The last time I walked into the bookstore was more than six months ago and at that time, the head behind the cash wrap was Morty Cohen’s bald one. After a breathless moment to survey the rest of this new, unknown head -- the smiling blue eyes, black eyelashes, laugh lines, and excellent jawline considering he had to be at least my age -- I said, “Simon Livingston.”

“Holy shit! For real?” He stood up and started around the cash wrap.

What? He knew who I was? Nobody knew who I was. I mean, this was Los Angeles; people would recognize a name like Tina Fey or Quentin Tarantino, but most of us writers were pretty much anonymous. “I, uh, yeah?”

Then he was offering a hand. I reflexively put mine out and he shook it. Then clasped it in both of his and held on. “Evan Randall. I’ve been working here since June.”

“Why?” Oh fuck me, another rude question, I shouldn’t be allowed out of the house.

But he laughed. “Leave of absence from a stressful job, didn’t want to sit at home doing nothing, definitely didn’t want to learn to play golf.”

And now I laughed. He was still holding my hand, which he seemed to notice at that moment, because he let go. I felt bereft. “So is the other job still paying you?”

“No, that was another reason to do something else.”

“Even though this job probably pays roughly enough to buy groceries.”

“Yeah, roughly. It wasn’t a big concern. Listen, I’m thrilled to meet you, but there must be a reason you came in today.”

“I, uh, there was. Yes. What was it? Oh yes.” He was laughing again, under his breath and trying not to let on, but definitely laughing. Did I mind? No. I grinned at him. “You probably guessed you’re not what I expected to see here today.”

“Yeah, I got that idea.”

“Anyway, I heard the store was closing. Didn’t hear that Mr. Cohen was gone. Is he gone?”

“He’s holding the strings from home. We’re shutting down at the end of the year and he didn’t want to be on the scene for the endgame.”

“Right. I get it. What was I saying? Oh. Jesus Christ, I’m usually not this scatterbrained. I just got back in town from a tour for my latest book and I’m doing the rounds of the bookstores, the ones that are left, to see if I could sign any stock for you. Or do a reading or something, you know. If you’re doing that kind of thing since you’re winding things up.”

“We’re definitely doing that kind of thing, and I’d love it if you could sign some stock. We've got your whole backlist on the shelf. Even the annotated screenplay.”

I blushed. “Really? That ridiculous thing?”

“It’s a classic, Simon.”

“It’s not exactly When Harry Met Sally.”

“And you’re not Nora Ephron, sure, I get it. You are, however, one of the few living writers who’ve produced a gay romcom that people still love twenty years later.” Evan thought for a minute. “Maybe the only such writer.”

“No,” I said earnestly, “don’t forget Paul Rudnick.”

“Oh, right. Hey.”

“What?”

“Why the hell don’t you have an author photo on the back of your books?”

I blinked at him. “Should I?”

“Simon, you look like a mature version of that Regé-Jean Page dude on Bridgerton.”

“You watch Bridgerton?”

“Love me some romance.” The doorbell jingled again; Evan glanced over. “Hi, let me know if I can help you find something.”

I ignored the polite mumble from the new customer. “Short answer, when I first got an agent I was advised not to show my face because my writing voice is not what they call urban. People would be confused that I wasn’t white.”

Evan muttered something that sounded an awful lot like the F word. Then he said, “That sounds like a conversation to be had over drinks. Or dinner.”

“Tonight?” Oh my God, I am ridiculous.

But he smiled. “Want to?”

Did I want to, huh. “What time?”