“I’m DuchessB. And you’re GreatSc0t, and we’ve been—well, flirting our nuts off online and it’s been amazing. At least, for me it has.” She covers her face for a moment and then shakes out her hair. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry. I should’ve told you last night, before we—but I didn’t, and now . . .”

“You’re TheDuchessB? You’re Bree?”

She nods, tears sparkling in her eyes. “I’m sorry. Do you hate me now? Actually hate me, not Table Champion hate me?”

Before I can answer—it’s a lot to process—she jumps up, clearly ready to bolt. “I can leave. You can still have a nice lie-in and get a massage and spend it imagining me getting hit by a city bus because, let’s face it, that’s probably going to happen to me at some point.”

“When did you find out?” I ask, trying to keep my voice neutral.

“Yesterday,” she says quickly. “Right before I knocked on your door.”

“You’re the one who sent me ‘Drive My Car’?”

“Yes. And chatted with you, and laughed at all the things you wrote, and loved the walking tour. For what it’s worth. Probably not much.”

She looks down, and gathers her items off the floor.

I stop her with a hand on her wrist. Slowly, her eyelashes, her beautiful eyelashes, lift and her gaze meets mine.

“You’re the Pigvin shipper?” I ask, my voice almost reverent with the ridiculous words.

She lets out a small, nervous laugh. “Yes. And, just so we’re clear, I will defend the sanctity of ‘The Rainbow Connection’ until the day I die.”

Bree and Zoey are the same. One perfect package. One witty, insightful, hilarious, sexy, gorgeous package. The girl I’ve been thinking about almost nonstop since we started interacting online. The girl I was literally angry at Jude for “stealing” is here in a hotel with me, and she flat-out said she thinks we could have something good together.

My face hurts from smiling. “This is the best news I’ve heard all year. This is unbelievable.”

She smiles too, tentatively. “You’re not—filled with rage?”

I tug her toward the bed as I simultaneously stand up so we meet at the halfway point and I kiss her like our lives depend on it.

When we come up for air, she’s beaming at me, all traces of her earlier tears gone.

“Do you know how many ghostwriting jobs I’ve had?” I ask.

“Aisha said you’re the top ghostwriter . . .”

“But I’ve never thought about the client after hours before. Really thought about her. Wondered what she was up to, what she was thinking, how she was doing—wait, you know Aisha?”