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

"Well, maybe we can grab a couple sometime soon," he said, "and, you know, just talk for a while."

"Yeah, I'd like that," I replied, beaming my best grin at him. Then, with pride at my casual assertiveness, I added, "I need to browse through some materials on promoting heart health this weekend. I was thinking of coming back maybe Sunday morning to check out their books, so if you want to join me--"

"Definitely!" Neil broke in. "What time were you thinking of getting here?"

"Maybe ten or ten thirty. I only need to do about a half hour of work."

"Why don't I drop by at about ten thirty then? If you still have some stuff to finish up, you can spend as much time as you need. There's always a lot to look at here. Then, whenever you're ready, we can take our espressos to go, stroll a bit if the day's clear, maybe even grab some lunch or something later ..." He shot me one of his preppy lawyer grins. I was charmed.

We quickly exchanged cell numbers and then parted company with matching smiles and nearly matching fantasies of eternal love, which now seemed closer than ever.

And this was where my imagined tale concluded, complete with all the hopefulness and optimism that filled the heart of every romantic. That blissful, mystical time in a relationship's beginning, before anything could swoop down to erode the magic of infatuation. Only in soap operas, fairy tales, or love ballads by eighties hair bands could one find a rival to such a g

lorious moment. Oh, the sweet sensation!

I adored my little love story and called it "Browsing."

After several revisions and at least seventeen mocha frappuccinos, I submitted it to a regional magazine--Midwest Fiction Forum: Stories for the Modern Genre Writer--a journal that published monthly issues in print as well as weekly features online. They'd accepted a poem of mine about two years before, so I was positively inclined toward their publication. But what I liked best about them was this: their response time was a shockingly prompt three weeks or less.

I sweated out the days, always with that fluttery impatience just below my lungs whenever a new email would appear. Then one Monday, sometime in late June, I got a ping in my inbox. It was from the magazine ... I crossed my fingers and clicked open the message.

An acceptance!

"Yes!" I exclaimed to no one but the ants in my otherwise-empty apartment. My story would not only be on the web, it would be included in one of the print issues, too.

After celebrating my good fortune alone with a dark Colombian roast/brandy concoction I mixed, I added this publishing acquisition to my short list of fiction credits. Cheerfully, I marked my calendar with an asterisk and the word "Browsing" next to the notes box for September.

In the weeks that followed, I continued to stop by my favorite bookstore with some frequency. Admittedly, thoughts of Neil and Jessica always accompanied me there, but I'd grown less hopeful of ever seeing either of them again as the summer progressed.

One time, shortly after my birthday in mid-July, I thought I spotted Jessica. I saw someone, anyway, who was a leggy blonde with an identical designer handbag. Could it have been a coincidence?

The woman was near the first floor information desk with her back to me, and I was on the escalator heading down. By the time I reached the ground level, whoever she was had vanished. But, since we'd never actually spoken, I supposed I wouldn't have known what to say if I'd met up with her face to face anyway. I was pretty sure she wouldn't have had a clue who I was.

My romantic short story came out in the September issue as scheduled, and I was pleased to see my name in print for something this lighthearted and creative. I pulled out my box of novel notes and began sifting through them at more regular intervals--gathering, organizing, refining ideas. I could feel my confidence in storytelling growing.

In early October, as Halloween approached, I was assigned an article on simple children's costumes for a citywide parenting publication. I went to my trusty bookstore on a Thursday night to peruse the shelves for costume ideas. I found myself drawn to my favorite lounge chair on the second floor.

I'd lifted four promising titles off the shelf and was scanning the table of contents page in the third book, when I noticed somebody stealthily taking a seat a couple of chairs to my right. I didn't look up immediately. I just registered that the invading individual was male, turned a handful of pages, and scribbled several notes on "baby bumblebee" trick-or-treat attire.

But I had that feeling--that inexplicable sensation that occurs whenever you first become aware that you're being watched. A weird The Sixth Sense kind of thing--minus the dead people. Reasonably sure I could identify the source of the gaze, I glanced over at the man who'd come in a few minutes before.

In truth, I probably wouldn't have recognized him if it hadn't been for his loafers.

He was watching me intently--this guy I'd once named Neil--only he wasn't quite like my memory's image. Seeing him in person for just the second time in my life, I realized I'd glossed over some significant details in my recollection: the dark blond chin stubble, the moderately protruding ears, the serious set to his jaw, and the astuteness in his light blue eyes (although they were as blue as Chris Hemsworth's). The eyelashes were unchanged, but a more accurate picture of the other features was starting to come back to me. Dressed in a dark sport coat this time, rather than a black leather jacket, with tan slacks instead of jeans and a fat briefcase touching the toe of his right loafer, he regarded me with a steady, unsmiling expression.

Damn.

I looked away, expecting him to turn his attention elsewhere now that I had.

He didn't.

I took several yoga-style cleansing breaths--despite the fact that I never did yoga--and counted slowly to five before looking back at him. He was still staring, with a gravity that led me to mark the nearest exits if a quick escape would be required.

Crapola.

He couldn't know about the story, could he? Or be angry because of it, right? It was fiction, after all. I mean, I didn't even know his real name!

I was tempted to say something to him, but what? These fears had to be my overactive imagination working the late shift again.