Page 17 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

I get up, stretch, and peek into the hall. The house is quiet, suggesting he’s out for his morning run rather than pacing in the bedroom where he insists on spending all his time, so I head downstairs in my sleep shorts and oversize Yale tee, with my hair still in a tangled topknot and sleep crust in my eyes. I pour myself a bowl of Raisin Bran and settle in at the kitchen table to check my eBay listings while I eat. The swords are all doing really well, as are the skull-and-crossbones flags. The fake doubloons are also escalating fast. Maybe I’ll get the whole roof repaired, though I should probably save up in case I’m here for a while.

In case I’m here for a while. A phrase that unleashes a lot of mixed emotions.

Before I can even begin to process those emotions, the front door opens and shuts with a creak and a grind, followed by footsteps echoing across malcontent floorboards. The house is its own symphony orchestra, with an unusually large percussion section and a songbook that’s mostly emo. Hide-and-seek would be impossible. Every tiny shift would be announced.

“Hey,” Dylan says/grunts as he steps into the kitchen and crosses the room to get a glass of water. He’s in his running gear—another laundered-to-the-point-of-illegibility band tee with baggy drawstring shorts, both of which are soaked through with sweat.

“Good morning,” I say back, pleased we’re at the stage of our cohabitation where a congenial greeting might be expected, or at least not treated as a personal assault.

He gulps down his water and refills the glass as his labored breathing gradually slows.

“You get it?” he asks.

“The cover image? Yeah. Thanks.” I pull it up on my phone and turn the screen his way. “I looked up the book, too. Fifteen weeks on the Times bestseller list. Impressive.”

His neck flushes, a frequent reaction I’m beginning to enjoy.

“They tried the shot with a helmet, too,” he says.

“Let me guess. Too much coverage?”

The flush travels from his neck to his cheeks. “Something like that.”

A smile stretches across my face as I imagine the photo shoot, with a deeply invested stylist rotating out props and assessing the view. Dylan’s eyes drop to my smile, and he spins away to drink his second glass of water with his back facing me. His shyness only makes me smile harder. I’m charmed by how he posed as these hyperconfident alpha men while he’s the complete opposite. I’ve never been able to be anyone but myself, which has had its drawbacks.

When Dylan doesn’t bolt the instant his glass is emptied, I press my luck.

“Did you only do book covers?” I ask.

“Mostly.” He turns to face me, grabbing an ankle to stretch out his quads. The seconds tick away, leaving me to assume his response is complete. One word and done. How very Dylan Sterling, but he surprises me by continuing. “I had a friend in publishing.” He swallows, frowns, inhales, all of which make me suspect I’m getting a carefully redacted version of this story. “Her design team wanted a last-minute cover change, and I suited the look they were going for. They could shoot in Portland, where I was living at the time. I was available, and the money was good for a few hours of work.” He swaps legs, balancing easily on one foot in a way I can’t help but envy. “That job got me an agent, who still calls when something’s the right fit.”

“Something like ‘the Baller’ or a shirt-averse pirate?”

“These days? More like middle-aged lifeguard or guy buying lettuce at Whole Foods.” He spins away from me again, possibly to hide from the look of utter bewilderment on my face. Maybe he doesn’t have a billion rippling abs anymore or biceps that can lift a frigate, but he’s in really good shape. Also, I did the math. A Pirate’s Perfect Plunder came out nineteen years ago. Assuming he was around twenty when he modeled for the first one and around my age for the last one, if he’s over forty, it’s not by much.

“So, advertising work?” I ask.

He nods without looking my way. “It’s a good gig. Pays the bills when other things . . . don’t.” Other things like writing, I assume, which I still want to ask him about.

“Your turn,” he says, and tips his chin toward the fridge.

Fair enough, I think. And kind of great that he still wants to play.

I get up and put the chickadee under Truth, placing the happy face off to the side.

Dylan assumes his considering face while scrubbing his glass and setting it in the drying rack, a necessary task since my grandmother never installed a dishwasher.

“Yale, huh?” He tips his chin again, this time at my oversize tee.

“Grad school. Yeah. But I only wear this to sleep in. I’m not one of those assholes who makes sure everyone knows I attended an Ivy. In fact, most of the time I hide it. It’s a real date killer. So is being published and tenured.” I cringe, worried I sound like I’m humblebragging, but Dylan doesn’t look like he’s judging me. In fact, he never looks like he’s judging me.

“I think we both know who the asshole was in that scenario,” he says.

I smile in thanks, but inside I’m reliving some truly terrible first dates, watching a distinct pattern form. One in which it became clear: A woman having accomplishments is admirable. A woman having more impressive accomplishments than her date pretty much guarantees a “no spark” text. Also, it’s astonishing how mentioning a PhD in history seldom led to men asking me anything about history but nearly always led to them telling me what they knew about history.

Oh, Noah. How I’ll miss the clarity and ease of your U up? texts.

“Did you like it?” Dylan asks. “Grad school?”