Writer to writer, I’m hoping to pick his brain at the end of the night. His publicist seemed to think he’d be amenable to it.
So it’s with my pulse thrumming, my breath hitching, and an eager smile on my face that I turn to welcome D.M. James to my store for his signing.
“Hi, Mr. Jam—” The words lodge in my throat. A man I know well—used toknow well—stares back at me. His dark hair is pushed away from his forehead, but it’s longer now than he wore it in college. His cheekbones are more pronounced, and his jawline is sharper, too. Like he’s lost some of the roundness that made him look sweet in college and now he’s just…hot.
“Hi, Piper,” he says without a lick of surprise.
two
piper
Hi?Hi. Two tiny, little letters make up the smallest greeting in the English language, so unobtrusive and inconsequential and yet so loaded.That’show Dorian McConkie chooses to greet me after nine years? It feels like a sneak attack. He stands there all suave and manly, throwing out blasé “hi’s” like it’s no big deal that there’s a line the size of the Mississippi in here to have him sign books, and the last time we saw each other—well, I don’t want to get intothat.
I’m still trying to catch my breath from the way he’s flashing his pearly whites at me. This man hated me in college. We weren’t even in the same friend group, really—more like friend-adjacent. We had a lot of classes together since we shared a major, and he was never nice to me. I wouldn’t even classify his demeanor toward me as aloof. He’d been straight-up rude. Unkind. Never wanted me around and always let me know it. All these years later, his face ignites the same impulse in me to disappear to the other side of the room with my tail between my legs.
“Dorian” is all my pea-sized brain can squeak out.
He cringes, his gaze flicking to the line behind us. The situation crashes down on me like a tidal wave. Dorian McConkie, D.M. James, the extremely successful and very private author whom I just announced as myfavorite,does not want readers knowing his identity. What else had I said about him? Oh yes—one of the most talented writers of our age.
Gag me.
Dorian doesn’t deserve those accolades. The author of these books deserves them…but notDorian. How unfair that he heard them from my lips. Despite how incredible his books are or how much of a man he’s grown into.
His brown eyes sweep over me with awareness, sending a zing down my spine. Kind of regretting going full bookstore frump today.
Is it possible to sneak out of an event your own store is throwing?
“You want me here?” Dorian asks, gesturing to the table.
The question catches me off guard. Do I want him? No. Not anymore. Even if he’s somehow become a sexy, broody, tormented writer type with perfect two-day-old stubble, a sweater that looks softer than a puppy, and the ability to produce incredible work.Noneof that makes me imagine pressing him against the table he’s gesturing to while my mouth goes dry.
His eyebrow hitches up.
Okay, Piper, rein it in. I nod. Excessively. “Yes. Right there is fine. Unless you want to say a few words first.”
He puffs out his cheeks and shakes his head. “Your introduction was flattering. I’m not sure I could add anything to it.”
Heat bleeds into my cheeks. He heard the whole thing. Of course he did. He was standing behind me the entire time I gushed. A whiff of cologne wafts beneath my nose. He even smells amazing.This isn’t fair.
I take a step back. “Water and pens are on the table. We’ll check in periodically, but flag down someone from the store if you need anything else.”
His trademark serious expression falls over his face as he takes a seat. Nowthat’sthe Dorian I remember.
The first man in line steps up to the table. “It is anhonor, sir.”
“The pleasure is entirely mine,” Dorian says affably, shifting into what appears to be a pleasant robot. “What is your name?”
I slip away, circling the edge of the room until I make it to the register, where Natalie is finishing up with a customer and her children. She bags the book and hands it across the counter. “Enjoy.”
The moment the family leaves, Nat turns on me. “What was that?”
“What?”
“Don’t ‘what’ me. I saw it. You had a moment with him.” She drags her blonde hair into a claw clip to get it off her neck. “Was it book-related? Is he going to take you to dinner after this and let you read his next manuscript and have his babies?”
At least I know we weren’t picked up on the mic. “No moment. More like a foot-in-mouth moment I can’t ever get back. I think I’ll duck out early.”
Natalie grips my forearm. “What happened?”
