I attempted to casually tug my denim shorts down lower over my thighs—while I appreciated their high-waist fit, I did not appreciate the roaring fire they permitted between my chaffing flesh.

I had just finished sitting through my third panel of the day and was desperate for an iced coffee to sip while pouring over my notes. It was unseasonably hot for so early in the summer, and, worst of all, the air had already begun to stick with humidity.

I scanned the outdoor seating offered by the cafés lining the main street and—to my horror—I could not spot a single empty table. It was nearly halfway through the festival, so I was not surprised to see the tiny village of Hay-on-Wye completely overrun with bibliophiles. Normally, being surrounded by other booklovers and literary enthusiasts would have made my day, but on that particular day—with the heat, my exhaustion, and a looming deadline—it made me want to scream.

In the shade of a standing umbrella, I noticed a solitary figure sitting at a rather large, iron table. My eyes attempted to adjust to the light as I strode in and out of the sun's glare, and, as I neared, I realized it was a man—middle-aged, perhaps, with deeply tanned skin and whisks of grey protruding from his otherwise dark, coarse hair. He was seated with his shoulder jutting toward me, hunched over a rather dense-looking book.

I cleared my throat softly when I stood only a meter from his table. But, failing to gain his attention, I tried a bolder tactic.

"Excuse me," I croaked as I took another step forward. "Sorry to interrupt—I just—well there's nowhere to—would you mind if I joined you?"

In an instant, his startled gaze met mine. His irises were astonishingly bright—nearly turquoise in hue—which was only exaggerated by the length of his thick eyelashes and the rich brown tints in the turtle shell frames of his spectacles.

He blinked up at me, his full lips puckered ever so slightly in a confused frown.

"S-Sorry," I repeated, fully distracted by his beautiful features. His eyes—still wide though growing less and less alarmed—portrayed a youthfulness that contrasted with his other more mature features.

I struggled to pull my thoughts from attempting to reassess his age to convincing him to let my tired limbs rest at his table. "I promise I won't talk on my mobile—or to you for that matter. I only need to do some writing and have a coffee—I desperately need to have a coffee."

He pulled off his glasses and looked me over, as if now only clearly seeing me.

"You're a writer?" He asked, his voice softly trilling with an accent I couldn't quite place.

I nodded my head and then shook it. "No—yes—I'm a journalist, not an author or anything."

The corner of his lips tugged upwards into a slanted smirk. "You're not anything?"

"I'm a reviewer," I said a little curtly.

He raised a heavyset eyebrow. "For what publication?"

I shifted uneasily in my sandals. "The Print?"

His smirk pulled into a smug smile. "Please have a seat... Ms. Henderson, I presume."

I blanched, my hand frozen on the back of the empty chair. "I reviewed one of your books?"

"Don't worry," he said, his grin now reminding me of the Cheshire Cat. "You weren't mean enough for me to refuse to let you sit—at least not in this heat."

I groaned internally as I plunked down in the chair opposite his. He returned his attention to his book, so I retrieved the legal pad with my frantically scribbled notes from the earlier panels and began to underline certain lines, unconsciously nodding to myself as the outline for my next article began to appear.

A waitress, carrying a tray ladened with tottering piles of dirty dishes, paused briefly at our table to take my coffee order before trudging off to dispose of her heavy burden.

"Who are you skewering today?"

The man's tone was playful enough, and yet... I wearily lifted my eyes to his.

I'd had enough run-ins with writers I'd reviewed to know it only ever ended one of two ways: them thanking me for my kind praises or them cursing my name—sometimes more descriptively than whatever dreadful thing they'd written.

Unfortunately, it was usually the latter. If it were anything between those two extremes, the writer wouldn't bother to remember my name.

"I don't skewer people."

He cocked his head to the side. "How is it you write a review?"

"On my computer," I muttered, turning back to my notes.

"You have the face of a writer."

I narrowed my eyes at my worsening handwriting. "Is that like saying someone has a face for radio?"

"I don't know what that means." He paused before continuing. I could feel his eyes on me, but I kept mine trained on the pages before me. "I only meant... I only meant you look rather thoughtful."

I couldn't help but laugh. "Writer's aren't the only thoughtful people in the world, you know."

"I know, but we're the only ones who glare at our work with such contempt."

I glanced up at him in surprise and laughed again when he imitated my earlier expression.

"I was having trouble reading what I'd written."

"Is that all?"

I hesitated, considering him.

He seemed rather friendly, albeit a little glib. His bushy eyebrows were frozen up, near the center of his shining forehead in challenge, though not in the aggressive manner I often encountered when sparring with male writers. It was not a challenge, I realized, but rather an invitation—but to what exactly I couldn't be sure.

"Sometimes," I ventured slowly. "Sometimes... the ideas get jumbled in my head and it's difficult to put them in an order that makes sense."

He nodded knowingly. "I have experienced that on occasion."

"What do you do when it happens?"

"Sticky notes," he shrugged simply before sweeping his arms out wide from his chest. "Sticky notes covering my entire flat!"

His sudden movement nearly knocked my coffee clear off the waitress's tray as she appeared from behind him.

He apologized immediately, but she said nothing as she deposited my drink on the table and stalked off again.

I pulled the tall glass toward me and cupped it in my palms, cherishing the chill of the goosebumps it sent rushing up my arms. "I've employed the sticky notes system myself in the past."

"To write your reviews?"

"No," I said between long sips. "Those are pretty straightforward—my initial notes may be a mess, but they're usually rather biddable."

He quirked his head again. "Have you ever written your own book?"

I laughed as I twirled my straw, clinking my ice cubes in a small whirlpool. "No, I told you: I'm not an author."

He frowned. "Then how can you write a review?"

"Because I can read?" I offered lamely.

Until I had been hired to write my first review, I had never considered myself an authority in regards to literature, and even years after I still questioned the legitimacy of my so-called professional expertise.

The man shook his head. "But you must understand the writer!"

"It's the writer's job to make me and every other reader understand," I countered.

He shook his head again, more fervently this time. "But to judge the writer you must understand the process—"

"I don't judge the writer!" I interjected. "I judge the work."

"But you can't possibly understand the work if you have never—"

"I'm a failed novelist—is that what you want me to say? That I dreamed of being a writer but wasn't good enough? I didn't have enough grit and sold out? And I take out my resentment on to true artists, like yourself?"

He blinked at me, his lush eyelashes fanning the flames of my temper.

"I can tell you whatever the bloody hell you want but it won't change what I wrote about your work or how you felt about my review, so my suggestion to you, sir, is that you—"

"I want you to tell me what it was like to write."

I stared at him momentarily in silent indignation.

"Why?" I suddenly burst, my voice sounding nearly hysterical to my own ears. "You already know!"

He held my gaze, his turquoise irises burrowing into mine. I inhaled sharply.

"Like breathing, but in short bursts—like gasping for air after being deprived of it."

"How could you give it up?" His voice was soft and timid—as if he hadn't meant to speak his thought aloud—and yet I still felt the jagged-edged incredulity beneath it.

"It wasn't enough."

"For what?"

"To survive." The instant the words passed over my lips, I felt a sharp twinge in between my ribs. I stood suddenly and gathered my things as I did. "I should go."

He stood, too. "Please, I—"

"No, it's fine." I bit out as I forcefully shoved my notepad and pen into my bag and hefted the bulk onto my shoulder by its weary leather strap. "One of my favorite authors is giving his talk soon, and I want to get a good spot in the queue."

"I'll walk with you," he offered but I cut him off with a shake of my head.

"Thank you, but I—"

"I insist. At least let me walk you past the entrance, then if you would like to continue you on your own," he shrugged acquiescingly. "Then okay."

My jaw slackened as my eyes widened in belated recognition.

"I didn't skewer you," I breathed.

The man merely shook his head.

"You're—"

"Youssef Ayari," he said as he stretched out his hand. His fingers were long and slender, easily wrapping around mine.

Once in a generation...

A collect call to humanity...

Unflinching and equal parts unnerving...

My words echoed in my head.

Youssef grinned as the idiotic look of realization still dawned across my face. "My mother hung your review on our refrigerator—after she made everyone in the neighborhood read it, of course."

"But you let me think—you let me lecture you!" I exclaimed, horrified.

He shrugged lazily, though his widening grin gave him away. "What can I say? I was nervous to meet my favorite reviewer."