I apologize for the delay in updating. Life is busy, busy, busy right now, and I appreciate the patience of my readers more than you know. I hope you think the update was worth the wait! And remember-your feedback/reviews make my day. :D Thanks so much for reading.


Where are you? I'm standing in the front of the book store, and I can't find you anywhere.

She keeps attempting to spot him from her place in the assembled crowd, wondering why he hadn't met her at the entrance rather than instructing her to come inside and wait. She is pleasantly surprised at the turn-out, not anticipating so many people would be in attendance, although the numbers shouldn't surprise her.

C.B. Wesley is currently in demand. Her lips quiver at the thought.

Move towards your right. There's something there that looks like a broom closet—that's where I'll meet you. I've been unavoidably detained, but I will be there momentarily.

Her eyes scan the room, and she spots what looks like said broom closet just past the edge of the crowd. She moves steadily towards it, one foot, other foot, her crutches effectively clearing a path for her as she glides across the space. At least the blasted contraptions have some redeeming value. They're more practical at scattering people out of her way than a horn.

She knows Charles half-adores/half-detests these signings, and that he was horribly reluctant to leave her alone in the flat earlier, the memory of just who had shown up the last time he did so fresh in both of their minds. She pauses mid-stride, staring down at her phone, eyes narrowing at the mere thought of Freda.

That woman had better not make her presence known today. God-she might just succumb to the urge to claw her eyes out if Freda Blake steps one pointed, manicured toe through the front door of this book signing.

I found the broom closet, and I've parked myself across from it. I'm not going anywhere. This brace is still not the easiest piece of equipment to maneuver, you know.

She sighs, letting the back of her head touch the wall with a soft thud before her phone vibrates with his response.

I'm certain. Thankfully, my equipment is much more versatile and responsive to movement.

A slow burn sparks in her lower belly, and she smiles to herself.

Your cockiness is astonishing, you realize. Ever wonder if the world would be better off without your delusions of grandeur?

She bites her lower lip, her eyes fixed on the screen.

I'm just delighted you think my cock is astonishing.

Bastard.

No sign of Freda from my vantage point, thank God. Has she ever shown up at one of these things?

She pauses, looking around the large main room, wondering if Lucy has arrived yet.

No. I think actually seeing my success would be the ultimate slap in the face for her. At least that's what I let myself believe.

Perhaps, she texts in a flourish. But maybe she's simply fallen over her stilettos and broken her leg.

Her brow arches on its own as she ponders the intensity with which she wishes this woman ill.

I like your idea better.

Of course he does.

It is then she spots Lucy—at least she thinks it's her—it's hard to tell from this angle amid the stagnant crowd. She moves to her right, tilting her head just so, brushing stray hair from her eyes as she wills the woman to turn her face in her direction.

No. Not Lucy. She leans back into a corner to relieve some pressure on her leg. It's bothering her more today than yesterday, a slow and steady throb dully pounding the back of her kneecap with the insistence of a drunk woodpecker. It's not all that surprising when she considers some of the angles into which she attempted to maneuver it last night before Charles insisted she try her best to lie still.

Something rather difficult to do when one's back is practically pushing itself off the bed.

Shit, she can't keep letting her mind wonder down this particular rabbit hole, not when she's attending a rather prestigious and public event meant to bolster Charles's writing career, not when she should be poised and cool by his side rather than hot and bothered under the collar. Thoughts about sex will just have to wait.

Well, at least simmer on the back burner for a while. She clears her throat and inhales as deeply as she can, hoping to turn down the heat in her cheeks a degree or two.

There's quite the crowd forming to see you. I hope all of this adoration won't make you impossible tonight.

She rubs the back of her neck, watching as various patrons thumb through their copies of Skimming the Abyss. It's still odd for her to reconcile the fact that her Charles is one of the year's hottest new authors.

Her Charles…Christ. When exactly had that become the way in which she thought of him? Because she does think of him that way—a fact which is less staggering than she expected it to be. It actually feels natural, somehow, like sliding one's hand into a broken-in leather glove or one's feet into the softest pair of socks on the planet.

Is it possible for a relationship to be this easy? She nearly drops her phone when it vibrates in her hand.

I'm never impossible. Just insatiable. I though you knew that by now.

She chuckles to herself, thinking of last night's make-out session, one that had nearly broken his resolve on waiting until her knee had healed before having out and out sex. She's not sure either of them will last that long, to be honest, brace or no brace.

I can't argue with insatiable. But you're impossible far more often than you realize, Lord Ogre.

How else am I supposed to keep up with an Ice Princess?

Touché, she thinks to herself.

The wall is cool and sturdy against her back, and she lets her weight rest on it, wondering just why she feels so tired until she remembers how late they kept each other awake last night.

It's all your fault, you know.

She grins at her own text, counting the seconds until his response dings on her phone.

What have I done this time?

She bites her lower lip.

I'm sleepy. I blame you.

One. Two. Three…

I happily claim full responsibility for your current predicament.

Cheeky bastard.

She scans the crowd yet again, recognizing no one across the space of murmuring voices. She'd welcome Lucy's company right now—she's one of the few women whose company she has actually enjoys, and being cooped up her in flat far more so than usual is wearing on her little by little.

"Pardon me," an older gentleman interjects after nearly colliding with her.

"It's alright," she smiles, pressing herself as far into the wall as she can, feeling a surge of pride in her chest as he tucks his book under his arm and waves at someone across the room.

She's been secretly reading his book on her Kindle, and damn—he's brilliant. This man who got her safely away from a drunk, drove her to his flat, let her sleep alone in his bed and then has practically moved in with her to help her care for her injured knee…this man is one hell of a writer. It's easy to hear his voice in her head as she digests each paragraph and thought, his prose at times caressing her insides as she loses herself in a world of his making. She tugs the Kindle out of her bag and picks up where she left off, allowing herself to drift into the story until she hears a voice that grabs her attention immediately.

Her eyes fly up from the tablet, and she scans the room, looking for any sign of the woman she is certain she just heard.

"There you are."

His whisper over her shoulder makes her jump, and she whirls on him awkwardly.

"God, you're white as a ghost," Charles murmurs, tugging her into a door clearly labeled Staff Only. "What's the matter?"

"Isobel," she replies, shaking her head. "Matthew's mother. I thought I heard her voice."

His expression freezes, his mind clearly mulling over her circumstances, and he takes her hands within his.

"Look at me, Mary," he whispers. "It's alright. Just breathe."

She nods her head, fighting down memories of dinners at the woman's table, lunches at their favorite café, light touches to her shoulder or arm when things between her and Matthew began to fall apart piece by agonizing piece. No one ever warns you that breaking up with someone after years of being together is akin to losing a limb or a vital organ. There are routines and places that come with them one takes for granted, people connected to them who become important, who sneak in, who fill your heart in places you never knew were empty until they are suddenly snatched out of your life.

Losing Matthew had been hard enough. Losing his mother had made the pill she'd had to swallow even more bitter.

But Isobel now had a new daughter-in-law, a different daughter-in-law, one with a much less difficult demeanor and softer, kinder edges, one who undoubtedly would happily give her several grandchildren who would be reared in perfectly home-spun nurseries and whose lives would be detailed in mind-boggling scrapbooks to boot.

"Did you see her anywhere?"

His voice cuts through, his question registering clearly, and she shakes her head in response.

"No," she admits. "I didn't."

"Good," he smiles, tucking his arm into hers. "Now if you'll just come with me, I'll get you away from this crowd and into a nice, comfortable chair."

"Charles," she cuts in, unable to move. "I'm not ready to face her yet." She swallows, willing her voice to remain steady. "If she's here, that is."

He stands quietly, rubbing her cheek, his eyes soft and without judgment.

"I have no idea what she must think of me now," she continues, her eyes dropping towards her feet. "And we were close once."

He kisses the top of her hands, gazing straight into her.

"You don't have to worry about what she thinks," he states rationally. "But you don't have to stay here, either. Not if you don't want to, Mary. I can arrange for a friend of mine to take you home if you prefer. I don't mind."

She trembles as the temptation beckons her.

"No," she exhales, forcing a steadiness into her tone she does not feel. "This is important to you, and I don't want to let you down."

"None of that," he insists, turning her legs to liquid as he gently strokes her cheek. "You're under no obligation to face Matthew's mother this evening. I wouldn't ask that of you. Besides, I've done several of these book signings before. I can handle one more on my own."

A warmth hits her hard squarely in the chest, and she sighs into him slightly, wanting more than anything to simply fall into his arms and be kissed into oblivion.

"I know," she returns, drawing the spicy scent of him into her lungs. "But I don't want you to do it alone. Which is why I refuse to leave."

He stares back at her two seconds too long, his lips pursing together as his nose brushes hers.

"Do you know how remarkable you are?" he whispers, and she clings to his arms, feeling anything but remarkable.

"Of course," she lies, knowing she hasn't fooled him for a second. "And don't you forget it."

He grins at her—that half-grin that makes him look a bit like a grown up Harry Potter in possession of The Marauder's Map.

"Alright," he gives in. "I suppose I'll let you stay." She eyeballs him directly, blinking as he unexpectedly kisses the tip of her nose. "But let me know if you change your mind."

"You know that I will," she grins, and he stares at her hard. "What?"

"Liar," he admonishes, hushing any rebuttal with a kiss that leaves her good knee shaky. His hands move up her back, her fingers weave into his hair, and she finds herself pressed against the wall, his tongue doing things to her right below her ear that make her wish they were both back at the flat.

"We can't stay here, you know," she whispers as his lips trail down her neck. "Someone could walk in at any moment, and then what would we do?"

"I'll claim I'm conducting research," he hums into her clavicle. "For the next novel. You did mention something about wanting me to branch into porn, I do believe."

She whaps his shoulder, making him laugh and wince simultaneously.

"You never miss, do you?" he chuckles, rubbing his shoulder blade with one hand.

"If anything that happens in our bed ends up in your book, you'll find that ass off yours banished to the sofa," she returns. "Andromeda will love the company."

Our bed. Her eyes round in time with his as they both realize what she just said.

"She'd eat me alive," he breathes, deliberately stepping around the elephant trying to nudge itself between them. "I wouldn't survive more than a few nights, and you know it."

His tone is lower, the slight quiver of vulnerability in it slipping under her skin.

"Then I suggest you stay on my good side," she whispers, her heart now thudding uncomfortably in her temple.

"All your sides are good," he returns, stroking her hair. "I know. I've seen them."

She's blushing, the heat under her skin leaving her in no doubt as her limbs puddle beneath her and her heart pounds rhythmically in her ears.

"You've done more than see them," she manages as his nose touches down to hers.

"True," he whispers. "And there's so much more I'm aching to do to them, Love."

She pulls his mouth to hers, drinking in all that he is, allowing herself to hope for the first time in what seems like years that happiness might be in the cards for her.

"If I'm a rumpled mess, I'm blaming you," she states, trying to adjust her blazer with one arm as her life spins dizzily around her.

"Can I get that in writing?" he quips, chuckling at the low growl she tosses in his direction. "I'll display it for the world to see."

She gazes back at him, shaking her head as she draws herself up as tall as she can.

"You're an idiot," she hums as her finger lose themselves in his thick hair. "You know that, don't you?"

"Of course," he grins with a flick of his brows. "How can I forget with you by my side to remind me?"

She smiles as he takes her hand, and they exit into an internal hallway with an elevator on the right wall. His flails his brows her at her, and she throws him a reluctant grin.

"Your chariot awaits, my queen," he states with a bow and a gesture to the doors that slide open with a soft ding.

"I hope you have a license," she observes as the lift begins to ascend. "Where exactly are you taking me?"

"To the signing area upstairs," he explains. "The display is set, water is on hand, and they'll be ready to open the flood gates in about fifteen minutes."

"Damn," she sighs dramatically with an over-done shrug. "I forgot my copy at home."

"Then I'll sign wherever you like," he purrs as he holds the door open with his hand, giving her an extra moment to maneuver in her brace. "I'm very accommodating, you know."

"So I've been told," she hums in return as he pushes the button. "Don't push me. I may put that claim to the test when we get home."

Her throat goes dry as she watches his expression go from mischievous to serious in less than a second.

"Did I say something wrong?" she questions, hoping she hasn't been a wet blanket on what should be a triumphant afternoon.

"No," he manages, his facial muscles working overtime. "You said something very nice, actually."

"About putting you to the test?" she queries with a brow arched in his direction.

"Well," he shrugs, stroking the side of her thumb. "That's always a nice thought. But, it was the other phrase I liked even better." He pauses, reaching forward to cup her cheek. "About the two of us going home."

"Ah," she breathes, her insides tingling enough for two people. The word is a mere breath, but the weight of it is staggering. "I did say that, didn't I?"

He smiles as his eyes fall to the floor, his hand rubbing the back of his neck until she fears it may look sunburned.

"Do you want to take it back?"

His question freezes her limbs, somehow, and her mouth is suddenly too dry to answer.

"No," she whispers, feeling him tremble at her response. "Unless you want me to."

"No," he breathes, clutching her to his chest. "Please don't."

He's kisses her, hot and open-mouthed, making her ache and sweat all at once. She's drowning in him, welcoming the sensation of soft waves lapping over her senses until she is completely immersed. His hand discreetly cups her rear, making her nipples harden and her thighs feel like Jell-O. Humping his leg in the elevator when he's supposed to begin signing copies of his best-seller probably isn't an option, unfortunately.

Shit.

It's then they hear the door slide open followed by someone clearing his throat, and she turns to see a rather short, bearded man rocking on his heels just in front of them.

"I take it this is Mary," the man states as Charles's arm winds around her middle. Her face is red-she's certain of it, and there's no telling what her hair looks like. She pushes a lock of it behind her ear, resisting the urge to tug on her blazer.

"None other," Charles returns smoothly, as if they haven't just been caught making out in a lift like a couple of teenagers. "Mary Crawley—Rex Thornton, my editor and friend. Thank God his eye for detail is far better than his timing."

"Nice to meet you," Rex smiles, taking Mary's hand and shaking it firmly. "And I have no control over the lifts, Charles. They open and close when they're supposed to do so."

Rex pauses and stares at her openly, and she shifts as best she can, wondering just what the man is doing and why he's doing it so blatantly. She refuses to look away under his scrutiny, there's no way in hell she's backing down, but she clasps Charles's hand all the tighter, feeling him return the gesture immediately.

"Something wrong?" Charles cuts in, taking a step in Rex's direction. "Or did your mother simply fail to teach you that it's impolite to stare?"

Rex jumps back, his face turning three shades of scarlet as he coughs self-consciously.

"I'm sorry," the man mutters, rubbing his scalp. "Truly—I meant no offense. It's just that she's lovely, Charles, truly lovely, and that should be a plus for you today. A beautiful woman on deck always attracts readers."

"Even a woman with a leg brace?" Mary questions, allowing Charles to maneuver her around a corner to a comfortable chair behind the signing table. His hand moves to her shoulder protectively, and she reaches for it, mindlessly rubbing his knuckles and fingers with her own.

"Ignites compassion," Rex insists, placing a glass of ice water on the table in front of her. "Gives you an air of humanity. Readers like that. Helps them relate to the author."

"I didn't bring her to serve as an ornament or conversation piece, Rex," Charles rebuts, both hands in front of him. "She's my girlfriend, my date. She's here because I want her here."

Her stomach does a triple somersault, something about the way he says girlfriend working her intestines into a frenzy. He's watching her for a reaction, his eyes bright, his vulnerability on full display, and she smiles up at him with a squeeze to his hand.

"I know," Rex stammers. "And I'm sorry if I've offended you. Truly."

She waves him off, staring just past the man to a table almost out of her line of vision.

"As Charles's girlfriend, is it possible I could commandeer one of those croissants before we're inundated with fans?"

"Of course," Rex states, turning quickly on his heels and making his way to a small tray of pastries tucked back into a corner as if he's been sent on a mission by God himself.

"Nicely played," Charles hums into her ear before taking the seat beside her. "You've already got Rex and your beck and call. That's not an easy thing to do."

"I'm starving," she admits, making him grin like an idiot. "If I don't get something to eat, I may turn into a liability rather than an asset."

"Never," Charles murmurs, triggering a chill down her limbs. "And even if you do, at least you're a pretty liability."

"Flatterer," she hums, accepting the croissant with a nod of thanks to Rex.

"If you tell me flattery will get me nowhere, let me remind you that I do know better," he asserts, taking a sip of his water and looking around the room. His expression suddenly turns serious, and she feels his grip tighten on her shoulder.

"What do you think? Of all this, I mean?"

He sounds so uncertain, and he's looking to her for approval, the approval Freda never gave him, the approval he craves from her. She stares back at him, wishing she could remove his uncertainty even as her own sneaks up on her.

"It's amazing," she assures him. "I'm impressed."

His Adam 's apple bobs up and down, his jaw clenching as he holds his emotions together.

"Thank you," he breathes with a squeeze to her hand. "I love you, you know."

Her chest expands, her heart fluttering with the ferocity of a caged butterfly.

"I know," she grins, eliciting a chuckle that warms her like hot cocoa. He touches his forehead to hers, and she clutches his arm gently before hearing a noise that catches her attention. "Oh, I think we're about to have company."

Rex's arms are waving in their direction, and a blonde woman in her fifties makes her way towards them, a large brush and small cosmetic bag in hand. She quickly straightens Charles's hair, pats his cheeks, then takes three steps back before granting him a wink of approval.

"Helen," he explains, gesturing in the woman's direction. "Tries her best to make me presentable for these things."

"What a taxing job," Mary sighs, and she hears his low growl promising retribution once they're alone. "You might want to consider raising her salary."

His eyes round as he inhales quickly.

"And you might want to brace yourself," he instructs, his focus honed on something just over her shoulder. "My mother is here."

Ice water slides through her veins, her toes going numb in an instant.

"I didn't know she was coming," Mary breathes, her eyes rounding on queue.

"Neither did I," Charles returns as he squeezes her arm. "I'm betting her unexpected arrival has everything to do with the fact that Lucy knew you were going to be here."

Her spine straightens automatically, and she grabs the glass of water, downing a swig before daring to turn around. Charles stands, edging out of her line of vision, moving towards a woman she's both excited and terrified to meet.

"Mum!" she hears him exclaim as she seeks the courage to face Jillian Blake. "What a surprise."

She turns to see a rather short woman practically skipping towards him, the smile on her face nearly as wide as her outstretched arms.

"Don't act too shocked, Charles Wesley," Jillian reprimands softly. "You know who I'm here to meet. Now give me a hug and introduce me."

Mary pushes herself up from her seat, watching as mother and son embrace, pushing the edges of her mouth upwards as she wills her hands not to shake. His mother—God, his mother—here. Now. Today. It's certainly better than meeting Freda, but her legs are shaking as if Godzilla himself were stomping through the biography section.

Charles faces her again, looking a bit like a repentant Labrador as he tosses her a muted apology and guides his mother in her direction.

"You're Mary, aren't you?" the older woman exclaims, breaking free from her son to enfold her in a warm embrace. She's far stronger than Mary had expected, and she feels her ribs contract slightly, complicating her attempt to hug the smaller woman in return.

"I'm Jillian, Charles's mother," she fills in unnecessarily. "And aren't you the loveliest thing?"

She's hugged again, a tenor chuckle accompanying the gesture from just over her shoulder. So help her, if he is enjoying this display at her expense…

"Remember her knee, Mum," Charles instructs, and Mary is released almost too abruptly, catching herself before she stumbles back into the table. Jillian quickly brushes the front of Mary's blazer, looking far more stricken than the situation warrants, making Mary fight down the urge to pat the shorter woman's head. "It's better, but it's far from being perfectly healed."

"Forgive me," Mrs. Blake implores. "I hope I haven't hurt you."

"No," Mary answers breathlessly, her mind two paces behind her mouth. "Not at all."

Charles smiles at her as Jillian steps back, keeping a hold on Mary's arms, looking her over with an expression that morphs from eagerness to out and out pride in three seconds flat.

"I must say," the older woman breathes. "You look even prettier when you're dressed and out of the bed, my dear."

A violent coughing fit hits Charles from out of nowhere, his nearly purple pallor distracting Mary from just how violently her cheeks are burning.

"Oh, dear," Jillian sighs. "That' didn't quite come out right, did it?" She whacks her son soundly on the back, pitching him forward three or four steps into a chair. "Stop causing such a commotion, Charles. You're going to ruin your hair, and your fans will be terribly let down."

Charles raises up slowly, staring back at his mother with an expression so comical Mary wishes she could capture it on film.

"Sorry, Mum," he wheezes, grabbing Mary's water and finishing it in one gulp. "I'll try to choke more discreetly next time."

"I'm glad to hear it," Jillian rebuts, straightening her own hair before her gaze returns to Mary. "He was raised to be a gentlemen, my dear. I hope he's left you in no doubt of that."

She quirks her brow at him precariously, his face retracting into a pale scarlet rather than bright maroon.

"He behaves," Mary hums as his arm snakes around her. "Most of the time."

"Two minutes," Rex interjects, nearly making Mary jump out of her shoes as he comes up behind her. "For God's sake man, what did you do to your hair?" Rex shakes his head and consults his clipboard, flipping pages for seemingly no reason at all.

"Do try to keep it together, Charles," Rex sighs before motioning for the underpaid Helen to rework her magic. "There will be press here, you know."

"Yes, Charles," Mary echoes after Rex retreats. "Do try and keep it together."

He clears his throat meaningfully, and she wiggles her brows at him, fighting back a smile as he purses his lips together.

"Says the woman who delights in unhinging me," he mutters under his breath, picking up her glass for another gulp of water, setting it down in frustration when he finds it to be empty.

"My favorite sport," Mary croons with a wink.

"I like her," Jillian whispers to her son, leaning into their private conversation and gesturing towards Mary. "I do hope you listen to her, Charles. She seems very sensible."

"You yelled at me when I blindly did whatever Freda told me to do and told me to think for myself," Charles returns, turning his frame so that Helen can repair the damage to his coiffure.

"Bite your tongue," Jillian retorts, smacking him on the shoulder with her freshly removed glove before crossing herself. "You know I never want to hear that bitch's name uttered in my presence again."

"I was an abused child," Charles interjects softly, avoiding his mother's narrowing eyes as Helen examines her repairs to his hair. "You do feel sorry for me, don't you Darling?"

"Quite the contrary, Dearest," Mary utters, her eyes flashing in his direction. "I'm glad to see that you have such a sensible mother."

"You see, Charles," Jillian cuts in. "She's brilliant. Don't do anything to fuck this up."

It's Mary who nearly chokes on her own spit this time.

"You see," Charles mutters in her ear. "She's a nosy little devil. Aren't you, Mum?"

"Only when I need to be," Jillian croons, fluffing her short, dark hair. "And he often needs it, I'm sorry to say."

"I believe you," Mary sighs, and the women nod their heads in tandem, instigating an eye roll the size of a Texas T-bone from the subject of their conversation. "I'm not certain how well he would have fared without your guidance in his life."

"Shit," he utters, his gaze narrowing just so. "I'm doomed for the rest of the afternoon, aren't I?"

"Perhaps the rest of your life, dear," Jillian whispers, loud enough for Mary to hear, making her eyes widen to at least double their normal circumference.

Charles coughs louder than he did the first time, practically ratting the table.

"Christ," Rex mutters, pressing a glass of water into Charles's hand. "Are you ill? Do you need a throat lozenge?"

Charles flails at him madly, shaking his head just before he tosses back another glass of water.

"Perhaps you should visit the loo before we open the doors," Rex observes, the combination of his comment and Charles's expression prompting Mary and Jillian to snicker just loud enough to irritate him.

"Perhaps you should sod off," Charles manages between coughs. Rex raises his hands defensively, stepping back a few paces before moving towards the main doors.

"There's no need to yell at Rex," Jillian observes. "He's only doing his job."

"I don't need someone telling me when I need to relieve myself," Charles retorts, running his fingers over his scalp, undoing the work Helen has already done twice. Mary steps up, nudging an unruly lock back amongst the others, crinkling her nose in a manner that makes him smile.

"No," Mary hums. "You just need someone to continually comb your hair for you." He gives her a look of warning, one she absorbs with a grin.

"Here we go," Rex states with a clap of his hands. Her stomach falls to her feet somehow, and she wonders why she's so bloody nervous when it's his book signing, not her own.

"Kiss me," he instructs, and she stares back at him slightly puzzled. "Now."

His mouth is on hers before she can react, and her hands slide up to his face, guiding by sheer instinct and the continual urge to touch him.

"That was for luck," he breathes as he draws back a breath too soon.

"You'll do splendidly," she assures him, and he gives her that grin she so adores, the one that's part boy, part Carey Grant. They take their seats as the first patrons make their way to the table, pens and cameras on hand.

He's amazing with his fans, so at ease, so smooth yet approachable, and she wonders yet again what would possess Freda to effectively try to squash his ambitions and keep him on a leash? Minutes slide by, and her body eases into a comfortable tempo as the afternoon glides past them.

"I love seeing him like this," Jillian whispers, handing Mary a newly filled glass of water. "Doing what he loves with someone he loves by his side."

Her heart picks up its tempo, skipping a step or two as the two of them lock eyes.

"You'll be good to him, won't you?"

Her throat tightens inexplicably, so she nods instead, wondering if her mouth is hanging open or if she'd had the presence of mind to close it. Jillian covers Mary's hands with her own, smiling broadly as the older woman's muscles seem to relax one by one.

"I thought you would," Jillian continues with a squeeze to her hand. "Lucy is already so keen on you, and she told me how happy you make Charles, how much livelier he is since he met you. I can see it, you know. A mother always can."

"See what?"

The words are out of her mouth before she can recall them. Jillian leans forward, drawing in a breath Mary feels herself.

"That he's in a good place," she answers, her expression soft and maternal. "Settled, content. And so much in love he's practically floating."

Her hands flutter, her ribs expand, and a smile wisps across her features without one thought of holding it back. She drops her eyes, overcome somehow, even though she knows she loves him, even though being with him has come to feel like being home.

"You really think so?" Mary breathes, biting her lower lip in spite of herself. Jillian nods, and her stomach does an odd dance, her gaze turning to Charles, watching as he signs a book, how his hand holds the pen, how his fingers design the words in a large script that's just so him. She loves him—God, she really, really loves him.

"Mary?"

The name jostles her in her seat, a voice from her past reaching for her in the midst of her future.

"Is that really you?"

Shit. No. Not now. Not here. Not like this. Never like this.

But it is—she knows it before she ever looks up, before she ever takes a fortifying breath, before she swallows down the metallic taste of panic and dread. She steadies herself, gripping the chair with her free hand, plastering a bright smile on her face before daring to look up at the speaker.

"Hello, Matthew," she states, hearing Charles drop his pen on the table as she wills her world not to go black.