“Dashwood,” she finished for him on a breathy rush of wonder. Her mouth went dry. Her mind emptied out. She scrambled to find something to say. She shook his hand, trying to remember how to speak. “I’m … Yes, that’s me. Trevor Dashwood, oh my God. Wow, hi.” Holy shit, she thought. You sound like an idiot. Because … Trevor Dashwood.

He was even more attractive than in his book jacket photo. This was quite a feat, because in general, jacket photos tended to be touched up or out of date. This guy, though. “And … wow, sorry. As you can probably tell, you caught me by surprise.”

He let go of her hand and studied her with an unhurried perusal, his gaze warm and friendly. He had brown eyes and nicely shaped brows, and Mr. Darcy hair. “You don’t like surprises?”

“I’ve never been surprised quite like this.” She couldn’t stop looking at him. How on earth was she standing here having a conversation with one of the most popular authors in the world? Somehow she kicked her brain into gear. “Please,” she managed to say, blushing furiously. “Come in. Can I get you a coffee? Something else to drink?”

“I’m fine for now.” He paused, glancing around at the dim shop. “Is this a good time, or—”

“It’s a great time,” she said, thinking about the lonely evening that had loomed ahead only a few moments before. They went over to a café table. She practically melted inside as he held a chair for her. “Sorry, I’m a bit starstruck. It’s not every day an author wanders in …”

“I’m the one who should be starstruck,” said Trevor. “Booksellers are a writer’s best friend.”

“What a nice thing to say.”

“I’m not being nice.”

“Yes, you are. And thank you. But I’m totally confused. What brings you here?”

“I came because of this.” He took an envelope from his pocket and unfolded it on the table. “I get a lot of letters from readers, and most of them don’t make their way past my assistant, but every once in a while, Emily spots a special letter like this one. I can’t stop thinking about it. A little girl named Dorothy sent me a note about your shop.”

“What?” Natalie scanned the note. It had been carefully written on lined schoolroom paper and illustrated with childish whimsy. The handwriting was familiar. Dorothy.

Dear Mr. Dashwood,