I sent him seven texts. Before noon.

I received two texts in return. Neither from him.

One was from my mother reminding me to drink water. The other was from Trisha reminding me—of all things—to brush my teeth that morning.

I snapped a picture of floss wrapped around my middle finger and sent it to Trisha before heading out to meet Youssef for an official, on the record, interview.

* * *

To this day, I firmly believe that Youssef Anzari is the premier voice in his generation... and the slowest eater currently consuming on earth.

I had already finished my salad and a breadbasket by the time he'd eaten a quarter of his food. He didn't seem to mind, though, as I pushed my plate to the side and began to scribble notes on my increasingly thinning pad of paper.

It was seriously hours by the time we finished, and I was grateful that I had been recording the whole conversation on my phone. Even though the muscles in my hand were seizing painfully from overuse, I was sure I had still missed bits I would want to use later on. I didn't need a highlighter or sticky notes to see my article appear. Already, I knew exactly how each line would read.

I paid the bill—Youssef had demanded to split it until I explained I would file it for reimbursement along with all my other 'business expenses'—and followed him out into the street.

I was still trying to shove my things back into my satchel when Youssef pointed at something on my face.

"You have salad dressing..." He started to laugh.

I smacked my cheek, apparently in the wrong place, which only made him laugh harder.

"Here," he chuckled as he took my chin in his long, surprisingly cool fingers and wiped away the dressing with a firm brush of his thumb.

"Get it?" I asked as I angled my cheek toward him.

"Got it," he nodded with satisfaction as he released my chin.

I touched my now clean cheek and smiled. "Thank you... for everything."

"Thank you for lunch," he shrugged.

"Do you come to London often for work?"

Youssef shook his head. "Unfortunately not. I live up in Manchester and my publishers are based in Liverpool."

I couldn't help but sigh. "Suppose I'll never be a writer now," I teased, "without someone constantly harassing me about it."

He laughed again and gave me a dramatic wink. "Oh, just you wait, Ms. Henderson. You'll be a published author and regret ever giving me your phone number."

Youssef held out his arms invitingly, and I stepped up and into them. He wasn't much taller than I was, so I was able to rest my chin on his shoulder quite comfortably.

For a brief moment, I closed my eyes cherishing that rare feeling of a new friendship beginning. When I opened my eyes, I blinked once... and then again, not trusting my vision.

I slowly pulled away from Youssef who was saying something about the northern climate and stepped to the side.

It was impossible and yet... I hesitated before calling out. "T-Tom?"