Page 37 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

An amused smile flickers across his face. “You’re not the only one who can google.”

“Yeah, but . . . just . . . yeah.” I can’t quite pull myself together, which is ridiculous. I sought out his work. I shouldn’t be so surprised he sought out mine. It’s simple human curiosity, but I don’t think anyone has been curious about me before. No one in my family ever bought my books, even as a gesture of support, whether or not they cracked the spines. Noah wouldn’t have picked one up. He didn’t even know I hated pickles, let alone what I researched and wrote about. And my work colleagues were just that. Work colleagues. They sent obligatory congratulations when a book was released, signing off with a vapid Best. And that was that.

“Guess I can’t ask if your books were autobiographical,” Dylan teases.

I have to laugh, which finally helps me shake off my stupor.

“I promise I’m not a pirate,” I tell him. “Yes, I’ve done a lot of sailing, and I used to dream about living on a boat one day, but I’ve never committed larceny. Nor have I disguised myself as a man or twisted flowers through my hair while swinging prettily in a French garden.”

“Shame. Especially about the swinging.” His smile widens, and his eyes hold the same hint of mischief I saw earlier tonight, when he dared me to get drunk with him. It almost seems like he’s flirting, though surely that’s the rum talking, or the romantic light from the fireplace, or the books I’ve been reading, with their sexy covers depicting Dylan—I mean Zane—in a state of partial undress and amorous abandon.

Goddammit. I am so going to make a mess of things between us tonight.

“Come on.” Dylan settles in on the mattress, propping the pillows against the sofa so he’s half-seated, then patting the spot beside him. “Let’s find out if you got to the ambush.”

I look at the spot beside him as though, if I sit there, it might swallow me whole.

“The chair’s fine.” I move toward it, but Dylan’s laugh stops me.

“That chair is not only not fine,” he says, “but tomorrow I suggest we burn it or bury it.”

I nudge the seat. The resulting creak echoes throughout the room. He’s right—we should get rid of it—and now if I suggest the sofa, I’ll look like an even bigger coward. So, I join him on the mattress, with a safe distance between us. I fuss with the pillow, my cozy gray lounge pants, my plain gray tank top, and the soft, oversize gray cardigan I wear when I want a warm hug but have no one to embrace. I even adjust my gray socks. When I run out of ways to delay the inevitable, I settle in, pretend I don’t know Dylan is right there, and open Cruel Tides.

I left off about two-thirds of the way through the novel. Zane and Euphoria are in his elegant captain’s quarters. He’s begun to question her loyalty. She’s declaring her undying love, begging him to believe she’d never betray him. The ship is rocking in rough weather, and the pair keeps being tossed together. It’s a study in barely restrained sexual attraction as they collide and part, collide and part. When she crashes directly into his arms, his resolve wavers. He loves her too much to deny her anything. And yet, he knows she’s not being completely honest with him, and it’s time he demands some answers, even if he has to shed her blood to do it.

Dylan leans closer, his shoulder brushing mine. “I like this scene.”

I consider inching away but don’t. “Did you write it?”

“Some of it. The shape was all Iris, but we worked out the details together. She wanted Zane to pull a knife. Then Euphoria would whip one out from under her skirts. I suggested the scene might work better with only one knife, and they trade it back and forth in their scuffle. It’s a constant redistribution of power, even though it’s clear to the reader that the power in the scene has nothing to do with the knife. The battle is an emotional one.”

“Mmm,” I mumble, because if I say actual words right now, they won’t be about a knife.

“We had fun,” Dylan says, still brushing my shoulder with his. “It’s her story, but what’s on the page is only there because we both brought something to it. I loved creating like that. And it’s why I think you and I should write the rest of the books together.”

I spin around to face him, blinking through my surprise. I’ve thought about this. Of course I’ve thought about this, but while attempting to write a sexy pirate romance on my own might be a fun experiment and a fantastic way to shake off seven years of workplace toxicity, I’m way too intimidated to cowrite with an actual writer, one I’d be humiliated to disappoint.

“I could be your historic consultant,” I suggest. “If the history even matters.”

Dylan smiles like I’ve said something funny. “You could be a lot more than that.”

Oh my god. This man. Does he have any idea what he’s saying?

“I told you months ago,” I say, “I don’t know anything about romance.”

Dylan shakes his head, still smiling. “I don’t buy it.”

I bristle with defensiveness. “I didn’t lie to you. I’ve had one serious relationship, which turned out to only be serious for me. Plus a bunch of terrible first dates and some casual sex that was largely unmemorable, other than with one guy who barely knew me after four years. None of it has anything to do with Grams’s books.”

“I didn’t mean that you’d lied.” He holds out his palm. “Give me your phone.”

I turn away, spotting it on the side table with the rum and candles, but I don’t reach for it.

Dylan inches his hand closer. “Please. And unlock it. I promise, this won’t hurt.”

I shoot him a dubious look. “Is this a dare?”

“Sure. If that helps.”