Page 7 of The Autumn We Fell in Love

The smile is joined by a blush that has nothing to do with my recent exertion. “Ifeelhappy. The class . . .” I shake my head, searching for the right words. “It’s everything I never knew I needed. I feel more like myself than I have in who knows how long.”

“Since you married Seth the Sack,” Amy interjects. “That’s how long.”

“Also known as a long damn time.”

“Too long,” she says with a nod. “Good riddance to that loser, and huzzah for the poetry.” Amy used to work at a Renaissance Faire when we were in our early twenties, and she took to it so naturally that the required vernacular became a part of her. Another reason why I love her.

I turn to the city and, an uncharacteristic boldness blossoming within, yell from the bluffs, “Huzzah to the poetry!”

“Hell freaking yeah,” Amy says, practically dancing next to me.

There’s a sudden rustling from the path behind us. The blood and boldness freeze in my veins as, skin prickling, I turn to see what’s coming.

I fear it’s a bear, and hope it’s just a very loud a chipmunk.

Instead, a man scrambles up the last bit of trail-turned-rock, just like Amy and I did a few moments ago.

And not just any man.

Rowan Keating, poet-in-residence extraordinaire.

If my face felt hot before, that’s nothing to the furnace that my cheeks are now. Even the tips of my ears are on fire.

“Is that . . . Hollis? From Intro to Poetry?” he says, squinting into the sunset’s glare.

“Yeah,” I practically grunt, the racing of my heart suddenly all about the sight of my teacher instead of the grueling hike.

He offers me that easy smile he always seems to have at the ready. “Well, I’m afraid you’ve ruined hiking for me.”

“Uh?” I say, ever the master of speech.

“Reaching the summit of my climb with adorations of poetry resounding in my ears?” He shakes his head, but winks too. “Nothing can beat that. Hiking will never be the same.”

“Um. Sorry?” Now I’m squeaking. Fabulous.

He glances at Amy. To my surprise, I feel my heart sinking.

It’s not unusual for any and every hot-blooded male I encounter while with my friend to be far more taken with her than with me.

What is unusual is the heaviness invading my chest. It feels like the sunset itself has been dampened, darkened by what’s about to happen.

My poetry teacher is going to fall for my best friend. Just like every other man on the damned planet.

Only this time, I don’t want him to. Not this man.

I set my jaw and try to prepare myself for the change that’s about to come over his face when he sees how pert and pretty she is, especially for a woman that’s a decade and a half his senior.

But it doesn’t happen.

He glances at Amy, curious, but then his eyes slide back to me, face unchanged. If anything, his smile grows when he meets my gaze once more.

I shoot Amy a confused look. What the hell is happening? And why is she suddenly grinning like a fool?

“Well,” he says at last, heaving a comically heavy sigh and setting his shoulders, “bolstered by your praise of poetry, I will soldier on. Enjoy the rest of your hike.” He winks at me again, nods his chin at Amy, and follows the trail that continues on upward from the overlook we’re standing on.

As soon as he’s out of sight — and, I fervently hope, out of earshot — Amy rounds on me.

“Oh,” she says in a gleeful tone, her quiet happy dance growing ever less quiet, “sothat’swhat’s going on in poetry class.”

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