“Maybe. But as far as I can tell, you’re the only reason he stayed.” Rachel winked at her and plunged her hands back into her soapy sink.

Clare sighed and slung the long leather strap of her purse over her shoulder. She turned from the bar toward the booths and met the man’s still expectant gaze.

When he waved her over, Clare inhaled, gently rapped her knuckles on the bar once, then began walking over to his table.

The moment he realized she was coming to see him, Simon Reamer stood up from his seat. He looked her in the eye, smiled, glanced away, smoothed his shirt, squared his shoulders, and looked her in the eye again, lost his smile, found it again, and finally reached out his hand when she was within striking distance.

“Clare,” he said, sounding more breathless than she knew he would like.

She took his hand, shook it twice, then slipped into the seat across from him. “Mr. Reamer, it’s nice to meet you…again, I guess,” she said, trying to lighten the mood.

He laughed, a forced chortle that was too loud for the now-quiet space. He sat back in his seat. “I’ve been thinking about that,” he said, sounding so sheepish Clare felt a small bloom of sympathy crack open inside her. “I would love to have a really cool, smooth reason to explain myself. But if I’m being honest?” He took a breath and sighed before letting his shoulders droop a few inches. “I really, really loved your story.”

Clare sat, silent. He was sending her signals that confused her. His words were about her story, her work. But his body language, facial expressions, and stumbling word choice communicated a different message. This was a guy who was into her. Just another one of the many New York men who flirted, flattered, and tried to figure their way into her bed and between her legs.

The end result was both: This was not that; and yet, not entirely not that.

“You’re interested…in my work?”

He sat back in his seat and cocked his head to one side. Clare had the distinct impression he was hesitating. “Yes.” He nodded. “God, yes. I’m interested.”

It was not lost on her that he failed to add in your work to the end of his emphatic declaration.

She took a breath; a nervous excitement like an electric pulse radiated through her. What the hell was happening here? Something major, some Big Deal, something she knew For. A. Fact. Donna had hoped and planned would be happening for her tonight. Now here it was, unfolding for Clare. Clare who had no—zero—expectations about landing an agent and had barely wrapped her Casper, Wyoming, ambitions around the idea that she had been published in a major magazine. A happenstance that was, quite frankly, eating her best friend and roommate alive.