Any parts?” Her eyes trail down my body, obviously landing on my crotch.

Maria starts laughing.

“I’m just the delivery system,” I tell her, letting Maria up to the table. As Julia starts chatting with her fan, I sidestep away. I find myself next to the crying woman, whose tissue is, by now, mostly used up.

“Dammit,” she says, sighing. “I’m still all smudged.”

I hand her another tissue. Apparently I’m now tissue guy. Hell, there are worse ways to live.

“Thanks.” She sniffs, grabbing one.

“Are you, ah, all right?” I ask.

“I got a little overemotional. I do that sometimes,” she says, smiling as she finishes wiping her face. “I just went through a really terrible divorce.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. It’s an automatic response, but I find that I mean it, too. I feel oddly guilty, all of a sudden. Why does my business have to be so damn lucrative?

“Thank you.” She wipes under her eyes again, and keeps talking. “He told me I was too fat for him. When we were signing the final papers, he told me I’d never find anyone to love me the way I am.”

“Christ,” I say, feeling like I walked into something I shouldn’t be seeing. I also kind of want to punch this asshole in the face. Who says that kind of shit? Even during divorce?

Yesterday, I would’ve been faintly disgusted by this woman for telling me these sordid personal details. Right now, I just feel damn sorry for her.

“Oh crap, is this too much? I just launch into—” she says, pausing to blow her nose.

“It’s fine,” I tell her. She looks back to Julia, and so do I. Julia’s about finished with Maria’s books, grinning and laughing while they talk.

“I was telling Julia that her Abby Mills series, the one with the plus-size heroine, gave me the strength to get back out there. And I met a wonderful guy,” she says, her voice cracking a little. She stops and waves her hands. “I’m sorry. You don’t want to hear this.” She flushes a little.

“No. Good for you,” I tell her. And I mean it.

So Julia makes people laugh, makes them feel good about themselves, and helps them have fun. Why the hell was I giving her such a shitty time before?

I step away and watch her work. I watch her sign, giggling wildly at something another fan tells her. She even puts her head down on the table with laughing. She’s free, happy, smart, talented . . . and maybe that’s everything I didn’t like about her at first.

After Phoebe left me, I didn’t want anyone else, ever again. I told myself it was because I didn’t want another woman wrecking my life, lying to me, cheating on me. The truth is, I didn’t want to look into another woman’s eyes—a woman I thought was spectacular, funny, smart, strong—and see that I didn’t measure up.

But somehow, I’m starting to shed that fear. Julia looks over at me as her signing line finally begins to die down. She rests her cheek on her hand, and mimes going to sleep. She’s playful, and she winks at me.

For fuck’s sake, Nate. You need to find out if you’re married or not.

The cool, lawyerly reserve comes over me as I check my phone. Shit. Only a few hours until Mike and Stacy’s wedding. We need to go. God, we still don’t even have any idea where this chapel is. Why can’t—

“There are a ton of single ladies in this line,” Tyler crows, coming over and grabbing me by the shoulder. “Dude, you hook me up with all the best places.”

Of course Tyler figured out that romance conventions are full of women. I should never have underestimated his horniness.

He’s wearing his shirt unbuttoned halfway, his sunglasses riding on top of his freshly gelled hair. He smells like bamboo body spray. It’s not a great smell.

“I’m surprised Meredith let you out of the room,” I tell him, looking back at Julia. Tyler whistles.

“Had to sneak out, bro. I was so hungry. We worked up an appetite.” He sticks his tongue between his teeth and nods suggestively. “We had room service, but it wasn’t enough. Oysters. Not my favorite thing.” Then he continues scanning down the line of women, surfing with his eyes. He whistles. “Like, a bunch of sevens and eights riding along. I’m impressed. Hot chicks like to read.”

“What the hell are you even still doing here? The restaurant’s downstairs,” I say. I’m even starting to snap at Tyler. Maybe because he’s distracting me from focusing on the problem at hand. Find the wedding chapel, see if there’s a marriage certificate.

Or maybe I’m irritated because he’s distracting me from Julia. Oh, fuck me.

“Nothing wrong with scoping out the competition. Even if Meredith’s like, super good in bed. Older chicks, man.” He nods, like he’s giving me some sage wisdom. The Tao of Tyler. “Older chicks.”

Finally, the signing line ends. Julia stands up, talking to the other authors. They come over to us. She smiles at me, but not seductive. It’s all business right now. Which is the way it has to be. Business. The way I want it to be.

Don’t I?

“Ladies,” Tyler says, walking over to Julia’s friends, both attractive young women. Jesus fuck, is he flexing? “You had great form out there. Really good signing technique.”

“Thank you?” one of the women says, looking to Julia with a comical expression.

Tyler doesn’t seem to notice. He pulls out a card. Right, one of his “sexual professional but-not-in-a-gigolo-way” cards. He hands them out to all potential bed partners. I don’t know how he ever manages to get laid. There used to be a picture of him on the back, with his shirt off and his skin tanned. I’m glad he removed it. Ruins the class factor of giving women your “come fuck me” phone number.

“Call me anytime,” he says. Julia looks at me with wide eyes.

“Someone’s a go-getter,” she murmurs out the side of her mouth. “Hope Meredith doesn’t mind.”

“Um, baby, this isn’t you,” the woman says, scrunching up her face in amusement and handing the card back to Tyler. “Unless your last name is Presley.”

“Oh shit,” Tyler says, laughing as he takes the card back. “Sorry. Where the hell’d I get this from?” He whistles. “Must’ve found it in my room.”

Wait a minute. “Presley as in Elvis?” I ask, snatching the card back from Tyler. Julia looks it over with me, and there it is, plain as daylight. Viva Las Vegas chapel, just down the Strip.

“That place looks awesome for anyone who wants to be my baby mama tonight,” Tyler says, grinning as he tries to slip his arms around the two women. They each carefully dodge out of the embrace. Right now, his friendly douchebaggery is the least of my problems.

“Let’s go,” I tell Julia. She nods, grabbing my arm and dragging me away while Tyler protests.

“I already texted for an Uber,” she says, starting to sprint down the hall. “The game is afoot!”

Not sure this mystery is quite Sherlock Holmes level. But as I chase after her, I have to admit something to myself: I don’t want to let her go.

Fuck.