My heart pounds an erratic rhythm as I head to my hotel room. All day, I’ve been scanning faces at the conference, knowing that any of the men here could be RJ. Even during my panel, I couldn’t stop searching the audience, wondering if he was there, if we’d make eye contact and feel a zing of connection.

Instead, my eyes kept snagging on Ryan. His concerned frown when I was interrupted by the old guys up there with me, his proud smile when Penelope Adler-Wolf stood and silenced everyone so I could talk. But also catching glimpses of him around the conference, always surrounded by hordes of women. I’m sure they all think he’s just the best thing ever, this tall smiling man with his cardigan and tortoiseshell glasses who loves all their favorite books. Every time I saw him shining his smile in another woman’s direction, my insides crackled with envy.

He’s probably having dinner with that woman who left her lipstick on his cheek. Maybe they’ll end up back in his room afterward, and I bet he won’t stop right before giving her a mind-melting orgasm.

The thought makes me nauseous. Truly sick to my stomach. Forcing my mind away, I let myself into my “Wicked Small” room (which is literally what the hotel calls them—they’re barely big enough for a queen-size bed) and change into the dress I picked out to meet RJ, my body tingling with fear and anticipation. I wish I could skip to the ending of this night, like I used to skip to the end of books as a kid, skimming the final pages because I couldn’t stand the tension. Will we connect as much in person as we do online? Or will our spark fizzle?

Only one way to find out.

I don’t need to leave yet, so I sit on the bed and pull out my phone, staring at the last message from RJ. My eyes catch on his profile picture, that familiar image of his hands holding a small, leather-bound book.

Feeling like a stalker, I click on the picture and zoom in, scanning the pixelated image for clues about this man I know so well but have never met. He’s wearing a light blue T-shirt, and I can make out some kind of pink strap around his neck. Maybe a lanyard.

The skin on my arms prickles. How many men wear a pink lanyard?

With shaking fingers, I zoom back out, now noticing the edges of what looks like a gray cardigan. A wave of dizziness hits me, but I force myself to stare at his hands again. Wide palms and thick fingers and knobby knuckles.

I know those hands. I’ve watched them handling books, carefully—almost tenderly. I’ve felt them in my hair and deep inside me.

It can’t be. Can it?