She wished she hadn’t noticed that, because it was a good dress. If she went with bare legs and heels and a flash of jewelry, it would look totally different, she told herself. Right? Don’t overthink.

Briefly, Natalie considered culling through her mother’s closet to find something to wear, but she wasn’t ready for that.

She put her keys, cards, and phone into a small blingy bag. Added a twenty-dollar bill—something her mom would call mad money. In case you get mad at your date and need to get yourself home.

Get mad at Trevor Dashwood? Highly doubtful, Mom.

He showed up right on time, wearing casual but expensive-looking slacks and a Paul Smith sweater. She knew it was Paul Smith because the designer’s bio, with the signature colorful pinstripes on the cover, was a steady seller at the bookstore.

“You look terrific,” he said, holding the door for her. “Are you okay to walk a few blocks?”

She glanced down at her shoes. “No problem. They only look dangerous.”

“Okay, then. I’m glad you said yes.”

“I imagine you’re used to hearing yes.”

He didn’t deny it. “Just so you know, I’ve heard plenty of nos in my life. Any writer who tells you getting published was easy is pulling your leg.”

“I didn’t mean about the writing,” she said. “I mean women.”

“I like women.” He grinned.

She inhaled the city scents, so familiar from her growing-up years here—cable car brakes, ocean air, the occasional whiff of weed. “How is it that you’re still single?”

“I’m complicated.”

“How so?”

“I don’t really know.” He chuckled. “It just sounds like a good thing to say.”

“Seems like a good way to tell me very little.”

“Hey, I’m an open book. And I could ask you the same thing,” he said. “You’re lovely and smart and interesting …”

“Maybe I’m complicated, too,” she said. “And not because it sounds good to say so.”

“Because of the way you lost your mom so suddenly and found yourself running her bookstore,” he said. “I swear, I’m not making light of that.”

“I know you’re not.” She decided to tell him about Rick. All of it, including the fact that she had wanted to end the relationship at the precise moment he was planning a surprise proposal.

“Damn,” said Trevor. “I’m sorry about that. It’s a lot to handle. Are you … maybe getting help for all this stuff?”

“Therapy, you mean?” She shook her head. “Not covered by my health plan. It’s kind of you to ask, but please don’t worry. Mom raised me on books, and I’ve been doing more reading than sleeping. There’s no shortcut through grief and guilt.”

“Bibliotherapy—I can relate. I hope you figure out a way to move on. When you do, I want to be the first to know.”