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And without waiting a second longer, he clasps my hand and lifts his paper victoriously into the air. As we descend the steps, someone who clearly loves love shakes her poster with a high-pitched whoop. Rice pelts our faces alongside flurries, so much I wince and close my eyes half the time.

It’s euphoric.

And I can’t help noticing, despite the chaos all around, Will’s hand as it clasps mine.

Suddenly, it makes sense, the toughness of his hand. Suddenly, I can imagine him in that old yellowed-linoleum kitchen, reaching for one of his four coffeepots each morning. Looking out at the snow in his childhood backyard. Musing about his hardworking father, perhaps with some regrets, perhaps with some fond memories, about life and death and their interwoven path. About mistakes, bad and good, that lead us onward.

He holds my hand all the way until we reach the sidewalk, and at last, after we pass a building and move out of view, he lets go.

He exhales. Grins down at me.

“They were just so hopeful,” he says apologetically.

“Agreed,” I reply, smiling up at him. “We couldn’t let them down.”

He’s quite close to me just now, I realize. Several inches closer than the amount of space the average conversational situation calls for. Close enough that I faintly smell the cedar and grease coming off his person, not just his truck.

My hand feels instantly cold without his, and I long for the warmth and companionship of his grip to return.

There’s something in his eyes as the flakes fall between us. A faint question. A thought bubble hovering over his head. But whatever it is about, it doesn’t pop and he doesn’t speak.

Instead, he grins again and shifts on his heel toward the parking lot.

Meanwhile I, trying very hard to ignore the disappointment, stuff my hand in my coat.

And as the dust of the previous thirty minutes settles, we walk along the snow-covered sidewalk, stamping footprints onto the freshly laid path. Both quiet. I mean, what does one say after pretending to marry her boss?

At the truck, he opens the squeaky, creaking door for me, and for a moment I can’t help wishing he is the man behind the manuscript. That he is the one I’m too sucked into now to even entertain anyone else. I like Will.

I may as well admit it openly, even if it’s just to myself.

But I can’t deny that the real person I spend my days and nights thinking of, the one whose conversations constantly run through my head, the one who’s gotten to know me from the inside out, who has supported me, criticized me, fought to understand me, heard my stories—good and bad—and given his own in return, who is the one I wake up every morning excited to talk to and go to bed every night wishing for more from, is my mystery man. And nothing, not even clasping my hand and running through a tunnel of love-addicted fans, can change that.

It’s time to face my editor.

Chapter 15

This is, without a doubt, the worst kiss in the history of mankind. Have you ever actually kissed someone before?

I prickle and write hotly beneath his words from my beanbag chair.

I’ll have you know I’ve kissed plenty of people. PLENTY. I live with mistletoe over my head.

Okay, that isn’t quite true. Unless we’re counting my parents, who still kiss me on the cheek more often than is culturally appropriate.

Still, this is the climactic scene. It’s the kiss. The kiss in a romance that ends with a happily-ever-after kiss.

To say I struggled through writing the grand-finale kiss scene is like saying the neurologist is a fine doctor except for that moment he does any actual surgery. In frustration, I give up and head back to my office.

An hour later, I return to find a new note.

These people are acting like they’re made of cardboard. Where are their hands? They are at their sides like eighth graders at a middle school dance.

He’s never underlined before. Used exclamation points, sure. Plenty. A couple of all-cap words, most definitely. But here, there is not one but three underlines beneath the words. I can practically see him in my mind slashing away with his pen beneath the glow of string lights and the smell of gardenia. We’ve given up blowing out the candle these days. We come here so often, it’s basically supervised all day long.

I bristle and scribble beneath his note. So I forgot their hands. You can use your imagination. Readers do that, you know. Fill in the blanks themselves.

His return comes promptly before lunch.