She starts asking questions, directing each one at a different author, sitting back as the conversation begins to flow naturally between the panelists. I thought I’d be bored to tears, but I’m shocked to find myself immersed in the conversation and hanging on to every word they exchange.

“And now”—the moderator stands from her stool on the side of the stage—“time for audience questions. If you have anything to ask or say to one of our amazing authors up here, please raise your hand and Lachlan here will bring the mic to you.”

This is my moment.

All I need to do is raise my hand and I got this.

But I don’t.

I sit quietly in my seat, safely tucked away from knowing eyes, listening to one audience member after another as they speak into the mic, asking mind-numbing question after mind-numbing question. Until finally, I’ve had enough.

I lift my hand in the air, pretending that it’s not shaking like a leaf as soon as Lachlan places the mic in my palm.

“Um, yeah, thank you. I have a question for Jasper Williams.” I take a moment before standing up, and when I do, I can feel Jasper’s eyes burning a hole into me despite the neutral look on his face. “Jasper, in your last book, The Fall, Liam shows up for Isabella just as she needs him most. You do a great job of exploring their dynamic and showing Isabella growing with the help of Liam’s love and support, but I have a question about the ending.”

My mouth feels dry and I’m really regretting not at least sticking the shooter into my purse for this moment.

“Yes.” Jasper doesn’t take his eyes off me as he speaks into the microphone. “And what’s your question?”

The sound of my heavy breathing echoes through the room on the speakers set up in every corner, and I’m sure if I were to hold the mic against my chest, my thundering heartbeat would be heard as well.

“My question is, even though Liam messed up, because he definitely did, what does it say about Isabella that she still loves him?”

There.

I did it.

I told Jasper I loved him in front of a room full of people . . . well, kind of.

And while the people sitting around me might seem confused, the only person I care about isn’t. The bottom of his chair scrapes across the floor as he pushes away from the table. Whispers around us begin to rise to a crescendo as he moves to me down the long aisle, his pace picking up until he’s in a full-out jog and pushing past the other people in my row.

“You’re here,” he says when he’s finally close enough for me to touch.