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I look down at the book in front of me.

Right. Emily.

I sign it, smile and hand it back to her before reaching for the next one.

And then the next.

Another signature, another picture, another person telling me they love my recipes or congratulating me on the book, and I smile through all of it, but that stupid ache has settled right in the middle of my chest.

Because for one second I thought it was him.

And God, I wanted it to be.

I wanted to see those green eyes. I wanted to see that barely-there smile that always feels like some kind of victory when I manage to pull it out of him.

I wanted to hear him say my name.

Or ask me if I’m okay.

“Nora.”

I look up at Mamma. “I’m fine.”

“I didn’t ask.”

Shit.

She’s watching me with that look mothers have that makes you feel like they can see right through your skin and straight into every thought you’re trying to hide.

“I’m fine, Mamma.”

“I know.” She takes the pen out of my hand. “Take five minutes.”

“There are still people waiting.”

“They’ll survive.”

“Mamma—”

“Five minutes.”

I roll my eyes but get up anyway, and Chiara immediately steals my chair.

“Don’t worry, I’ll entertain your fans.”

“Please don’t.”

“Too late.”

I follow Mamma toward the back of the bookstore, and the second we’re out of sight I cross my arms over my chest. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Mamma.”

She smiles softly. “Are you happy?”

That catches me off guard. “What?”