“Oh.Yes, of course. Happy to!” Sora slides into her chair, careful not to disrupt my shirt, accepting the pen Daphne hands her. “Who should I make it out to?”
The next hour passes in a blur. I pose for photos with an endless stream of women—wearing the cowboy hat, the motorcycle helmet, the bow tie, sometimes combinations that make no narrative sense whatsoever. Some of the bolder ones take liberties, their hands wandering to my chest, my abs, occasionally lower before I gently redirect them.
It’s not so different from my regular job, really. I’m playing a role, fulfilling a fantasy, making people feel special. The key difference is that every dollar spent, every book signed, every photo taken is helping Sora.
Between customers, I catch her looking at me—quick, furtive glances filled with something I can’t quite decipher. Gratitude,certainly, but also something more. Something that makes my heart thud hard in my chest.
By the time the signing officially ends, Sora’s table is completely sold out. Not a single book remains. Daphne’s eleventh-hour scheme worked better than any of us could have anticipated.
As the crowds begin to disperse, Sora finally has a moment to breathe. She sinks back in her chair, exhaustion and wonder warring on her face.
“I can’t believe that just happened,” she murmurs, staring at the empty space where her books had been.
“Believe it,” Daphne touts, counting the cash box with obvious satisfaction. “Every last book, gone. Plus pre-orders for twenty more copies ofLonelythat I promised to ship after release.”
Sora shakes her head in astonishment, then turns to me. I’ve put my shirt back on, though I left it unbuttoned—partly because I’m overheated from the constant photos, and partly because I like the way Sora’s gaze lingers when my bare skin is on display.
“Why did you do that?” she asks quietly.
Daphne, sensing the shift in mood, mumbles something about checking on the parking validation and disappears into the thinning crowd.
I sit in the rickety chair beside Sora, suddenly very aware of how close we are. “You were upset. I wanted to help.”
“By taking your clothes off and letting strange women grope you for photos?”
“It worked, didn’t it?” I gesture to the empty table.
“That’s not an answer.” Her dark eyes search mine. “Why, Forrest? Really.”
The truth rises to my lips before I can stop it. “Because I wanted to see you smile again.”
Her expression softens, vulnerability replacing the wariness in her eyes. “That’s…a very sweet answer.”
“Maybe I’m a sweet guy.” I hold her gaze, letting the implication hang between us.
She looks down at her hands, strands of dark hair coming loose from her ponytail and curtaining her face. “You did all this for me, but you barely know me.”
“I know enough.”
The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken questions. Finally, she raises her head, a hint of her earlier smile returning.
“Thank you,” she says simply. “For everything.”
“My pleasure.” I mean it more than she could possibly know.
And even though I know it can’t lead anywhere—even though in two weeks I’ll have Dakota full-time and my complicated life will become even more so—I can’t help but savor the odd connection that’s forming between us.
Maybe we’re both just lonely people who recognize something in each other—something real beneath the facades we present to the world.
The crowd finally thins to empty and we begin packing up the table. I notice Sora pulls something from her tote bag.
“I saved one,” she says, almost shyly. “For you.”
She holds up a copy of her book with the soft pink cover—Lovely. “Thank you.”
“You don’t have to read it,” she adds quickly. “It’s just…a thank-you. For today.”
I watch as she uncaps a pen and opens to the title page. Her handwriting is neat and small as she writes something, then signs her name. When she hands it to me, I read the inscription:
