She took a printed sheet from the back of the book. “It’s valued at five thousand dollars.” She was almost embarrassed to say the amount aloud. She couldn’t read his expression as he regarded her for about three beats of her heart. Maybe he was getting a Lee Israel vibe from her, wondering if she was a fraud or forger. “Really, I—”

“Done, then.” He took out a checkbook.

She stopped breathing for a moment. Then, somehow, she managed to shift into professional mode. “You’re serious.”

“Serious as a shushing librarian.”

“Well. I’ll wrap it up for you. And give you a certified receipt.” Her hands shook a little as she took the check—from Flip Side LLC with a post office box address—and carefully wrapped the old volume and placed it in a bag—one of the nice bags, not the cheap ones. Thanks, Jack, she thought. You’re off to a good home.

She tried to picture the book in Trevor’s house. Did he have an elegant English gent’s library? A bohemian book cave? A showy showroom?

“So about that book signing …” he said. “Remember, our mutual friend Dorothy says you’d like to schedule something soon.”

“I’d love to host an event for you,” she said. “But I understand how busy you must be. Your publisher and your rep were pretty firm about saying you’re not available.”

“They’re just doing their job as gatekeepers. If you’re game, I’ll make time,” he said.

“Really?”

“Really. Look, I get what you’re going through. But bookstores are the lifeblood of this business. Let’s make a plan.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “Yes,” she said. “Let’s make a plan.”

A half hour later, Natalie was convinced she had stepped into a dream. A pinch-myself-this-can’t-be-happening dream.

Trevor Dashwood wanted to have a book signing. Given his high profile, it was going to be more complicated than simply setting up a table in the shop. The event was going to take a lot of planning. He insisted on making the plan over drinks at his favorite spot in the city—the Tower Library Bar.

The Tesla glided through the hills like a toboggan in winter, silent except for the silky electronic music of SwingLow drifting like a phantom caress through the speakers.

A valet stationed at the ground floor of the high-rise greeted him with discreet familiarity, and they crossed an opulent lobby to the rooftop elevator. As they waited, two young women approached, blushing but determined.

“Trevor Dashwood, right?” one of them said.

He smiled briefly and nodded.

There weren’t many writers people could recognize by sight, but Trevor Dashwood was definitely a man of the moment.

The woman held up her phone. “I hate to intrude, but could I …”