Page 101 of A Novel Love Story

My heart leapt into my throat. I scrambled to take it out. The cover was there again, too, no longer a blur, and when I opened it up—

The words, all of them, they were there. The dog-eared pages, the coffee stains, all of it. I buzzed through the pages, the sound filling my soul with happiness, until it rested on the dedication page.

To A. S.

Thunder rumbled overhead, and a raindrop fell onto my cheek, another onto my nose. Before I came to Eloraton, Anders said that every day was the same. A storm blew in at twelve, and then one in the late afternoon. Gail always burnt her burgers, and the taffy was always sweet, and the inn was always in a constant state of restoration—

As though the author had left midsentence.

Because she had, and who else would want to guard it?

The looks he gave the townsfolk when he thought they didn’t notice, the way he knew everything about them, his patience with Lily. How he’d come in only after the last book, having no connections with anyone, no roots, and yet he felt so at home. How he’d come to the town and hadn’t left—not once—even though he had a sister who wanted him to visit. His soft asides about the author, the way he looked at her signature when he opened my novels, like one ghost finding another.

It was right there. It was all right there and I couldn’tseeit.

I ran out of the courtyard, my heart pounding. It couldn’t be him—itcouldn’t. He would have told me, right?

My sneaker caught on the curb, and I stumbled out of the alley. The rain was coming down harder now, drenching the town. It hadn’t rained in the afternoon in a few days. Not since things began to move again. Not since I had accidentally jolted Eloraton out of its perfect little time capsule.

I knew now why he wanted to keep everything the way it was.

Why he didn’t want ripples.

Everything was just the way she had left it. It was perfect, still, in its own little garden.

Then I’d come, and I ruined it while thinking that I was helping, and the worst part was—Iunderstood. Because my wedding dress was still hanging in its bag in my closet, my wedding shoes in their box. I still had my registry saved on my phone, I kept a save-the-date postcard in my underwear drawer, so everything would stay exactly the way it was, exactly the way Liam left it—when I was still happy.

Anders stood at the counter, like he had every afternoon since I first came to town, his head propped up on his hand, reading another romance. He looked so at home here in the bookstore that it had tricked me for days. I thought he looked at home here because that was how Rachel wrote him—because he belonged.

But I was wrong.

His fiancée hadn’t been hisex, his fiancée was … she was …

The bell above the door jingled, and he glanced up in surprise. “I … I thought you were gone.”

“I just realized,” I gasped, trying to catch my breath. The coldness of the bookstore, coupled with my wet clothes, gave me a chill. “I never asked for your last name.”

Understanding flickered through his green eyes. He closed his book, and pushed himself up straight. “Ah,” he murmured, frowning. “Sinclair,” he said, as if he knew the consequences would break the spell. He curled his hands into fists as if steeling himself for the revelation. “Anderson Sinclair.”

I already knew, but hearing his name from his lips made it real. I never could figure out who he was in this town because he wasn’t anyone—no,he was in Rachel’s real story. He had been part of her life, her happy ending—cut short.

“You’re … the person she dedicated all of her books to. She was your fiancée.”

“She was,” he said, “once upon a time.”

32

The Last Manuscript

WHY DIDN’T YOU TELLme?” I asked.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Because …” And he went quiet, as if trying to find the right words as he stared down at the books in his hand. “I liked that you didn’t see me just as someone whose fiancée died. You sawme.”

But that wasn’t true. Not in the least. I studied him, wondering what else he had omitted, what he hadn’t said. Rain ran down the sides of my face, and dripped off my clothes. I must have looked like I had that first night—a drowned cat coming in from the storm. It would have been poetic, a perfect circle, if I didn’t feel so utterly tricked. “I only see the parts you let me,” I said, shaking my head. “I should go—”

He blurted. “My favorite color is blue.”

“What?”

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