Page 1 of Old Flames

Prologue

“Light?”

“Of course.”

They were alone in the alley. Leo had found her reclined against the exposed brick wall, phone in hand, scrolling. She was dressed in black, a white apron tied low on her hips, wavy hair twisted into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Leo remembered her as the one who’d offered him sparkling or still and refilled his wineglass halfway through dinner, her pretty face frozen in a pleasant mask of indifference . . . much like it was now.

He expected her to hand him a matchbox with the venue’s logo. Instead, she tossed him a silver lighter. It was scuffed and had some heft. He tested it. The flame came easy. He reached for his pack of Marlboros. “Mind if I smoke?”

She returned her attention to her phone. “A little late for that.”

Ouch. She bites.

Leo wasn’t seeking a confrontation. He needed a respite from his dinner companions, a moment to clear his head and stave off a headache. Having worked as a waiter through college and beyond, he’d spotted the venue’s rear exit and bolted. The alley was narrow, lit by a few flickering bulbs. Yet somehow, she glowed. Her amber skin, like stained glass, caught the light of the bold September moon. With her profile framed in a silver halo, dark lashes catching droplets of moonlight, and her mouth gathered in the slightest pout, he was ready to kneel at her altar.

He blinked, coughed, and snapped out of it.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

“I’m okay,” he assured her. Though, honestly, she didn’t seem truly invested in his well-being.

“Are you not enjoying the . . . ?” She waved as if she was conjuring a spell.

“Not really,” he replied.

An arched brow was her only response. He felt compelled to explain. “It’s called imposter syndrome. Don’t worry, it’s not contagious.”

A skeptical look. “What do you have to feel insecure about?”

Hand to chest: “Do you have any idea what’s going on in there?”

“The New York City Literary Club Annual Thirty Under Thirty Rising Stars Charity Dinner,” she replied evenly.

Granted, she was working the event and knew what it was about, but how could she know, truly know, the layers of bullshit he was dealing with inside that dining room? The jockeying, the ass-kissing, the small talk, and mini-digs. Leo was the youngest of the honorees, barely squeaking in at twenty-three. He was a polarizing figure, the subject of ire or admiration. Some found him overrated. Others hailed him a horrormeister in the making. Either way, he couldn’t win. It wasn’t anything he couldn’t deal with, but the night was dragging. He was hungover and sleep-deprived. This weekend, he’d promised friends from out of town to show them a good time in the city and had made good on that promise.

“I can’t speak for the other twenty-nine,” he said, “but my star will collapse into a black hole in a year.”

“Black hole.” He watched as she rolled the words around in her mind. “That could be the title of your second book.”

Now we’re getting somewhere. “You know my first?”

A shrug. “I’ve read it.”

“You . . . read?”

That earned him an angry flash from her pretty eyes.

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “That was stupid. It’s just . . . you threw me off there. I can’t even get my parents to read my book.”

The attempt to hide his bewilderment in a joke failed. She went back to scrolling. He wasn’t usually this awkward, but it shocked him that she’d even heard of his book. He was a newcomer on the scene, nowhere near a household name. He hadn’t even told her his name. Had she studied the seating chart?

Before he could flatter himself that she’d singled him out, she delivered this blow, “I’ve read all the books.”

“What? All thirty under thirty of them?”

“Yes.”

Leo let out a low whistle. “I haven’t read half of them.”