Second Chances: A Romance Writers of America Collection (Stark World 2.50)

Upon hearing about the event they were planning, I drew upon my extensive background knowledge, obtained from so many years of information gathering, and recommended a book series that had full menus along with a coordinating selection of song choices to add the right musical atmosphere to the evening.

"My sister is married to a school principal," I told them. "She does a lot of entertaining and swears by these sets." This was true, by the way.

Well, of course they were grateful, even more so after I helped them find the menu/music sets on the shelf.

"So," Jessica said, not quite able to expel the snottiness from her voice, "how do you know so much? Do you, like, work here?"

"Oh, no. I'm a writer." The pride accompanying this announcement always made me stand up straighter. "And I spend a lot of time at this store ... improving my mind through extensive reading." I doubted she'd catch the Jane Austen reference ("extensive reading" being one of Mr. Darcy's requirements of an accomplished woman), but I tossed it in there anyway. Take that, you uncivil trollop.

She narrowed her eyes at me.

Before she could speak again, Neil insisted on making formal introductions. He told me their names, and I told them mine, as well as a little bit about the article I was researching. "So you see, nothing I wrote down would have been of much interest to you, unless you were planning to have a group of three-year-olds at your dinner party."

Neil laughed at my joke and I grinned at him, certain that Jessica missed it since she was playing stupidly with the straps of her expensive handbag. He told me they were going to grab a late dinner and, while they were at it, select one of the recommended meal combinations to make the following night.

"Well, good luck," I replied, hoping to come across as encouraging. "I'm sure everything will turn out beautifully."

Jessica nodded, growing a fraction friendlier as she realized my departure was imminent. Neil, however, grasped my hand and said with genuineness and warmth, "Thank you, Lily, for your help! You rescued us from the complexity of Martha Stewart."

We both laughed at that and, then, said goodbye. Within moments, I was out the door, pleased with myself for being of assistance to someone so nice and--well, let's face it--so handsome.

Anyway, weeks went by and I was as busy as ever, bringing in a higher-than-usual income from my articles and making tremendous headway on my novel at last. On occasion, my mind wandered back to the evening I met Neil and Jessica. I wondered about them--him in particular. How had their Saturday dinner gone? I wished there would have been a way I could ask. Discover more. Or, better yet, run into him again. My love life was the only thing that had remained stagnant. Aside from some promising flirtations at the gym, which amounted to nothing, the only romantic overtures I experienced at all in recent weeks were in my imagination.

One rainy Wednesday, I was at Between the Pages--this time trying to dry off from the inside out with their strongest espresso. I wasn't actually depressed, because things were going pretty well in my life overall, but I'd managed to get into one of those reflective moods that turn melancholy if not immediately remedied. I needed a prescription in the form of some good escapist fiction.

I'd just read the first page of a Wisconsin author's debut romance with awe and envy--more or less equally mixed--when I caught a peripheral movement and looked up.

"Lily?" the voice asked. My ears registered its owner sooner than my eyesight.

"Oh, hi, Neil," I said, surprised, though not at all unpleasantly so. It was funny how you could forget certain details about people: his smile displayed two fabulous, but previously overlooked, dimples. His eyes were a piercing, Chris Hemsworth kind of blue. How had I missed that? What I said aloud, though, was simply, "How are you?"

"Good, good. Thought that was you over here. Working on another article?"

"No, not this time." I pointed to the books in front of us. "Just admiring the narrative styles of these authors."

"Hmm," he said, nodding as he cast his eyes along the rows of new titles. Then, he looked up at me. As before, I was startled by the intensity of his gaze. My mind went blank for a nanosecond before I remembered.

"Hey, how did the big dinner turn out?"

"Oh, yeah. Everything worked well, thanks to you." And he proceeded to tell me details about the menu they'd selected and the accompanying music. "Those sets were a great idea."

"I'm so glad," I said, sincerity gushing forth and overflowing. But then Neil went silent, and I was left trying to figure a way out of the creeping awkwardness. "So, um, where's Jessica? Did she come with you tonight?" I swiveled from side to side, expecting her to materialize at any second.

"No, um ... we haven't gotten together much these days. I haven't seen her at all, in fact, for a few weeks, so ..." Neil shrugged but didn't look particularly despondent about the situation.

"Oh." I bobbed my head, struggling to appear calm, empathetic, understanding. Internally, I was hip hopping.

We moved on to other topics: the changeable summer weather, the state of world affairs and, in deference to our meeting place, good books we'd read recently. As I blathered on about some of my favorite romantic comedy authors, I could hear an odd, inflated tone hijack my voice and force it to rise to a delighted coo. Neil looked duly impressed with my monologue before embarking upon one of his own--featuring thriller writers and romantic suspense. I listened, attentive as a spellbound disciple.

All that remained now was the long-hoped-for setup for a future date.

Neil pointed to my espresso. "Hey, I love those, too. Did you get a double shot?"

"How did you know?"

He smiled. "That's the only way to do it. Decaf, herbal tea, and the like--those are for weenies."

I laughed and told him I agreed.