Iris Kelly Doesn't Date (Bright Falls, #3)(106)

Claire smiled, tilted her head. “Is that the only reason?”

Iris knew what she was getting at—who she was getting at—but she refused to bite.

“Of course,” Iris said, displaying her best smile. “I just want to celebrate with my friends.”

Claire kissed the back of Iris’s hand. “Okay. I’ll talk to everyone about going.”

Iris’s shoulders literally slumped in relief. “Thank you.”

“Now, are you almost ready to start?” Claire asked. “I can give you a few more minutes if you need it.”

“No,” Iris said, smoothing her dress. “I’m ready.”

“Great,” Claire said, then hooked Iris into her arms, squeezing her tight. “You know, I think she’d be really proud of you.”

Iris pulled back. She didn’t need to ask who Claire was talking about. She also knew Claire was full of shit.

Stevie Scott was anything but proud of Iris Kelly.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” Iris said.

Claire nodded, then headed toward the event space in the middle of the store, currently set up with at least a hundred folding chairs.

“Good evening, everyone, and welcome to River Wild Books,” Claire said into the microphone at the podium. “If you’d please take your seats. It’s my pleasure and my privilege to introduce to you our author for this evening. Iris Kelly is . . .”

Iris stood behind her, mind wandering as Claire read out her bio. She’d flitted her gaze halfway through the room when she realized she was looking for curls, for an almost-mullet that always reminded Iris of a pop star, a kid’s T-shirt most likely bought in a thrift store.

Which was ridiculous.

She sniffed, focused.

“. . . please welcome Iris Kelly, author of the critically acclaimed novel Until We Meet Again!”

The audience clapped and hooted, and Iris stepped up to the podium. Claire kissed her cheek. Iris smiled and took a deep breath. She rolled her shoulders back and became author Iris. A role—a real one, but a role, nonetheless. This Iris was elegant, graceful, and in no way looking for a woman who lived three thousand miles away to show up at her event with some grand gesture to sweep Iris off her feet.

Because wouldn’t that be silly?





AFTER HER READING, the audience queued up so Iris could sign their books. It took a while to get through everyone, some wanting a photo, some wanting to chat about how far Iris had come, particularly a few of her high school teachers, who undoubtedly remembered Iris as a solid B student in too-short skirts who frequented detention.

Iris took it all in, tried to stay in the moment.

“Here are some preorders for you to sign,” Claire said when they’d made it through everyone in person, partygoers now meandering through the store and finishing the champagne. Claire set a stack of books on the table, while Brianne, the shop’s manager, opened each one for Iris so she could see the pink sticky note inside with the buyer’s name. Ivy. Mara. Grace. Sunny. Luca.

Iris signed them all, looping her name with a flourish on the title page, along with a little message for each reader—Make your own happily ever after.

She’d thought long and hard about what she wanted to write when asked to sign her book. It had to be sincere, honoring romance readers and who Iris was herself. This message felt right, felt like something everyone could stand to hear.

The stack dwindled, Iris’s hand just starting to cramp, and they were nearly to the end when Brianne opened a book to a name that froze Iris’s heart in her chest.

Stevie.

She blinked down at the bright pink sticky note.

“Everything okay?” Brianne asked.

Iris nodded but called Claire’s name.

“Yeah, hon?” Claire asked, a stack of already signed books in her hands.

Iris just blinked down at the name. Claire followed her gaze, sucking in a soft breath. It wasn’t a very common name. Still, Iris supposed it could be someone else . . . someone different . . .

“Oh, sweetie,” Claire said.

“Is it . . . ?” Iris asked.

“I don’t know,” Claire said, then looked at her manager. “Brianne, do you have the order invoice for this one?”

Brianne nodded, pulled her phone out of her back pocket. “Yeah, let me look it up.”

Iris sat there while Brianne tapped on her screen, her fingers in a knot around her Sharpie.

“Here it is,” Brianne said. “Um . . . Stevie Scott. She lives in New York?”

“When . . . when did she order it?” Iris asked.

Brianne frowned, eyes on her phone. “She placed the order . . . two days ago?”

Claire’s hand closed around her shoulder, squeezed, but Iris barely felt it. She smoothed her hand over the title page, poised her Sharpie to sign her name.

To write Stevie’s name.

To write Make your own happily ever after to Stevie Scott, the woman Iris had rejected, refused, lied to. The woman Iris was too fucking scared to make any kind of ever after with. The woman who, after all that, still preordered Iris’s book from Claire’s store, wanted Iris to sign it.

“Fuck,” she said, her eyes starting to sting.

“Oh, honey,” Claire said.

“I’m fine, just . . .” She shook her head, forced herself to think of something else, anything else, anyone. She closed her hands into fists, squeezing until she felt the sting of pain from her nails.