“I printed out the article. It’s hanging on the fridge. And I might have made copies for everyone I know.”

I laugh and lean back on the hotel bed. “It’s not that big of a deal, Mom.”

“Of course it is! And it’s only the start of you being mentioned by the New York Times. I’ll print out the listing when you make it. Blow it up and frame it too.”

It’s a good thing Mom can’t see me roll my eyes. Though I wish I had her optimism. It’s easy to feel hopeful for other people and not yourself. “We’ll see if that happens.”

“Just give it time and it will. How’s everything else? I miss you dearly, but I am glad you’re out enjoying life.”

“I am too. And it’s been great here. I had lunch with my agent today and I’ve been lounging around the hotel writing the rest of the day. I got a chapter done today.”

“That’s great, honey. What about your sexy editor?”

“Really? You too?”

“You showed me his picture. He is a good-looking man. I Googled how much top editors make at publishing houses and that man makes decent money.”

“Stop it. Nothing is happening with Cole, and how much he makes isn’t a factor anyway.” I know she’s only bringing it up because Steven spent all his money and then started spending mine.

“You’re on a first-name basis now?” Mom teases.

“Who’s the child in this relationship again?”

“All right,” she laughs. “I’ll stop. Do you know when you’re coming home yet?”

“I’m meeting with a publicist from Black Ink on Monday, so maybe after that. The flight hasn’t been scheduled yet. I’ll let you know when it is.”

“Thanks, honey. Be safe in the city. And have fun. Call me tomorrow?”

“I will. Night, Mom.”

“Goodnight, sweetie.”

I hang up and go back to my book. I reread what I had written before Mom called, trying to get back into the groove of writing. Though my writing groove was more like peck out a few words, look at Pinterest, delete what I just wrote, go back to Pinterest.

Giving up, I stand, stretch, trying hard to push away the unease that’s threatening to take over when I think of actually being published. I’ve always been a bit of a people-pleaser, not liking when others are openly unhappy with me.

But this abhorrent feeling of inadequacy came later. And knowing that I let Steven get to me only makes it worse. Needing to get out of my own head, I take a shower and get dressed. Going out and having dinner alone always intimidated me too much, but dammit, I’m doing it. I pack up my MacBook, rationalizing that I’ll try to get some work in if the mood strikes me, but really, I want a distraction so I don’t look like a loser sitting at a table alone. Someday I’ll muster up the courage to go out and just enjoy a fucking meal.

I pull a black sweater over my dress—it’s purple with little printed pineapples all over it, and step into Toms. The look is too casual for someone staying in this swanky hotel, but whatever. I’m comfortable. And—fuck it—I’m not bringing my computer. No one knows me here anyway, so go ahead and think I’m a loser for sitting alone. Their opinions don’t matter in the long run anyway.

The streets are busy, which gives me a strange sense of comfort, like no one would try to pull any shit when there are this many witnesses. That’s probably a horrible mindset to have, I know.

Pulling up a map of the city, I start down the street. I’m not the best with directions, but I know I’m within blocks from Black Ink Press, and there are a ton of good restaurants around here. I pass up one place that has a line to the door and move onto option number two. I’m almost there when my phone vibrates in my hand from a text message.

I don’t know the number, and I can’t place the area code. I open the text and stop dead in my tracks.

You look good in purple. Always have, always will.

The warm September air around me takes on a chill. My heart is in my throat and every muscle in my body aches to scream and run. I look up, staring at the people milling about in the dim light. He can’t be here. Can he? Is he watching me? I am wearing a purple dress.

I reach for my purse, fingers shaking as I undo the clasp. I plunge my hand inside before I remember I don’t have the pepper spray. That’s not something I could take on the plane. I don’t know where I am, and he has the upper hand. Panic takes over and I rush forward, needing to go somewhere familiar. My breath leaves in a huff and everything swirls around me.

Light.

Traffic.

Talking.

Laughter.

Someone calling my name.

I squeeze my eyes tight. He’s not here. It’s not possible. I’m imagining it.

“Ana?” someone calls again and a hand lands on my shoulder. I scream and whirl around. One person passing by gives me a look, but no one stops and asks if I’m all right. Until he does.

“Are you all right, Ana?”

It’s a different voice. Not the one that comes from my nightmares. This voice is deep and commanding, calm and assuring.

Cole.

I take in a shaky breath and blink several times. I’m standing just a block away from Black Ink Press, and Cole is before me, eyebrows pinched together as he looks down with concern. Now that I’m not wearing heels, I can take in just how much taller he is than me. And since he’s not wearing a suit, I can further see his firm physique.

“Yeah,” I mumble. “I’m…I-I…I’m okay.”

“You look like you saw a ghost.” He steps closer. “Not really a ghost, but you know how the expression goes.”

I move my head up and down. This is worse than a ghost. Ghosts can’t do what he did to me. “No ghosts.” I run a hand through my hair and take another steadying breath. He’s not here. He couldn’t have found me. Couldn’t have seen me through the crowd of people and cars.

I’m shaking, and don’t want to be alone right now. I look into Cole’s dark eyes. “Do you want to get a drink? I could really use one right now.”

I expect him to say no and am surprised when he doesn’t. Happily surprised, that is. “There’s a bar down the street,” he says and motions with his eyes. “Is that—”

“Sounds good,” I blurt and turn around. I nervously run my fingers up and down the leather strap of my purse. My heart is still racing, though standing here next to Cole makes me feel several shades better.

Safer.

Which is weird because I don’t really know this man. Right? But I’m not alone, and statistically, I can’t befriend yet another psycho. The odds are in my favor this time. I think.

The bar is packed with a line out the door to get in. Cole goes up to the bouncer, exchanges a few words, then waves for me to join him.

“How’d you do that?” I ask as we bypass the line.

“The owner of the bar sent me a manuscript,” he whispers to me, putting his lips close to my ear so his voice can be heard over the music. It’s an innocent gesture yet it sends tingles down my spine. “It’s terrible.”

“That’s going to be a fun one to work with.”

He laughs. “The basis of the story is good. But the writing…” He shakes his head. “With a good ghostwriter, I think we could turn it into something people would enjoy. The main character is a bartender and he put a lot of real stories into it. Crazy shit happens in bars.”

“I can only imagine.”

The bartender spots Cole, waves, and disappears behind the bar, returning a few seconds later with who I guess to be the owner. He’s an older man, large around the middle, and has salt-and-pepper hair. His eyes light up when he sees Cole, and he waves his hand at two people sitting at the bar. They look confused, but get up and move, allowing us to take their seats.

I perch on the edge of the barstool while Cole talks to the owner, who then makes us his signature drink. I bring it to my lips and take a sip. It’s pink and tastes like cucumbers. It’s a weirdly refreshing drink, definitely not something I could order at the local bar back home.

“Were you just leaving work?” I ask Cole.

“Yes.”

“Do you always work that late on Fridays?”

“Sometimes,” he admits and drops his gaze for a second, but not before I see the loneliness in his eyes. “When we’re under a time crunch or approaching a deadline, I live at work. And we’re under time crunches and closing in on deadlines pretty much daily.” He samples his drink and makes a face. “That’s, uh, interesting.”

“Right? I thought it was just me!”

He shakes his head. “It tastes like vegetable water with a shot of vodka thrown in. And this is one of the most expensive drinks on the menu.” His eyebrows go up. “Welcome to New York.”

“I feel very posh drinking this now, like I should stick my pinky out when I’m drinking.”

Cole laughs, and his eyes lighten. It’s a world different than the cool and professional demeanor he usually carries around him, and I want to do whatever I can to see it again. I hold out my little finger and bring the glass to my lips again.

“So posh, right?”

“Very,” he says. “But it’s even more so when I do it.” He picks his drink back up, gingerly holding the stem.

“I feel like we should be talking in British accents now.”

Cole takes a drink and shakes his head. “I just can’t. It’s so bad.”

“Shhh!” I say with a laugh reaching for his hand. “Don’t let him hear you! You might hurt his feelings!” My fingers land on Cole’s wrist and I lean in, looking behind the bar for the owner. Still smiling, Cole drops his gaze to my skin on his. My heart skips a beat and I pull my hand back.

“How are we going to get rid of these drinks? Not drinking them is just as obvious as stating we don’t like them.”

“Crap. You’re right. Chug it?”

“Or just don’t drink it,” he states with amusement.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Cole raises an eyebrow. “Count of three?”

I nod and prepare myself. “One…two…three!” Cool liquid splashes into my mouth and my first reaction is to spit it out. I swallow hard, forcing it down and hoping it doesn’t come back up.

“Glad that’s over.” Cole grimaces.

“You’re such a baby,” I tease. “It wasn’t that bad.”

The bartender comes by to grab our empty glasses. “Do you want another?”

“No,” I say quickly, making Cole laugh. “I’ll have a Moscow Mule.”

“Make that two,” Cole says and turns to me. “I thought you said it wasn’t that bad.”

“You’re right. It does taste like vegetable water, and not the good kind.”

“Like the sludgy lettuce at the bottom of the bag.”

“Ew!” I shriek with laughter. “But yes! That’s exactly it. So gross.” The bartender sets two copper mugs down in front of us. Cole gives him a tip and slides my drink over to me. “This is much better.”

“I’ve never had one before,” Cole admits.

“Really?”

“I don’t drink that often.”

“I wish I could say the same, but that’s not true. Why don’t you?”

He shakes his head and looks away. “I don’t like feeling like I’m not in control.”

“In control of what?” I ask slowly.

“Myself.” The word leaves his throat, deep and low, sending a shiver right through me. I do my best not to squirm in my seat. His eyes are trained on me, reflecting something so dark, so deep, I’m afraid I could fall in and drown.

I wet my lips, tasting ginger beer from my drink, and take in a rattled breath. “What would happen if you lost control?”

“Bad things.”

His words send a shockwave all the way down to my core. I run my finger around the rim of my mug, staring at the ice floating around my drink. I take a deep breath, another drink, and set the mug down on the polished wood bar. “Would it really be that bad?”

“Yes.” Keeping his eyes locked with mine, Cole reaches down, fingers brushing against the tender skin on my thighs. His hand slips between, going down to the stool beneath me. He grabs it and pulls it closer, scooting me a foot from where I was sitting. My legs brush up against his, and he sweeps his fingers over my flesh as he releases the barstool. “It would be that bad.”

“Then I take it you’ve lost control before.”

“I have, and I don’t want to do it again.”

I’m not aware that I’m leaning forward until my hair slips from behind my shoulder and swings in front of my face. Cole reaches out, tucking a lock of thick, brown hair behind my ear. “It can be fun,” I whisper.

“How?” he whispers back. “How can losing control be fun?”

The DJ starts up a new song, one with a strong, rhythmic beat. A light shines on the dance floor and he calls for people to come start dancing. I bite my lip, smile, and look back at Cole.

“Instead of losing control, think of it as giving it to someone else.”

“That sounds even worse.”

“Oh, it can be horrible. The wrong person with the right control can trap you in your apartment for a week and not let you go to work, use your phone, or have access to the internet.”

“Are you talking hypothetically?”

I make a face and feel the alcohol hit me. “It doesn’t matter. Do you like to dance?”

“No. I don’t dance.”

“Right.” I reach into my purse and dig out a quarter. “Heads, we get up and dance. Tails, we finish our drinks and go on our way.”

“Are you serious?”

“Very.” I flash him a smile and then toss the coin up.