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delighting in the way he seemed so obtuse about the book, talking about it in the abstract. “Why do I get the sense you haven’t read it?”
    “Is it obvious?” He laughed, still gracious, and she wondered what it would take for him to drop his guard. As soon as the thought occurred to her, she was stunned by how badly she wanted to see that. He was flirting with her and he’d never read the book. Every man who flirted with her these days looked at her as if waiting for theshow—the big sex rock-star show—which was probably why she didn’t flirt much anymore.
    “Afraid so—you haven’t asked me any questions about rock stars.”
    “You caught me. One of the few people left in the world who hasn’t read Wild Child .”
    “Well, it’s a sordid tale. Not for everyone.”
    “Trust me, my ignorance doesn’t make you any less a celebrity.”
    “I’m afraid that’s exactly what it does.” She was actually enjoying herself. Amazing.
    “I read your first book. The one about groupies,” he said. Her heart kicked at the reminder. That was how she’d met Jenna. A kindred damaged soul, Jenna had spent her formative years backstage making the same bad decisions Monica was making.
    “So you were the one,” she joked, pushing aside her grief.
    “I read your book of poems, too.” She groaned, putting her head in her hand, and he smiled, that half-boy, half-man smile that went right to her knees. They each took a sip from their glass as if rinsing out the end of that conversation.
    “You’re awfully young to be a mayor, aren’t you?” she asked.
    He stared down at his wineglass as if the liquid had something to tell him, but then he shook his head and took a long sip. “No one else wanted the job,” he said. “And aren’t you a little young to be a worldwide bestselling author?”
    “Well, considering I was a sixteen-year-old runaway, I had a lot of room for improvement.” Her heels kept sinking in the lawn and she pulled them out, lurching toward him by accident. His hand grabbed her elbow, the bare skin there warming on contact. The youngerher, the damaged kid, would have gone bonkers to have this handsome man touching her in any way. On that kid’s behalf, Monica memorized the sensation.
    “I can’t imagine that improvement was easy.” He let go of her, one finger at a time, and the intimacy of the conversation, his touch—all of it was too much.
    “Well, it made for good reading.” She stepped away, popping that small inclusive bubble of intimacy around them. “It looks like you were going to entertain a crowd. I’m sorry I wasn’t who you were expecting.”
    “I’m not. Sorry, I mean.” His words did something to her heart, disturbed the mechanics, and she thought she was past all that: the blushing, the sweaty palms, the heart thumping. Those were things for another woman, lifetimes younger.
    And yet here she was contemplating a girlish giggle.
    Coy behavior was for the old Monica she had spent years burying, and so instead she stared right at him.
    “Are you flirting with me, Jackson Davies?”
    “I thought you were flirting with me.” His smile was an invitation to deeper secrets, darker rooms.
    “It’s mutual, then,” she said.
    “I can’t believe I’m so lucky.”
    Me neither , she thought. The only man in the world who hasn’t read that damn book . They smiled at each other in silence, until Jackson finally blinked and turned away slightly as if the moment had been a little too much for him.
    What are you doing? she asked herself. What is the point of flirting with him? There’s no way any of this will go anywhere .
    And that was the appeal. Flirting in a safe place, dropping her armor, revealing herself in glimpses and side glances. All the while knowing nothing would happen.
    He was too much of a gentleman to pursue anythingwithout the right signals from her, and she was far too broken to even know what those signals would be.
    “I remember you,” he blurted, and