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into the narrow science-fiction aisle and bump into someone actually worth smiling about. That would be the someone with the slow smile and the how-are-you, blue-gray eyes looking up from a squatted position near the bottom shelf, an open copy of Hyperion in his strong hand.
    And that’s the moment Bronte thanked her lucky stars that her college boyfriend actually demanded that she read Dune , Shibumi , and Hyperion to have true insight into the male mind. Because, thanks to that college boyfriend, she would now be able to say something witty about Dan Simmons and how she preferred his earlier work to his later terror stuff.
    That was all great in theory. In reality, she stood there totally tongue-tied and just sort of stared.
    Idiotically.
    “Do you need to get past?” he asked politely.
    Was that a British accent? Please. Yes, please.
    “Uh…” Bronte, come on, you can do this. He did not propose—he just asked if you needed to pass by to get down that part of the stacks.
    Another smile. “You all right, then?”
    Definitely British. Definitely all right. (And way more than a bit of it.)
    Air, please.
    “Yeah, thanks. I’ve been spending a lot of time alone lately, so when I go out on Saturdays, it’s kind of like I’m on parole.”
    Spending a lot of time alone lately? On parole? From the psych ward most likely. Are you kidding me? Oh, Bronte, tell me you did not just say that desperate sentence!
    “So, yeah… excuse me… thanks.” And with that, Bronte turned sideways ( am I emaciated? she wondered again) and made her way toward contemporary fiction. She was going to need a heavy dose of Lionel Shriver or Ian McEwan to remind herself that there were absolutely no happy endings in this life. Leave your bliss at the door, you optimistic fool!
    Okay, well maybe just a little Eloisa James thrown in for good measure. She tucked a couple of romances between the contemporary novels and headed for the exit.
    Bronte ended up buying four books, gave the Goth teller a genuine smile for his troubles, and walked directly across the bright, busy avenue and into her favorite diner. A few minutes later, she was surprised to find herself to be nearly content, a huge mug of steaming coffee clutched firmly in her hands and an order of buckwheat banana pancakes on the way. The embarrassing loss of her powers of speech with Hyperion Man started to smack a little less. Spending time alone? Why not just wear a T-shirt that says I Am Lonely … or Pity Me .
    The following Saturday, she returned to the bookstore around the same time.
    Was she hoping to accidentally bump into Hyperion Man?
    Duh.
    She ignored the vampire at the cash register and made her way toward sci-fi and—la!—there he was, sitting cross-legged on the floor reading. It was like reverting to type, but in a good way. She did like readers.
    He looked up then and smiled broadly. “I was hoping I might bump into you. Are you on parole again?”
    “I am actually. Good behavior and all that. Especially on bright spring days like this, the warden thinks a bit of fresh air is good for the inmates.”
    “What did you think of the Ian McEwan?”
    “The what?”
    “The one you got last weekend, On Chesil Beach .”
    “How do you know what book I bought?”
    “I asked the creep at the checkout counter.”
    “Isn’t there some sort of attorney-client privilege at points of sale?”
    “Not as far as the sales guy is concerned.”
    “Hmmm. I feel mildly violated.”
    His eyes sparked a happy flicker at the mention of Bronte’s ostensible violation.
    “Okay. So maybe by next week I will have sorted out my command of the English language. Until then.” She smiled and moved past him, making a beeline for the romance section. No point in pretending her mind would be inclined to any other genre, what with that velvety British voice and those icy gray eyes to ponder.
    And so it went for the next six weeks. Every Saturday at ten thirty, Bronte would make her