Silly String located, she flipped down the sun visor to check her lipstick before getting out. The matte, aubergine stain was still firmly in place, and so were the razor-sharp wings of her eyeliner, neither of which mattered since she was only going to see Grandma and … and possibly Will, and … and neither of those people especially cared about her appearance, and nor did she. So there.

She flipped the mirror back up and looked around the gravel drive. There was Grandma’s ancient Estate. There was the battered ’90s Corsa Will kept at his mother’s house. But there were no other cars in residence, no brothers, no Mum…

And no ring on Abbie’s finger. No husband waiting at home, the noose of his disapproval forever pulling her up short.

Two years after the divorce, she was still getting used to that part. Still surprised by the freedom.

Taking a breath, she gathered herself and got out of the car. A second later, Grandma’s shiny red door swung open.

Abbie turned toward the noise, toward the spill of light across the rapidly darkening drive, toward the shadowed outline of a man she’d recognise anywhere, which didn’t mean jack-shit since half the world would too. Will was bigger than he seemed on-screen, probably because everything was huge in Hollywood, but here in Britain, stuff was normal-sized. Except for Will, who had hands like plates, a chest like a very well-defined barrel, and biceps like cantaloupe melons. She tried to think of him like that—in terms of ludicrous comparisons, in terms of various body parts stuck together—but then he walked toward her and made himself real.

“Abbie,” he called, warm enough to make her forget the bitter cold biting at her fingers. His face was a technical work of art, but when he smiled, it turned into something sweeter. Something softer and realer. He had smiled on the cover of People, and Abbie had seen it and felt nothing but disorientation—but when he smiled at her now, when he smiled in the semi-dark without a camera to coax him, she felt the corners of her mouth lift in response. She felt a tug in her chest and took a step, an actual step, toward him, as if he’d pulled. She felt fifteen-year-old butterflies wake up in her stomach, which was fucking ancient for butterflies. No wonder they felt so enormous and sticky-slow these days. Like they were huge enough for their wings to brush her hips, her ribs, her throat. Like they were fluttering through honey, somehow.

God. She gave herself a moment. Then she sucked down a lungful of inky, frosty air and got over it. Just like always.