Tom stayed through the end of the weekend and caught the last train to London Sunday evening. While the festival had officially finished by that Monday, I stayed on an extra few days to catch lingering authors and festival organizers.

The delay paid off, and I managed to interview several industry bigwigs and the head of an up-and-coming publishing house—all rather loose-lipped due to their relief from the conclusion of the festival and their subsequent imbibing at the local pubs.

I submitted the final articles in the festival series by Wednesday, and, with no major rewrites, finished all of Rufus's edits by that Thursday. Prior to my departure for Hay-on-Wye, Trisha had convinced me to establish several new social media profiles and to post to them throughout the festival. I followed her advice and linked them with my profile on The Post's website. That, too, paid off. The traffic to my pieces skyrocketed, and my number of review queries nearly tripled.

To celebrate, Trisha insisted we all go out.

"For drinks, and maybe dancing depending on the number of drinks I get in me!" She exclaimed as she wiggled her bum around the kitchen.

I laughed at her attempt to twerk against the fridge and agreed, quickly picking up my phone to ping Tom.

While we had been inseparable during the festival—he attended most of the events I was covering and even kept me company by reading or doing his own work while I wrote—Rufus's editorial demands and Tom's own commitments had kept us apart for most of the week.

He responded to my message almost immediately promising he'd be there.

* * *

It felt ridiculous to be nervous.

We had only been apart a few days (3 ½ days to be exact) and we had only slept together a handful of (glorious, mind-blowing) times. It was too soon to be nervous to see him—and yet I was.

I wasn't so much nervous to see him as I was to be seen by him. In the days we had been apart, we had continued to talk on the phone nightly, still... a small part of me couldn't help fear something might change when we saw each other in London again. As if we had been under some romantic spell while in Hay-on-Wye and the moment we returned to the city the spell would snap, the well of our intoxicating chemistry would dry up, and when Tom saw me again a part of him would recognize the change, too. He would be polite, as would I, but the nightly phone calls before bed would stop and the invitations to get together would trickle to a halt.

That was one version I thought up.

In another more outlandish scenario, Tom was not polite about it. In this nightmare, he would loudly and publically point out all of my faults, call me a fraud among other things, and then storm off in search of something better.

In yet another adaption, Tom had already found that something better in a petite-yet-perfectly-voluptuous young woman, who was a brilliant scientist working to cure children's cancer.

Each rendition hit a tender spot with drone-like precision, and they were all oddly specific. Except for one, the last one, in which I had built up all of this—our conversations, our touches, our exchanged glances—in my head, only to make a total ass of myself in front of Tom, who in turn thought nothing of me or of our imaginary relationship.

I glowered at my clothes hanging in Trisha's and my shared closet, as if my mental flagellation were their fault.

"I'm going to text him and cancel!" I called into the kitchen.

"Don't be an idiot!" Trisha's voice echoed back.

"What if he doesn't—"

"You're being an idiot!" She sang.

I groaned and pulled several dresses from the closet, holding each one in front of me before the mirror and forcing myself to try the last two on. They all looked wretched: either too slutty or too marmish, too casual or too formal, too curvy or too flat.

Eventually, I admitted defeat and asked Trisha to dress me. She squealed. Loudly.

As she tore through our closet and my dresser, I attempted to distract myself by focusing on the texture of the stucco ceiling. I had never understood the popularity of the—in my opinion—bizarre paint treatment, and as my mind began to fixate on the philosophical question of how a person could possibly find stucco ceilings at all visually appealing, my anxiety slowly began to ebb.

I haven't felt this way in a long...ever.

I bolted upright, hearing his voice as clearly as if he were standing in the doorway.

I don't want to muck it up.

Tom's voice had broken slightly when he'd said it, and in an odd way, I think a piece of me had been mended when it did. He had been so vulnerable in that moment, so completely honest with himself and with me.

I would never let myself admit it out loud, but inside... I knew I had loved him for it.

And it wasn't a spell that had been cast or the excitement of him surprising me that had made my heart swell in that moment. It was him.

I released a shaky breath and smiled. Me either, Tom.

"What about these?" Trisha asked.

"Fine," I grinned, not even bothering to look at what outfit she had assembled for me. "It's going to be fine."

"Of course it is, you idiot," she said as she tossed the clothing onto the bed. "Now hurry up, we're going to be late for your celebration!"

* * *

Not in a million years would I have ever picked these clothes for myself, and yet...they were perfect. Trisha had always been the stylish one, the one to know exactly how to match certain colors, which patterns to mix, and what accessories were needed given a certain outfit, event, or even time of the month. (Over the years, Trisha had assembled a small collection of clutches with penholders perfectly sized for light, medium, and even heavy tampons).

Most of the clothes I owned had been bought on shopping trips with her confidently at the helm. We had been roommates since university and lived in our two-bedroom flat for going on nearly three years. When we had first moved in, she had taken the smaller bedroom with the walk-in closet while I had taken the larger bedroom with the miniature closet. Over the years, her fashion collection had outgrown even her larger domain and I had eagerly offered her space in mine.

We were more or less the same size in the waist, though she undoubtedly had me beat in both bust and height. Despite this, we swapped clothes with relative ease and, for whatever reason, Trisha was always eager to dress me whenever my nerves or self-consciousness got the better of me.

Tonight, she dressed me in a merlot-colored long-sleeve that draped across my abdomen, exposing a peak of my black-lace bralette, and tucking elegantly into a pair of tight black faux-leather pants. I wasn't usually one to purposefully show my bra, but there was a hidden, delicate clasp that kept the swaths of material from revealing too much. With Trisha's approval, I had pulled a third of my hair back into a messy bun and let the rest flow freely in loose curls.

As we entered the bar, I fell into step behind Trisha. She had dressed herself in a cropped, off-the-shoulder top and suede high-waisted skirt, leaving no curve of her body to the underappreciating imagination. I scanned the crowded bar as I followed in her wake. Most eyes were flickering over Trisha's every movement—but not his.

Tom's eyes were completely and unabashedly on me.

I gently tugged on Trisha's arm and motioned toward Tom with my chin. She smirked cheekily and steered us a clear path through the crowd.

He grinned widely as we neared and stepped toward me, pressing his hand into the small of my back and planting a tender kiss on my cheek. "I missed you," he whispered into my ear.

"Hi Tom," Trisha cooed playfully from behind us.

Tom stepped to my side but didn't move to lift his hand. Trisha smirked triumphantly at me. I did my best to ignore her.

"The others are at a booth in the back," she said, still grinning.

"Brilliant," Tom smiled affably.

I reached behind me for his hand, easily finding it and interlacing his fingers with mine. We followed Trisha back through the crowd and up a few steps to the second level where all of the booths were nestled.

A couple of our friends from university were there and a few more of Trisha's friends from work whom we'd gone out with before were also sitting around the booth sipping drinks. They all smiled in greeting as we approached and rearranged themselves to make room for us to join them.

It was tight but comfortable, especially as Tom shifted closer to me and draped his arm over my shoulders.

I smiled up at him as he made easy conversation with my friends. He had insisted on buying me my first round, and I got the sense he had no intention of letting me buy any of my drinks that evening.

When our drinks arrived, the group made a toast in my honor and then began to trade amusing anecdotes from their busy weeks.

By the time we were all ready for a second round, I excused myself to the loo. Trisha offered to come with me, but I told her I would be fine and headed off on my own. I brought my clutch with me, and on my way back I stopped at the bar to start a tab and order Tom and me fresh drinks.

I was bouncing slightly in my heels as I waited on the bartender, excitedly imagining the indignant look Tom would give me when I returned to the table when suddenly a rough voice yelled into my ear:

"Emma Henderson, right?"

I jumped slightly in surprise and glanced over my shoulder. He was much taller than me, even in my tall heels. He was leaning in closer than necessary, even with the loud music overhead, and had a hand pressed onto the bar top near to mine.

The man was fairly wide, though it was difficult to tell if it was muscle or plump under his heavy leather jacket. The skin on his face shined slightly under the light of the bar's hanging lamps, which only further illuminated his receding hairline.

His lips parted in a saccharine smile that didn't reach his eyes. "You write book reviews for The Print."

I turned back to the bar, my own lips firmly pressed against one another in a hard line.

"Yeah," he nodded leaning in closer still. "I recognize you from your picture."

I turned to face him, taking the opportunity to move half a step back. "I'm assuming I didn't give you five stars," I said, forcing a calm I didn't feel into my voice.

His face suddenly contorted into a near snarl. "You called my book trash."

I forced a bland smile. "I'm usually a bit more eloquent than that, but look, everyone gets a bad review at some point. I'm sure there were plenty of other great reviews you got. I just wasn't your target audience—"

"You wouldn't know good writing if it shoved you up a wall," he growled.

Panic began to flood my system as the man closed the distance between us. I moved to dart past him, hoping to quickly return to the safety of my friends. His hand shot out faster than I could dodge and snatched my wrist within its grasp.

"Listen bitch—"

"Take your hands off me," I seethed.

I hoped the sternness in my voice would convince him to release me. Instead, he pulled me roughly into him. "I think you've said enough."

"I agree."

My heart missed a beat as it recognized the voice—his voice.

The man harassing me turned over his shoulder—his grip on my wrist tightening painfully—and glared at Tom.

"She said to let her go," Tom said evenly, not for a second taking his eyes off the other man's. "So I suggest you do."

He nearly spat in Tom's face. "And who the fuck—"

Ignoring him, Tom's eyes finally flickered to mine. He reached around the man's bulk and held out his hand to me. "Ems?"

I tried to move toward him, but the man jerked me into him. On instinct, I brought my knee up into his groin just as Tom charged at him, grabbing the man by the collar and shoving him back against the edge of the bar.

Immediately, a small army of large men in black polo shirts surrounded us. It took a moment for my brain to recognize that they were security and another moment to process that one of them was pulling a struggling Tom off the man he had just pinned against the counter.

"No!" I exclaimed, lunging toward them. "No! He was defending me!"

The bouncer froze but didn't release him. I clasped my body to Tom's and repeated myself, my panic now spreading to my voice.

There was a scuffle behind us as the other guards struggled to contain the man, now hurling curses toward both of us and trying in vain to free himself of the other men's grasp.

The bouncer holding Tom released him and quickly joined his colleagues in escorting my harasser through a back door.

I took Tom's hand in mine and steered him toward the entrance, adamantly plowing my way through the throng of bodies. He followed close behind me, his hands tightly gripped around mine.