“I’ll keep that in mind.” She steered the conversation to something safer, something that made her feel less vulnerable—books. Despite the stress of trying to get the business on track, Natalie loved talking shop. It was such a contrast to her former job, that steady, predictable safety net she’d inhabited until her final screw-you to wine inventory management.

“Sounds like you’ve found your calling,” he commented.

“I don’t know about that. The goal is to keep going. I hope I can. I’ve always believed there’s something magical about a book. A bundle of paper and ink that can change your life. It must be so exciting for you to think about all the readers who love your books.”

“I try not to think about that too much,” Trevor said. “Messes with my head. I write stories for the kid I used to be—a misfit, looking for a way to be comfortable in my skin.”

“You? A misfit?”

“I still feel that way,” he said. “Insecurity doesn’t go away just because my books are popular.”

“Well. Your event is going to be a huge shot in the arm. I appreciate it so much, Trevor. We all do.”

“Here we are.” He stopped at a cozy-looking place called the Chalk Bar. “One of my favorite spots. And one of my favorite groups is playing tonight.”

He casually placed his hand in the small of her back as he held the door for her. A few heads turned as they entered, but unlike the last time, they didn’t encounter fans wanting a selfie. Still, Trevor had a presence. He exuded a sort of energy that captured people’s attention. He was noticed. Not just by people who recognized him but by people in general. The hostess. A girl at the bar as they took a seat. The bartender. At his side, Natalie felt slightly exposed, though she knew it wasn’t his fault.

The rustic interior of the bar was modeled after the vermouth bodegas in southern Spain, Trevor told her, where different spirits were stored in casks along the wall and served de grifo in slender tasting glasses. The bartender kept a chalk tally directly on the wooden plank bar itself.

“This is nice,” she said. “I’ve always wanted to go to Spain.”

“You haven’t been?”

She shook her head. “Never had the time or the money. I spent a semester abroad in China when I was in college. Then it was right back here to finish my degree and get a job.”

“Sounds like you were in a hurry.”

“I had student debt,” she corrected him. She still did, but she didn’t want to appear even more lame. “Anyway. I never thought about sitting around and sipping vermouth. My knowledge of vermouth is of giant cases in the inventory I used to manage in my old job. Not these cool old barrels.”