Lately though, for the first time in my life, the thought of living someone else’s dream is stifling me. Suffocating. It might be what my brother wants, but it’s holding me back.

I rest my back against the soft cushion, my pen hovering above the cream pages of my novel—all three hundred and eighty pages of it. Setting the blue felt-tip pen down, I trace the title on the cover with my hand, letting my fingers run up and down the glossy surface.

I lift it with both hands and lift it to my nose, inhaling the smell of freshly printed paper and sighing before clutching it to my chest.

This book is my baby. My labor of love. The best thing that’s happened to me in years.

And I have no one to tell.

With a sigh, I continue to write.

B lare closed her eyes and tried to remember him. What he looked like, how he sounded, what it felt like when he handed her the discarded mascara that had fallen on the cold tile of the store. He felt familiar to her, like someone she’d known all her life. Like they were connected somehow, and it made her heart beat faster.

Oh well. She wasn’t going to see him again. What would be the odds? A million to one? Serendipity only happened in fairy tales, and Blare’s life was anything but. With her eyes open and reality surrounding her, the fast-paced beating of her heart gradually returned to normal. But her memory of him never would…

The pink hat gives her away.

I spot it as soon as I push through the door at Blooming Grounds, a coffee shop in the heart of the city, sandwiched between a hotel chain and insurance brokerage firm. It’s surprisingly cozy.

Hefting my black leather laptop bag up and bending at the neck to move the strap over my head, I sling it around my torso, resting the cross-body strap diagonally against my chest.

I hold it steady while I… study her.

I hone in on Tabitha Thompson, the brightest spot in the room. It can’t be anyone but her—I would recognize that ball cap anywhere. She was wearing it during that embarrassing display she put on last week when she accused my sister of cheating on her brother. With me.

Not that I blame her; my sister and I look nothing alike and Greyson was far from college, home for an impromptu visit.

With her back to me, Tabitha’s spine is bent over a glowing laptop monitor, blonde hair in a ponytail she’s pulled through the back of her hat.

Baseball caps and ponytails; man, I love that shit.

Cautiously, I approach her from behind, my eyes raking her back. Her bra is visible through her thin white tee, faded cut-up jeans, and navy flip-flops—she looks casual and relaxed. As her fingers fly across her keyboard, the tap tap tapping sound resonates, filling the gap of space around the small square table she occupies in the center of the room.

I observe her for a few minutes from across the room until she leans back in her chair, digs in her bag to produce a pen, and eventually begins scribbling in a paperback book.

Inching closer, I watch as she sets the pen down and closes the book to run a hand over its surface, her fingers stroking the cover before raising it to her nose and giving it a whiff. Yeah, you heard me—she’s smelling the book.

Who does that?

Then, as if that wasn’t weird enough, Tabitha grasps the book tightly, clutches it to her chest, and… hugs it?

Uh, okay.

She might be weird, but my looming over her is just as creepy. The soft, dull light from Tabitha’s monitor draws me in, and curiously, I hover closely behind her, scanning the paragraph she’d undoubtedly been pounding away on earlier.

Wait. Does that sentence say, Blare could not stop thinking about him, the guy from the store. His hazel eyes burned holes into her soul and made her center quake. She was experiencing want and desire like nothing… nothing she’d ever felt before. She wanted to strip them both naked right there, drag him into a dressing room, and let him—

Holy shit.

I feel my eyes widen in shock. Bugging out of my fucking skull is probably more accurate, because—holy shit—Tabitha Thompson is writing a sex book in the middle of a public coffee shop.

Smut. A bodice ripper.

Whatever the hell you wanna call it.

In disbelief, I give my hair a shake before pushing the black sunglasses up so they rest atop my head. My eyes hit her monitor again, seeking, reading word after suggestive word.

I’ve seen what I’ve seen and I can’t un-see it.

Drawing even closer, my intention isn’t to scare the shit out of her, but that’s exactly what happens when I let out a surprised gasp. Yeah, I fucking gasp. Like a goddamn girl.

Startled, Tabitha turns.

Her eyes hit my legs first, climb leisurely up my body, pausing on my broad chest, and widen with surprise, then recognition.

Dismay.

The book falls from her hands, landing on the floor with a soft thud on the carpet, and when I bend to scoop it up, her hand darts out and grips my wrist.

“Don’t touch it!” Her voice is filled with panic. “Please just leave it.”

I rear my hand back and straighten, my eyes flitting to her glowing screen before she glares at me for gawking, and twists in her chair to close the top with a resounding snap.

She tidies up her workspace then spins to face me.

Well, well, well, someone doesn’t want me learning any of her dirty little secrets. My eyes dart to the discarded paperback lying facedown on the floor, and for now she’s too flustered to pick it up. What’s in that damn book that she doesn’t want me to see?

“Collin Keller.” Tabitha flashes me a fake smile, her lips pulled tight across her white teeth. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“You don’t have to sound so thrilled to see me.”

A blush creeps up her neck, and the hot-pink bill of her ball cap creates an unflattering fuchsia shadow on her skin. She has the decency to look embarrassed by her lack of manners.

“I’m sorry, that was rude. It’s just that you startled me.” Tabitha bites down on her lower lip, takes a steadying breath, and then asks, “So… what are you doing here?”

A laugh explodes out of me. “Just can’t help yourself, can you? I work in the financial district. It’s four blocks up, actually, but I like it in here better than Starbucks. Much warmer and definitely more quiet. I get more work done here.” I motion to the laptop draped across my body, giving the canvas bag a pat. “What about you? What brings you to this neck of the woods?”

“I actually live nearby. I… come here often, usually after work, but I didn’t have a lot going on at the office today, so… here I am. Earlier than usual.” Her shoulders give an apologetic shrug, and she nervously reaches up to adjust the bill of her pink ball cap.

While she’s doing that, my eyes flit to the laptop.

A sly smile curls my lips. “What are you working on?”

Tabitha’s hands stop, still holding her brim as her bright blue eyes narrow suspiciously for a few seconds, assessing, as if trying to gauge my sincerity.

Like she doesn’t quite trust me.

Like she’s looking for any clue that I’ve seen what’s written on her screen.

Why yes, Tabitha. Yes I have.

I’ve seen words like tremble, breathless, stroke, and panting flash across her monitor, burning themselves in my brain—forever. I’ll not likely forget them anytime soon, not only because they were sexy, but because she was writing them.

Those sexy words came out of that sexy girl, and it has me wondering what other thoughts are going through her obviously dirty mind—because I’m a guy and I wonder about shit like that.