Better Than Fiction

by Alexa Martin

I’m trying to eavesdrop on the couple in the booth behind me, something about the babysitter not respecting boundaries, when the energy in the room shifts. I don’t even know how to describe it, the subtle shift in the air. It seems as if all conversations come to a sudden hush; the only sound is the buzz of excitement bouncing from table to table. Goose bumps trail down my arms and the hair at the nape of my neck rises. My breathing speeds up, and if everyone around me didn’t seem so thrilled, I’d wonder if this was my adrenaline warning me to get the freak out of Dodge. And that’s when I see him. If I wasn’t positive he was an author, I’d think he was a master of disguise. He looks different than both of the times I saw him at the Book Nook. Unlike the wholesome author with glasses and an affinity for tweed blazers, tonight he’s wearing a perfectly tailored navy suit. Fitted close to his body, it showcases the lines of a man who dedicates time to take care of himself. His hair—I can’t decide if it needs a haircut yesterday or to never be touched—is slicked back. He looks like a movie villain you shouldn’t root for, but do anyway. I’m sure if someone from the book signing saw him tonight, they wouldn’t even recognize him. But I do. Because even though the hair and suit changed, there’s no denying the blue-green eyes staring right back at me. Or the way when they focus on me, I feel like I’m the most important person in the room. In any room. I wish I could, but it’s not a ...