How could I not tumble head over heels in lust with him? I don’t even want to stop the fall. It’s harmless to have a crush—harmless and a little exciting. The rush of blood to my fingertips, the tingle up my spine? That’s not due to fear, but excitement. I welcome those feelings. I want them.

“We aren’t merely friends. I’m your editor, and a kick-ass one at that.”

“I wish you could edit my life.” Put me in a story with a hot security guy. He falls madly in love with me despite the fact that I don’t like leaving my apartment and that the prospect of meeting new people sends me to my bed for several days.

Daphne sighs and throws the magazine aside. “Isn’t that what Terrance is for? What does your therapist have to say about all of this?”

Dr. Joshua Terrance is probably the only one who knows the full extent of my crazy. “Too much. I preferred it when I had minimal contact with him.” Minimal for me was once a month. Since I got the note, I’ve been talking to him nearly every day . . . except for yesterday, when I spent thirty minutes on the phone with Jake.

“Good thing you earn so much money selling books, or you wouldn’t be able to afford him.”

“I know.” Daphne’s sympathetic look borders on pity, so I gaze outside again, away from it and toward the direction of uptown where Tanner Security is. In different circumstances, I could leave my apartment and take the subway uptown. From there I could walk a few blocks and end up outside Tanner Securities. I’d march in wearing some saucy dress and high heels and tell the receptionist to hold all of Tanner’s calls because he was going to be too busy servicing me to help anyone else.

A tingle of excitement causes me to clench my legs tightly together. I had a few naughty dreams about Jake last night. Ones that I shove into my mental closet so I don’t get flushed and aroused while I’m sitting with Daphne.

“It’s been so long. I think I’ve forgotten what sex is like.”

“It’s good, just FYI.”

“I keep thinking about him.” I run the back of my fingers along my collarbone wondering what it would be like if they were Jake’s and not mine.

“The asshole who sent you the note?”

“No, Jake. The security guy.”

“I have no idea who he is.”

“He’s tall and has a potbelly.”

“You let him in?” She sounds shocked, and that annoys me even if it would be a giant surprise that I let someone other than Oliver and Daphne inside.

“No. He told me.”

“He told you he was tall and had a potbelly? How did you have this conversation?”

“I asked him what he looked like.”

“And did you ask him what he was wearing at the time? Are you sure this is an actual security person and not some rent-a-cop?” She looks at me as if my conversation is entirely fiction, like my books.

“Oliver hired him. And I looked him up on the Internet. He’s got a real website, but no pictures. Isn’t that weird? Like, does a person exist if there isn’t a picture of him on the Internet? It’s like the Internet version of ‘if a tree falls in the forest.’”

“Not everyone is on the Internet twenty-four/seven like you.”

“True.”

“Why do you think he has a potbelly?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. He said he weighed 260 pounds, and based on the background in his bio, he might have muscular arms and stuff, but he’s probably soft around the middle. Right? I mean, that’s like a hundred pounds more than me.”

“Oliver weighs a hundred pounds more than you and there’s not an ounce of fat on him anywhere.”

“He’s a football player. They work out every day. This guy eats donuts in his office.”

“You have made some weird assumptions.”

He needs to be average. Really average, because the only way some guy would ever be interested in me was if he had no other options. My fantasies have always been weirdly realistic. Like I never fantasized about running into Ryan Gosling at the airport and having him rub his fine form against mine, but I was guilty of inserting a few random guys from around the city into my sexier thoughts. That was back in the day when I actually got outside and could see random people on a regular basis.

And these days all I have are fantasies. I don’t, of course, imagine being in a crowded rave, but I do dream of a day when I can walk outside, go to a bookstore, see a movie.

There are a whole host of things I could be doing, like visiting the set of my book’s movie, to which I’ve been invited more than once.

But I can’t and so my life has shrunk to the four walls of my apartment, three people, and the things I can conjure in my own head.

Today and yesterday, Jake is playing a big starring role in those imaginary happenings.

It’s completely harmless—for both him and me.

Outside there is only the regular traffic. I see all these people and I know—I know—that not one of them down there would hurt me, but the minute I try to go outside, my heart seizes. I can’t breathe. I start sweating like it’s 110 degrees and I’m running wind sprints. Even getting near the front door can cause me to hyperventilate. All that Jake will ever be is a fantasy. “It’s so fucking stupid, the power our minds have over us.”

“It’s also what makes you a great writer. Your imagination is big and powerful and sometimes it’s too powerful for even you.” She sets down the magazine.

“Thanks for trying to make me feel better.”

The chair squeaks as Daphne pushes out of it to join me at the window. “Think of it this way. Two weeks ago you were telling me you couldn’t write another word. Since the note came, you’ve been writing like you were possessed.”

“Because I am a madwoman. I have the actual crazy person diagnosis.” I don’t tell her that last night I got out of bed and wrote the steamiest scene I’d ever put on the page. My readers would probably be shocked, and in the end, I probably won’t include it, but damn, had it been hot.

“You are not mad. I know Dr. Terrance doesn’t like you to use that word. Hell, I don’t like you to use that word.”

I don’t like it either, but sometimes when I take a good hard look at myself, I can’t shake that I am not right in the head. The glass feels blessedly cool against my skin. I’m somewhere along the scale between normal and not, otherwise I could step outside my apartment without wanting to puke. I need to force myself. “Daphne, would you—?”

“No!” she nearly shouts. Hurrying, she tries to explain, but there’s no explanation necessary. I know what she’s going to say and I don’t blame her. “We are not going to the elevator again. I’m sorry, Natalie, but I just can’t. That was terrible. I know you want to recover, but what’s the rush?”

“It’d just be nice to go to Barneys. Try on shoes. Maybe go eat a Shake Shack burger.” See Jake Tanner in person. Put on a sexy dress and seduce him. Have some intimate contact with a real human being for the first time in forever!

“All those things can be delivered here. Stay here. Write. Get better. Before you know it, we’ll be having lunch at David Burke’s in Bloomingdale’s.”

“I know. Isn’t New York great?” I say without enthusiasm.

After Daphne leaves, I heave the biggest sigh known to womankind and then slump down in front of the French doors that lead out onto the balcony. The room-darkening curtains are pushed to the side. The sun’s rays burning through the glass are about the only sunshine and outdoors I get. Two weeks ago, I was able to go up to Oliver’s penthouse apartment. We had dinner with his parents, who were visiting from Ohio.

Two weeks ago, I was standing outside the subway stop. Sure, I hadn’t been able to make myself go down the stairs and into the tunnel. That was my next goal, though. I would’ve made it—no. I’m going to make it.

It’s happening. In the future. All my progress isn’t relegated to the past.

What I need is for the good doctor to write me a prescription for elevator visits, because frankly with both Oliver and Daphne telling me that I need to stay inside, I’m beginning to wonder if I am pushing too hard.