Very much.

Our interactions thus far have been indoors. I’ve never experienced him in the light of day. Never in the glory days of sun-dappled fall. And now I really wish I hadn’t.

Because under the autumn sun, Jamie’s dark blond hair is a stunning bronze, the faint promise of russet in the shadowy dips of his waves. His hazel eyes are emeralds slivered with gold, and everything about his tall, trim body seems even more statuesque. He’s the stuff of sculptures I stared at reverently in European museums, of artwork that made me fall in love with drawing the human form. In nature’s best lighting, Jamie Westenberg—I hate to admit—is nothing short of magnificent.

“Sit,” I tell him, because I need to. My knees are doing their wobbly thing around him again. “No need to stand for me.”

He doesn’t sit. He stares at me, gaze wandering my body. I’ve been checked out before, but this isn’t it. Jamie looks like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle. “Your hair’s . . . smooth. And your dress,” he mutters. “It’s quite yellow.”

I touch my hair self-consciously, then peer down at my soft, swingy T-shirt dress, the color of goldenrod that’s blooming all around. “Yes,” I say slowly. “And?”

Jamie’s gaze meets mine as he lifts a hand to his chest, splayed over his heart. “Tall but sitting on the bench. Blue sweater. Glasses.”

The pieces snap cruelly into place as we both say, “You!”

—

Jamie grips my elbow when I sway, before tugging me down firmly onto the bench. His touch is gone before I can truly process it—the rough edge of his fingertips, the dry warmth of his hand.

“If you’re in danger of fainting, put your head between your knees,” he says.

I flop my bag onto my lap. “Holy. Shit.”

Sitting after me, Jamie slides his messenger bag out of the way. He looks stunned, too. “So you’re—”

“Pseudonymous Addie.” I glance over at him. “And you’re—”

“Notorious NRB.”

“Ben?” I ask.

“Benedick,” he mutters. “Family name. Addie?”

“Adelaide. Don’t worry, I know it’s awful.”

“Beatrice Adelaide,” he says. “Hardly awful. Try being a James Benedick and see where that gets you on the playground.”

In very un-Jamie fashion, he slumps over, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, and rakes his fingers through his hair. “This is inconceivable.”

A laugh jumps out of me. I picture the guy from The Princess Bride yelling, “Inconceivable!”

Jamie glares up at me, his hands falling. “You find this amusing? That we’ve been duped?”

“No. It was just that you said . . . Never mind.” Staring down at my boots, I tap them together as emotions tumble through me, too many to name. One sticks out above all the rest—anger. I am angry.

“Those assholes,” I mutter.

Jamie grunts in agreement.