Spring makes a brief appearance the following week, and Friday night arrives cold but clear. At seven p.m., Peter the PhD candidate picks me up at Bluebird Books and takes me to sushi in Fremont. After sharing sashimi and rolls, we button our coats and walk the few blocks to Tullamore Café.

Over the course of our meal, I reconfirmed that Peter is considerate, smart, and charming. Moreover, conversation with him is easy, no intellectual pressure or emotional undertones to be found.

When he smiles at me and takes my hand, I smile back and let him. And for the rest of the walk to Tullamore, I privately bemoan the fact that his touch does absolutely nothing for me.

Strike one.

Inside the bright, warm café, we join the ordering line while a young woman strums a guitar on the nearby stage. The place is packed as usual, chairs and tables crammed together to accommodate the open mic night crowd.

As we near the front of the line, I spot Allison behind the espresso machines. She sees me at the same time and grins, eyebrows raised speculatively as she nods toward Peter. Pivoting away from my date, I give her a sad-face as a reply. With a half-amused, half-sympathetic smile, she returns to her task.

My attention now back with Peter, I realize he’s ordered for me without bothering to ask what I want. Despite his thoughtful choice of a latte with whole milk—which I’d been drinking when we met—I’d wanted tea.

Strike two.

The third strike is so unexpected, so utterly mystifying, it almost feels orchestrated by powers beyond human comprehension. And whoever the powers that be are, they have a real fucked-up sense of humor.

It begins when I hear a laugh—his laugh—coming from somewhere behind me. At the same time, Peter takes his change and we move out of line. Then, as he’s looking around for a place to sit, his eyes widen with awe.

And he says, “Oh my God, Iris, it’s James Beckett. Right there.” His wide eyes meet mine. “Will you introduce us? I’m his biggest fan.”

“Uhh—”

“Come on,” he says, grabbing my hand and virtually dragging me toward the back of the line.

Strike three times a million.

“Well, well, well,” drawls James, laughing eyes bouncing between my angry face and Peter’s excited one. “If it isn’t my former protégé. And who’s this young man, Iris? Your newest acquisition? Tread carefully, boyo, ‘though she be but little, she is fierce.’”

I’m going to kill him.

Then I’ll bring him back to life.

Then I’ll kill him again.

Peter drops my hand like it’s burning. “Mr. Beckett, it’s such a pleasure to meet you. I’m a huge fan.”

James’ jaw clenches as he tries not to laugh. “I’m flattered,” he says with strain.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I finally look at the woman standing flush to James’ side. Jessica gives me a bland yet somehow venomous smile.

“Nice to see you again, Iris.”

My only consolation is that she sounds like she’s chewing glass. I’m so annoyed—by her, James, Peter, all of it—that a demon overtakes my vocal chords.

“You, too. Did you have a nice New Years? I know I did.”

James stops talking mid-sentence. Peter keeps yammering like nothing’s amiss, while Jessica stiffens in fury and spits daggers from her eyes.

I smile sweetly at her.

James clears his throat. Loudly.

“Iris, a word?”

Before I can say Hell no, he manhandles me out the front door with an arm locked around my shoulders. He marches us past the glowing windows and into a shadowed section of sidewalk.

“What the fuck was that?”

He doesn’t sound angry. In fact, he sounds positively tickled. Figures.

I shrug, staring at the street. “I don’t like her.”

“Little muse, are you jealous?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

I ignore that. “Tell your biggest fan I was feeling sick and caught a cab home. Goodnight, James.”

I start walking.

“Open relationship, remember?” he calls after me. “Say the word, pet, and I’ll give you what you want!”

I turn, walking backward a few paces. “For such a brilliant man, you’re pretty dense.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Ask Jessica!”

I spin and head for the nearest crosswalk.

He yells, “Shall I meet you at your house in, say, an hour?”

My middle finger lifts over my head. His merry laughter follows me across the street.

* * *

Sunday afternoon, I head to Bluebird Books with my laptop. Preliminary notes from my agency’s top editor are in my email, but it’s better I don’t read them alone. With people around, I’ll be less likely to throw temper tantrums.

My usual spot is taken, so I wander through the interconnected rooms for a bit browsing and people watching. There are other open chairs and a few tables, but I’m a creature of habit. And I’m procrastinating.

On my third circuit around the store, the woman who occupied my chair is gone. Mildly disappointed, I slump into the armchair, pull out my laptop, and get to work.

An hour later, I slam the computer closed and rub my eyes.

“Are you stalking me, pet?”

“Jesus,” I mutter, peering through my fingers. “Don’t you live in Wallingford? There are bookstores closer to you.”

James flops into the alcove’s second chair. “Nope. Moved last year. A few minutes from here, actually.”

My hands drop like rocks. “You’re kidding.”

He rolls his head toward me, sunlight making emeralds of his eyes. “You didn’t wonder how I made it to your house so fast the other night?”

“No,” I say, frowning. “Obviously I thought you were stalking me.”

He grins. “Obviously. What are you doing?”

“Looking over an editor’s notes on my draft.”

“Oh good. I was hoping for some entertainment this afternoon. Last night was dreadfully dull.”

I don’t want to laugh. I really don’t.

But I can’t help it.

James watches my losing battle with a smile. “You know, life is so much easier when we obey instinct. It doesn’t make you popular, of course, but it does make you free.”

“The signature argument of a man who wants to fuck multiple women at the same time.”

His brows skyrocket. “Don’t hold back, love.”

The word makes me flinch internally; I know it’s a colloquialism and doesn’t mean what it implies. But damnit if it doesn’t sting.

I give him a pointed look. “Just so we’re clear, we’re not going down that road again. But for the purpose of educating you, if we were going there, there’s not a chance in hell I’d be okay with you having multiple partners.”

He sucks his lower lip between his teeth, gaze darting between my eyes. Sunlight from the window behind us highlights the varying shades in his dark hair. A little grey is coming through at his temples, which naturally only adds to his appeal.

“Okay.”

I frown. “Okay? Okay, what?”

“For the purpose of educating you, when we do go down that road again, there’s not a chance in hell I’ll want anyone but you.”

My body goes taut and electric.

James smiles knowingly. “Guess I haven’t lost my touch.”

I glare, ignoring my warm face. “Don’t say things like that just to prove a point. It’s petty.”

His smile vanishes and he nods. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Who are you?” I blurt.

He winks and snatches the laptop off my lap. “Right now, I’m your highly respected peer who’s about to tell you whether or not your editor is full of shit.”

Slipping a pair of reading glasses from his shirt-pocket onto his nose, he opens the computer. The email is already up and he wastes no time reading it.

Three hours later, we head to a café for dinner so we can continue our conversation. After, by some unspoken agreement we wind up in a nearby tearoom. We’re the last customers, staying until we’re booted out at eleven. Still talking, we take a long, meandering route to my house.

It’s nearing midnight when he escorts me to my front porch and says goodnight. I wait for a kiss that doesn’t come. He doesn’t even hug me—hasn’t touched me once in the last six-plus hours.

I know he feels it. The same chemistry we’ve always had. The excruciating sexual tension. The singular language our mind’s share.

I also know he’s doing it on purpose. Toying with me, seeing how far he can push until I break.

He’s playing me like chess.

I’m going to lose.