By the time Trisha came and found me, Tom and I were the only ones left on the patio, the cool evening breeze having shuffled everyone else inside.

Tom had gallantly offered me his jacket when the wind had first started to pick up, and so when she finally stumbled through the open doorway she found me clutching his lapel firmly closed around my chest, laughing so uncontrollably I nearly knocked over the array of empty glasses that littered our table.

"Emma?"

I glanced up, wiping away a stray tear. "Trisha—hi!"

"Hi..." she said, her eyes roaming between me and Tom and eventually settling on the glasses. Her eyes flickered back to me. "Ready to go?"

"What time is it?" I asked as I glanced down at my wrist where my watch usually was. I'd taken it off while getting ready earlier that evening, and in my alcohol-induced fog must have forgotten.

"Nearly quarter to two."

My eyes widened and darted to Tom, who looked equally as surprised. "I didn't realize—"

"I called us a ride," she said as she hung in the doorway. "They'll be downstairs any minute."

I grimaced as I shoved my feet back into the tight constraints of the heels. I stood slowly, doing my best not to wobble. Tom stood too, eyeing me warily as I shrugged off his jacket and handed it to him.

"I'll walk you down," he offered as he handed me my purse.

I stepped forward to take it and—on a drunken whim—kissed him on the cheek. "Thanks, but we'll manage."

I turned toward Trisha, but gasped silently as he caught my wrist in his fingers—it was like every nerve in my arm was firing all at once. I had to fight not to pull away from his touch.

"I didn't get your number," he said quietly.

I glanced up and immediately felt myself drowning in a sea of green. "You... didn't ask for it."

"That's what he's doing now," Trisha interjected from the doorway. She glanced down at her phone. "Our ride's here."

I smiled up at him as I gently tugged my wrist free. "Look for me at Flannigan's."

I could feel him watching me as I walked over to Trisha and followed her downstairs. I might have looked back if I wasn't concentrating so hard on walking properly. I hadn't noticed the time pass-by nor the drinks add up as I had sat there with Tom.

While I'd been aware that I was being much more loquacious than usual, I hadn't felt drunk until the moment I stood from my seat and even more so when I started to force my limbs to move. By the time Trisha and I reached our car, I thought I might collapse, and when we reached our apartment, I did just that.

I fell onto the warn couch with a thud and immediately kicked off my shoes.

"Here," Trisha murmured from behind me as a large glass of water appeared next to my head. "Drink this."

I took it and did what she said. She refilled the glass and when she handed it to me again she also passed me two aspirin.

"You saw him, too, right?" I asked after I'd swallowed the pills with a gulp of water.

"Yup," she nodded as she plopped herself on the opposite end of the couch and pushed her feet into my lap. "Sure did."

"So he's real," I mumbled more to myself though Trisha responded with a snort.

"I was only teasing about him being imaginary."

"He was buying a book for his gran, the night we met," I clarified. "And he works for a charity that helps children's charities or something."

Trisha swore. "And he's cute to boot."

I nodded, "And funny."

"I thought you were going to piss yourself from laughter when I found you," she snickered.

"I think I might have," I teased.

She kicked me softly. "Gross."

After a few moments, she nudged me again and pulled out her phone. "What's his name? I want to look him up online."

"I told you, it's Tom."

She rolled her eyes. "No, I mean his full-name."

I blinked, trying to remember. "I don't actually know. I don't think he actually told me."

"You were speaking together for hours, how did you not find out his full-name?"

I shrugged. "I don't know."

"I shouldn't be surprised," she grumbled as she tossed her phone on the floor beneath her. "You didn't even get to the part where you exchange numbers."

I jerked forward suddenly, the fog lifting enough for me to remember—"Did I tell him to find me at Flannigan's?"

Trisha nearly cackled. "I believe you did."

I slowly lifted my hand to my mouth in horror. "And... did I kiss him?"

"On the cheek from my vantage point."

"Oh god," I groaned as I fell back into the couch.

She kicked me lightly. "He looked quite pleased by it."

I groaned again. "Why am I so awful at this?"

Trisha smirked. "I don't know, I've been trying to teach you for years but you refuse to absorb any of my wisdom."

I turned my head to glare at her.

"Maybe now you'll finally be inspired enough to listen," she teased as she waggled her eyebrows.

* * *

The next morning I woke up begrudgingly grateful to Trisha: despite her teasing, the water and aspirin had prevented a hangover. I dressed quickly, tucking a colorfully patterned blouse into a simple black pencil skirt. Just looking at my heels made my feet begin to throb, so I slipped my feet into a pair of flats before grabbing my jacket and purse and running out the door.

My plan was to get to the office early, work efficiently, and then take an early lunch to run over to Flannigan's and leave a note for Peter to give Tom should he show up when I wasn't there. Not that I fully believed he would actually look for me again at the shop, but the thought that he might was enough for me to convince myself to beg Peter for his help, no matter how mortifying that might be for either of us.

My plan was ruined, however, the second I stepped into our office building. The lobby was bursting with activity and the chaos only worsened as I neared my floor. We had been nearly ready to send the next issue to the printers, when someone caught wind that our feature story was nearly the same as a rival publication's. Apparently, our editor in chief had not taken the discovery well and demanded the entire issue be scrapped and started a new.

I hadn't even reached my desk when my editor, Rufus, nearly tackled me. "Your reviews, are they finished?"

"I submitted them to you last week—"

He shook his head and his hands followed suit. "Not your old reviews, your next set for the next edition—now this edition!" He exclaimed, the panic in his voice causing it to raise several octaves.

"Nearly. I'm still working on a couple though—"

"Fine, fine!" He proclaimed as he steered me toward my desk and into my seat. "Have them done by the end of the day—preferably before 3 pm!"

Before I could argue, he had scurried off and pounced on another writer. I sighed and dropped my purse into my bottom desk drawer, knowing I would be working straight through lunch.

It was nearly seven o'clock by the time I reached the bookshop. I'd delivered the reviews—all six of them—by 3:15 pm and had spent the rest of the afternoon helping the editing team work through the newly submitted pieces, checking for typos and proper formatting. It had been a long, exhausting day, and I had hardly eaten anything but as soon as I was finished I still managed to hustle across town to find Peter shelving new inventory of books.

"Hiya, Ems," he greeted me happily as he adjusted his glasses. "I wasn't expecting to see you today."

"I know I just..." I laughed nervously as I shrugged off my jacket and glanced at the new titles. "Well I was just wondering—"

"Is this about that bloke asking for your number?"

I blanched. "He came by?"

Peter smirked and continued to shelve the books. "Oh aye he came by earlier today."

"Really?" I could feel my heart begin to race as I handed him two more books. "A-And did you give it to him?"

"Of course not."

My lungs strained painfully against my ribs. "Why not?"

"I don't know 'im," Peter shrugged as he took the books out of my hand. "Why would I ever give your number to a complete stranger?"

"He was a customer! Just the other week he came by and—"

"Oh I remember him," Peter said gesturing towards the books. I bent over and handed them to him one by one. "But I don't know him," he continued, eyeing me over the horn-rim of his glasses. "Don't know what his intentions toward you are."

I could feel the heat of my blush rise up from my neck all the way to the tips of my ears.

"He could have been an author you reviewed—I know how crazy some of them can be, especially the ones who think they're a lot more talented than they are."

"He's not a writer. He's—"

Peter lifted a heavy eyebrow.

"A friend," I huffed.

"Who doesn't know your number?" His voice was grave with the seriousness of a disapproving father, but the twitch of his mouth gave him away.

I bit my lip.

"He seemed quite desperate to have it," he smirked.

"Peter—"

"So I told him if he liked he could leave his and I'd pass it along when I saw you next, and if you wanted you would give him a ring."

"And did he?"

Peter eyed me up and down, no doubt taking in my impatient excitement. He smiled and nodded toward the front of the store. "He left a note. I tucked it under the till."

I beamed at him and then ran for the counter, nearly skidding beside it as I popped open the till and pulled out a folded piece of paper. I unfolded it quickly and had to flip it around to read it.

Emma,

I had a lovely time speaking with you the other evening. I would love to continue the conversation.

He wrote out his number—even including the national and local area code—and his email. Beneath his name, he had written one last line: Call me anytime (really).

I re-read the note again... and then again, but looked up when I heard the squeak of the floorboards to find Peter grinning at me. It wasn't his usual mischievous smirk, but rather a warm expression that made his whole visage appear tender.

"As I said, he was quite eager... and rightfully so."

I walked out from behind the counter and kissed him on his leathery cheek before wrapping my arms around him in a tight embrace. "Thank you, Peter."

"Don't suppose I could offer you a glass of wine and bowl of spaghetti in exchange for you organizing my Recommended Reading table?"

I smiled up at him. "You had me at spaghetti."

It was nine-thirty by the time I headed home. It was warm and, despite my exhaustion, I was in the mood for the long walk. I fiddled with Tom's note as I waited for the traffic light to turn. I took a deep breath and punched in the numbers, hitting the green dial button just as the walking figure lit up in his little box across the street.

My heart pounded as I listened to the phone ring and sent a silent prayer of thanks as I heard the start of his voice mail.