“I don’t have that much in my pockets.”

“Maybe you’re a magician—Merlin, is that you, old man?”

“Shut up and practice the J again. Loop it more—no, like this,” he instructed, scooting close to me. He took my writing hand into his much larger one. He guided the pen into the perfect loopy J. “There, see?”

His hand was very warm, and he was very close, leaning against my shoulder. Much closer than he’d ever been to me before. Too close, really, for someone who hated me. He noticed a moment later, and quickly let go of my hand and scooted to the other side of the step. “We should go back,” he said gruffly, standing, and even though I hadn’t perfected my loopy J, we returned to the showroom. He didn’t know where the meet-and-greet area was, but I did, so I led him to the bottom of the Marriott and into one of the bigger ballrooms, and that’s where we find ourselves now. My head’s beginning to itch under my fake hair. “My wig’s hot and I hate it,” I say.

“Tough.”

“And the hair’s sticking to my neck,” I whine.

Ethan rolls his eyes. He’s worriedly twisting a silver ring on his left middle finger and peeks out from behind the curtain. After a moment he pulls his head back in and curses. “There’s a long line.”

“Well, it is for Jessica Stone.”

“What if someone realizes you’re a fake? Your contacts slip? Someone pulls on your wig—”

I put a hand on his shoulder. “Relax, old man. I’m a professional.”

He closes the curtain and levels a glare down at me. And I’m reminded of the moment in the stairwell when we were this close before, and alone, and it is bad. Because beneath his thick glasses, his eyelashes are dark, and underneath those eyelashes are his eyes, which remind me of puddles of black ink, the kind that gets on a writer’s fingers. His hair is now messy from being run through too many times, and I detest that thin set of his mouth, how it makes him look so self-righteous and—

How can someone so infuriating be so handsome?

The thought repulses me, and I quickly avert my eyes. The volunteer operating the camera hurries into the photo booth, pulling back her dark hair. “Sorry, sorry! Hi, I’m your volunteer, Savvy. Are you ready to start?”

“Yes,” I quietly reply, relieved that there’s someone else in the booth with us.

Ethan shoves his hands into his pockets and leans on a stool in the corner, looking down to his…superhero shoes. No, like, literally. They have the Captain America shield in little dots all over them. And then I’m just thinking of Ethan punching Nazis, and that’s kinda hot, actually.