If I wasn’t positive he was an author, I’d think he was a master of disguise. He looks different than both of the times I saw him at the Book Nook. Unlike the wholesome author with glasses and an affinity for tweed blazers, tonight he’s wearing a perfectly tailored navy suit. Fitted close to his body, it showcases the lines of a man who dedicates time to take care of himself. His hair—I can’t decide if it needs a haircut yesterday or to never be touched—is slicked back. He looks like a movie villain you shouldn’t root for, but do anyway.

I’m sure if someone from the book signing saw him tonight, they wouldn’t even recognize him.

But I do.

Because even though the hair and suit changed, there’s no denying the blue-green eyes staring right back at me. Or the way when they focus on me, I feel like I’m the most important person in the room. In any room. I wish I could, but it’s not a feeling I’ll ever forget. And the bitter irony of being this attracted to the one person I know things would never work out with causes me to reach for my martini glass.

“You’re here!” His voice carries over the silence of the room, spurring the diners back into action. “I was afraid I was going to get stood up.”

“I was thinking the same thing.” Whereas I’ve had to deal with the mortification of sitting alone in a restaurant until I couldn’t weather the pitying gazes of the people around me anymore, it’s hard for me to believe that Jasper has ever been stood up. “It’s a good thing you didn’t, though; you only saw the Dirty Birds on their best behavior. You don’t want to get on their bad side.”

Going against the Dirty Birds is like launching a special ops military operation. Months of planning and strategy go into it. Jasper doesn’t have enough intel to get out of a situation like that unscathed.

“I’m sure I don’t.” He slides into the booth across from me, his large body still managing to look at ease even with the awkward movement. “But I was really looking forward to getting to know you a little better. And learn more about Colorado, of course.”

He makes up things for a living. Elsie’s words from Sunday rush unwelcome into my head, squashing the butterflies that had barely managed to take flight.

“Of course,” I repeat after him before draining the dregs of my drink.

Between my dad and a few boyfriends—fine, all my boyfriends—who cheated, it’s safe to say that my expectations of men aren’t on the ground level. They aren’t even in the basement.

No.