As if Ryan’s sudden presence snaps me back to reality, two things occur to me at once. The first: Charles has no idea who I am, which, from the clear tough-guy image he tries to uphold with his muscles and calloused hands, makes sense. He probably surrounds himself with a bunch of writer bros and doesn’t bother keeping tabs on anyone writing books that might appeal to a different audience.

And the second: Ryan is jealous as fuck.

Looking at the two of them side by side, I can see why. Charles has Golden Boy written all over him, from the carefully trimmed blond hair and beard to his obviously curated muscular form. Even the navy sweater seems to have been selected to make his green eyes pop. He’s an image. A mirage. Too good to be true. His picture on dust jackets is what sells his books. I’d be willing to bet Charles Hall isn’t even his real name, though I don’t have a lot of room to talk there.

Ryan, though, exists in stark opposition. His hair and eyes are dark, accentuated by the black frames of his glasses. He’s tall but not as tall as Charles, and his lean frame makes him look more bookish than quarterback. The scowl on his face isn’t winning any awards for America’s Sweetheart, either.

“I was actually just going to ask S.J.—do you want me to call you S.J. or Scarlett?” Charles is saying. I’ve been too busy staring at Ryan, who is staring at Charles, to realize he’s talking to me.

“Hmm?” I blink a few times and turn my attention to him. “Oh. S.J. works.”

He studies me for a moment like he doesn’t believe me but then carries on. “Anyway, I was going to ask if you want to join me for dinner tonight.”

“Me?” I squeak just as Ryan huffs. He barely conceals an eye roll, but Charles isn’t paying any attention to him.

Charles lets out a hearty laugh, one that says he’s used to starstruck women falling all over themselves to go to dinner with him. “Yes. I thought it might be nice to chat about our books. You know, writer stuff.” He winks at me again, and I can feel the waves of irritation coming off Ryan from where I stand. “Where do you live?”

“In the South Loop,” I say before I can think better of it.

“Wonderful. I know a great tapas place there. Can I get your number so I can send you the details?”

“S.J.” Ryan’s voice oozes disdain over the letters. “We really need to head up.”

I don’t know where I get the audacity, but I check my watch. “We have ten minutes. I’m sure I can spare one to give Charles my number,” I say sweetly.