Page 35 of In a Word, Yes

“Not a problem,” Ian says. “Stay a few minutes or stay the whole time. This is new for all of us. In fact...” He checks his watch. “This maybeall of us. Anyway, you’re welcome to scope it out, see if it’s your vibe. No pressure. No commitment.”

“Thanks. I’ll think about it.” And I do want to make good on this.

While Ian rejoins his circle of guests in the next room, I take the opportunity to wander over to the New Releases table. Books gentle my cortisol levels, and I could stand to regroup. So I pet the deep-violet cover ofPinot and Peril—the title in a bold, high-impact font that promises edge-of-your-seat suspense over a soft-focus image of a lush vineyard at sunset—and open to the front flap.

I call this procrasti-reading.

It says here that Stoneback’s latest brings back one of my favorite heroines, CIA operative Sloane Ford. This time she must hunt down a terrorist holed up in Napa Valley before he carries out another deadly attack. Picking up whereDelta Deceptionleft off, it promises more romantic tension with her Delta Force Echo partner, Gage Remington. Page-turning suspense? A chance for Sloane and Gage to finally resolve their sizzling chemistry? Yes, please.

Which begs the question, does Stoneback intend for this heroine toeverget her hero? Or are the two protagonists stronger apart? Are they safer alone? It’s always a high-stakes proposition.

Needless to say, one I relate to.

A warm murmur of chatter, now and then punctuated bylaughter, floats over from the reading room, and my heart clamps down a little. This squeezing feeling is ... okay, if I’m honest, there’s definitely an element of FOMO. Over sips of chai, I sneak glances at the group.

Only two seats remain open, and one of them is a shiny black beanbag, no thank you. If one more person arrives, I’ll miss my chance at the only nonsquishy place left to sit.

Would this be my best yes?

It’s not like anyone can force me to read my work aloud. Or to come back next week, for that matter.

The only thing still stopping me is, well, the usual. Whenever I enter a new situation, I’m haunted by the sensation that everyone else knows exactly what to do, and I do not. When God was passing out social confidence, I got passed over.

“You want to do it, Lucy.” Savannah has reemerged and is studying me. “I can tell.” She flips a towel onto her shoulder with practiced ease.

“What makes you think that?”

“You’re wearing your resting nerd face.”

Whatever that means. “I came here to seeyou.”

“I’ll be fine. I’m sure I just need some time to adjust to the idea of...” she strokes her tummy, “... of you know what. Besides, youtotally made Ian’s day.”

“Mm-hmm. Hey, can I borrow that towel for a second?” She offers it up. I swat her with it.

Fine.Let’s do this.The people meeting in the other room tonight, mostly octogenarians, are already a peculiar assortment. I can’t imagine the addition ofmyspecial brand of peculiarity will drastically alter the dynamic.

Besides, I’m only here to observe.

Nevertheless, I stall. Visit the restroom. Apply lip gloss. Pinch color into my cheeks. Finally, I employ my best fake-it-till-you-make-it stride and approach the circle.

“Ah, Lucy. Glad you could join us,” Ian says. I press on mybrightest smile as all eyes turn my way. It’s at this moment I realize that the chair I was heading for, the one that was empty only moments ago, has in fact now been filled.

Also, the person who fills it is no stranger. The man may be out of uniform, but I’d know that dark, shaggy fringe anywhere. Because I just interviewed the guy this afternoon.

Lieutenant Hayes.Wyatt.My all-grown-up spelling bee adversary.

Squishy beanbag it is, then. With all the grace I can muster, I swerve.

Twelve

absquatulate(v.): to leave somewhere abruptly

In spite of my tentative approach, as I lower myself, the vinyl squawks. Ugh. Decidedly unladylike. Also, I’ve probably just imprisoned myself in a cloud of forever chemicals.

It’s a seating arrangement that leaves me two full heads shorter than Lieutenant Hayes on my right. On the opposite side of him, the elderly scarf-wrapped gentleman wastes no time in extending a limp handshake—directly across the lieutenant’slap, where there’s a smattering of dog hair (which I find charming). The gentleman introduces himself as Bernard Vandekamp.

To reciprocate the handshake, I’m forced to stretch from my low perch.Squaaawk.Around the circle, informal chatter continues. I really wish Bernard would let go of my hand.