Page 9 of The Pumpkin Pie Book Nook

He should have opened the manuscript he’d promised himself he’d review before morning. He should have tackled the notes from his New York editor. He should have done something productive with the two quiet hours he had before he gave in and went to bed.

Instead, his fingers did what they always did lately, opening his browser, a familiar site loading. His username appeared at the top right corner: Welcome, ReadsAfterBedtime97.

He clicked through to his favorite page.

AfterHoursAuthor had posted.

Tyler’s chest loosened. He didn’t even pretend he was going to “just skim.” He devoured the chapter, one paragraph at a time, the slow burn finally tipping into something hotter.

By the end, he leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling like it might offer him guidance.

He cleared his throat, adjusted the waistband of his pajama pants, and told himself he was a grown man with responsibilities. A father. A professional editor. He was not someone who should be taken out at the knees by an anonymous romance writer with impeccable pacing and a talent for leaving him wrecked.

And yet.

He couldn’t help himself, especially when he saw that she was online. The one liners, the quips, the innuendos… Tyler let himself sink into it. Deeper than he meant to. It had been a long time since he’d flirted like this—light and easy—with someone who loved books and language as much as he did. It had been an even longer time since he’d felt… wanted.

His mind, traitor that it was, offered him an image of Robyn leaning across the book nook table earlier, his hand cupping her cheek, her gaze flicking to his mouth.

Tyler’s stomach tightened.

He shouldn’t be thinking about her, either.

But he had been thinking about her for weeks.

The last woman he’d let close—really close—had left.

Vivian, Emma’s mom, hadn’t stormed out dramatically. She’d just… backed away, little by little, until one day Tyler came home to a half-empty closet and a note on the counter.

I’m sorry. I can’t do this.

As if “this” was a messy kitchen and not a family.

As if Emma hadn’t been two years old, clutching a stuffed llama and asking where Mama was.

Tyler had learned a lot from that season of his life. Mostly that love could break you apart, leaving you in pieces, forcing you to build your life anew.

There was no way Tyler would put Emma through that again. His baby girl didn’t deserve the heartbreak. It was unbearably cruel the way Vivian had left, never once looking back. Tyler never wanted Emma to relive that again.

So he didn’t do casual hookups. He didn’t do “no strings attached.” He didn’t do anything that might teach Emma to attach her heart to someone who wouldn’t stay.

Instead, he’d built a life. A good one. Emma, his career, and—he wouldn’t be embarrassed by this—his garden. He was damn proud of that garden. He’d started with nothing but a patch of dirt and a bag of seeds. Now he had raised beds full of tomatoes, peas, three varieties of peppers, and more gourds than he knew what to do with. He’d take it. Last summer, he’d grown a pumpkin the size of a small child. Emma had named it Gerald.

It was a good life. A full life. Tyler didn’t regret the shape of it.

And yet.

His needs came last. His sex life had been nonexistent for so long that it had stopped feeling like a dry spell and started feeling like part of his personality. All these years, he’d been so careful, so damn responsible that he didn’t even think about what he was missing. And now one woman with her caramel-kissed skin and her sparkling hazel eyes had him lying awake at night like a teenager, wound tight and restless, reading romance chapters in the dark and pretending that counted as a substitute for being touched.

Tyler glanced at the screen again.

AfterHoursAuthor.

He didn’t know who she was.

He didn’t know her face, her real name, or what her voice sounded like. But over the last few months, she’d become vivid in his mind—witty, bookish, warm. And the shape of that voice in his head felt uncomfortably close to Robyn’s. Which was foolish. Robyn belonged at Yale, not in his arms.

The glow of the screen washed his office in pale light.