Mister O(65)

I shake my head, squeezing her hand. “No, she was amazing. She made sure that my co-worker Serena felt calm on the way to the hospital, and that everything was going to be fine,” I say, and cast my gaze to Harper, trying to meet her eyes, to read her thoughts, to figure out how she feels right now—if she’s jealous, or annoyed, or embarrassed. I want to tell her I don’t think about other women, I don’t fantasize about them, and she’s the only one I’ve wanted in any way, shape, or form for months.

Harper points to the back of the store. “I need to run to the ladies’ room. Never got to use it at the party.”

She darts away.

And now it’s just Jillian and me in the new release section, a slice of my past sliding into my present. “You look amazing,” she says, and runs her hand briefly down my shoulder. Her touch does nothing for me. It’s only friendly.

“So do you,” I say politely.

She raises an eyebrow and then pushes a strand of my hair off my forehead. “Somebody’s in love.”

“You’re in love? That’s great,” I say, flashing a smile, because I’m happy for her.

Smiling, she shakes her head then corrects me. “No. You are.”

I frown. Make a huge no gesture with my hands. “That’s ridiculous.”

“No, it’s not. I can tell these things.”

“Because you’re a writer?”

“You never looked at me the way you look at her.”

I barely process what she’s saying. It’s not computing. It’s too strange to hear my ex psychoanalyze me, so I turn it around. “You didn’t want that. That wasn’t what we were about.”

“I know, but perhaps she wants it.” Jillian tips her forehead toward the restroom.

I frown in confusion, trying to make sense of her comment. “Why do you say that?”

“Because I see it. In the two of you.”

I roll my eyes, trying to show how much I want to brush off her suggestion. “Whatever you say.”

But the truth is I don’t want to dismiss the idea at all. She sounds wise and insightful, especially when she adds, “Think about it, sweetie. There’s something there.”

I latch on to her comments, wondering now if she’s onto something. If she’s figured out the puzzle of Harper in a way I haven’t. It can’t be true, right? She can’t possibly be accurate in her observation. I should drop this conversation. Let it go, poof, like a disappearing rabbit. But the denial I practiced a few seconds ago vanishes, and now the idea takes hold, digging roots into some part of my heart that barely gets used. “Do you really think so?” My voice rises at the end.

Jillian parts her lips to respond then shuts them a few seconds later as Harper returns to my side.

“I should go. Get my beauty sleep before the signing. It was lovely meeting you,” Jillian says to Harper then shifts her attention to me. “And to answer your question, yes, I really do think so.” She takes a beat then adds, “I do think it will be a great turnout tomorrow, and I can’t wait.”

She spins efficiently on her heel, having answered my question about Harper and ensured, too, that Harper didn’t know we were talking about her.

After Jillian leaves, Harper clears her throat. “So I was thinking about getting Uber I Love You to the Moon and Back. It’s a great book.”

“Can we add in a copy of Harry Potter, too? For when Uber is older?”

“That sounds perfect.”

The weirdest thing is, buying a gift for a baby with her isn’t weird at all. It feels right, in its own way.



“It’s nice you’re friends with someone you used to go out with,” Harper says almost wistfully when we return to my place, the door clicking shut.

I shrug. “Yeah, it is. Though, I wouldn’t say we’re friends.”

“But you got along so well at the bookstore,” she points out.

“It was amicable. We never had deep feelings for each other.” I lean against the kitchen counter and toss my jacket on a stool, then set down the bag with the gift for Serena’s baby. Harper sheds her coat.

“Did it bother you to run into her?” I ask, reaching for her hand. She lets me hold it. “I couldn’t tell at the bookstore, and I was hoping you weren’t upset.”

She juts up a shoulder. “I wasn’t upset. But it was a little odd, to be honest.” Her voice drops a notch. “Mostly because I feel like I can’t compare.”

I shake my head and pull her close, my heart lurching toward her. “Stop. There’s no comparison.”

“But you chose to be with her. You’re just doing this with me because I asked.”

My shoulders sink. “I can’t believe you’d think that. This is not an obligation. It’s the best time I’ve had in ages.”

Best time.

Okay, maybe that wasn’t the most romantic word choice, but I don’t really know what this conversation is about, or how to properly reassure her that she’s amazing.

“I’ve had a good time, too,” she says softly.

I tilt my head, try to study her, to figure out what’s going on in her head—but even more so, what’s in her heart, and if it’s even remotely close to matching what’s in mine. I can’t tell, and I desperately want to know. Because if there’s a chance she feels the same, I should say something. I should let her know I don’t want this time with her to end.