Page 33 of Trip Me Up

When the last person stepped up, electricity zapped through me. Sam stood over me, clutching a copy of my first book,Secrets of the Wood Elves,to her chest, the receipt tucked inside.

“You didn’t have to buy a copy,” I said. “Qiana would’ve gotten you one from the publisher.”

One side of her mouth turned up. “I may be new, but I know how this works: you don’t make money off free publisher copies.”

“True.”

“I thought I’d read this one first. Before I start on your new one.”

A wave of relief gushed through me. She hadn’t read the dedication. And I could explain before she did.

She handed me the book. As many as I’d signed, I hadn’t yet gone nose-blind to the smell of fresh paper and glue, the heavenly scent of books. But this one had something extra, a woody, herbal scent layered over…rosemary.

“Look, I’m sorry,” she said. “I should’ve said something to you that day at the university. But I was hoping I could get out of it. This.” She waved her hand at the bookstore, that enchanting gesture that called to mind the flight of a sparrow. “That I didn’t have to come out as Sam Case. That I could just be Sam Jones, and we could be…friends.” She bit her lip, and I couldn’t stop staring at it. Her lips were pink like rose petals. They looked petal-soft, too. Touchable. Kissable.

Nope. I squeezed my eyes shut. No creeping on my tour partner.

I cleared my throat. “Why wouldn’t you—” Of course. The public speaking. She was one of those writers who wanted to stay in her cave and churn out words. Like Cormac McCarthy or Harper Lee. She didn’t want to embody her brand, like Gabi was always pushing me to do. “I get it. I have to apologize, too.”

“For what?” She crinkled her nose.

Lobelia’s voice, low and melodic, whispered in my ear.Courage.She’d been brave. I could try it, too.

“Look.” I pulled a copy ofTreacheryfrom the pile and flipped to the dedication page. “Read it. It’s for you.”

She took the book and studied the short inscription. She read it slowly, hesitating over the longer words. “‘Dedicated to my violet-eyed muse, without whom this story wouldn’t have found its soul.’” Her dark eyebrows slammed down the way I’d been afraid they would. “This is me? But my eyes are blue, not violet.”

I spread my hands in front of me, palms up. “I’m a writer. A poet. I can get away with an excess of fancy.” But she was wrong. Her eyes were more than blue. They were the starry night. The deepest part of the ocean. Flowers with delicate petals that, if crushed, would stain your fingers purple.

“You dedicated the book to me?”

“Sort of.” Confronted with the reality of Sam, I knew I’d embellished her, the same way I’d done with her eyes. I’d met someone new, and it had forged connections in my brain that’d made new words flow. I’d turned her into what I wanted her to be: my ethereal muse, hovering in that twilight space between a dream and consciousness.

But Sam didn’t exist for my inspiration.

“I met an unexpected, intriguing woman in a museum, and again on a university campus. My idealized version of her inspired me. But you’re a real person. With talent and your own creativity. I’m sorry.”

She cocked her head, birdlike. “Sorry for…?”

“For turning you into something you’re not. For making our interactions in San Francisco all about me.” For feeling a little too much for Lobelia. “Normally, I’m better at distinguishing between fantasy and reality. But I was under deadline.” I shrugged like it was no big deal she’d lifted me out of my creative slump, inspired a completely new character, literally saved the farm. I forced a smile even while my stomach shriveled. I hadn’t told her all the truth. Maybe she wouldn’t startTreacherywhile we were still on tour. Maybe she wouldn’t see herself in Lobelia. Maybe Sally the goat would sprout wings and learn to fly, too.

Her lips tightened. “Maybe we inspired each other.” She set the book on the table. “Sign it for me, please? Make it out to just Sam.”

Above the dedication, I scrawledTo Samand signed below. I blew on the ink to dry it, then closed the book.

She took it, lightly brushing my fingertips. Her eyes really were the night sky in Ohio in summer, inky blue and spangled with stars.

I blinked and reached for the hand sanitizer. Holding the bottle over Sam’s hands, I drizzled liquid onto her flawless palm before I did the same with my own rough one. No, I didn’t want to rub the gel into her hand and feel again how smooth it was.

“Come on, kids.” Kathy’s voice snapped the moment in two. “Niall’s got an early interview, and Bilbo needs to stretch his legs.”

I needed a stretch, too. And a slap upside the head for mixing up Samantha and Lobelia again.

I tugged on my coat. Chicago was colder than Ohio, and Sam’s coat wasn’t even Ohio-grade. It was made for cool, seasonless northern California, and certainly not for wind and sleet.

I picked up my wool scarf, the green one Mom had knitted for me for Christmas, and handed it to Sam. “Take this.” My voice was as rough as my hands.

“But I can’t—”

“It’s cold out there. Can’t have you catching something and being sick the rest of the tour.”

“But that’s not how—”

I took the scarf from her hands and wound it around her neck. The silky strands of her drooping bun caressed my fingers, and I shivered. “Humor me, okay? I’m just a Midwestern guy who knows it’s important to keep warm.”

“I think you’re more than that.” Those violet eyes twinkled.

“I think we’re both more than we seem, Sam Jones.”

Her smile faltered, and she turned to fuss with Bilbo. “Maybe.”

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