A quick recap of my day: Since breakfast, I have violated my NDA a second time by confiding in Meg about Noah; I have edited the novel that may save my career, and fretted over the issue that may end it—Noah potentially putting his name on this book. I emailed Sue to let her know the manuscript is fabulous, and that I submitted it for ARCs. I got an immediate reply: Congratulations, Editorial Director. Now, instead of going home to pack for my transatlantic voyage tomorrow, I am packing a surprise picnic for Noah as a gesture of my love and gratitude for this book. The weather will ensure it’s a living room picnic, but I’ve heard it’s the thought that counts.

Huddled with my picnic offerings under my crappy umbrella, I ring his bell at the outer gate of Pomander Walk.

“Hello?” He sounds tinny through the speaker.

“It’s Lanie!”

There’s a pause. It feels long. Too long. Is he waiting for me to explain my presence? That would be understandable. But how do I explain my presence? Why didn’t I call before I came?

Then, suddenly, the gate buzzes and unlocks. I dash inside and up the stairs. He meets me at ye olde streetlight in the middle of the garden. His feet are bare, his T-shirt getting wet. My mind goes back to our hug in the train station the last time we’d been together. I wouldn’t say no to an encore . . .

“You’re soaked,” he says, and waves me to his stoop.

Once we’re inside, and Noah closes the door on the storm, it’s suddenly so quiet that I get the chills. All the nice things I was going to say about his book flee my mind.

“You’re here about the last chapter,” he says.

“I’m here because I adore the book!”

“You do?” He looks surprised.

“Here’s a celebration.” I hold out the basket. He trades me for a towel. As I dry off, I watch him open and examine the picnic. He smiles, but it’s one of his cautious smiles, from our early days.

“Aren’t you leaving for Italy tomorrow?”

He sounds so serious.

“I do have a packing party scheduled with some friends in about an hour,” I say. “I was just . . . dropping this off—”

“I won’t keep you.” He’s looking at his phone, typing something, which seems a little rude.

“Oh,” I say. He wants me to leave. How obvious is it that I want to stay? I should go. Right now. But—“I was also wondering about the last chapter . . .”

He pockets his phone, looks at me. I think I see guilt cross his face, but he’s so hard to read, I can’t be sure. “I’m working on it. I’ll have it to you by the time you’re back from Italy.”

“That sounds . . . good.”