At the bookstore, the line snakes out of the entrance and down the street. Apparently, the whole city had come out for the signing event. I catch a brief glimpse of Evander Blackwood through the window, seated at a table, talking to the people, and signing the books. High stacks of his latest book rise high beside him. He looks exactly like the pictures I had seen—tall, dark, and undeniably charismatic. I can't help but smile. Even from a distance, I can sense that the star of the event, Mr. Evander Blackwood, has a strong celebrity aura, or maybe that is only my anticipation. Either way, he is undoubtedly a handsome and mysterious man.

As I join the line, I hear my phone ringing from my large bag, which I love so much. It looks stylish but can still contain plenty of books, my laptop, and even a cosmetic bag and some spare clothes. But it's hellish to find anything there, and this is not an exception. It takes me some time to rummage the phone out.

"Hello, Mary. How are you? Is everything okay?"

I try to keep my voice down to be discreet for the people in the line. I thank her inwardly for calling me at such a time. She provides lovely entertainment while I am lining. Otherwise, I would focus too much attention on the upcoming meeting. She has a lot of news from England, where she is currently located.

While talking to Mary, I quickly find myself inside the bookstore, and only a handful of people are left before me. There is a small gap between the first person in the line and the one who is talking with the author, allowing a tiny bit of privacy, I suppose. A stern-looking security guard stands next to the table, and a person from the bookstore guides the fan whose turn it is.

"It's almost my turn now. I need to hang up," I tell her more sternly, keeping my voice down at the same time, but she is speaking too enthusiastically about something to hear me.

"Mary," I say louder into the phone while glancing stealthily at the personnel. I hope I don't draw attention.

"Let’s talk more later. I really have to end the call now."

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I hang up the mobile while she is still talking. "I'm sorry, Mary! I'll explain it to you later," I think as I place it back in my large shoulder bag and pull out my copy of Evander Blackwood's novel, "Mystery at the Shakespeare Club."

Over the past few months, the book has been with me constantly. I have read it multiple times, and I still read it when waiting for a bus, on the bus, and between classes, but I never read it to my aunt. I didn't even dare to show or talk about the book at home. I read it in my room after until I was sure she had gone to bed. Because it has spicy chapters.

My aunt probably has seen everything as she was married, twice even, but I feel awkward. The book has given me a much-needed escape from the difficult situation I was, and still am, facing. It has been my beacon in the darkness. I trace my fingers over the golden embossed title, recalling how the story had captured my soul from the start. I wouldn't be standing right now, in line, if I hadn't read it. It was one of those books you wished to read the first time over and over again.

My palms feel sweaty, and my neck tingles as I realize that there is only one person in front of me. Soon I will meet him and say the words I have long planned. When I found out about the signing event, I made a lot of effort to write down everything I wanted to say to him. The words should not be too elaborate (who needs all those details anyway?) or ostentatious (I'm not fancy-pansy), but they should be meaningful and deep enough. I even added subtle literary references. It took me literally hours and several versions to make them just right. And, of course, I memorized them. It would look awkward to read them straight from the paper. I'm not giving him the formal thank you speech. I internally roll my eyes.

I'm so close to him, and I cannot believe this! I close my eyes and imagine smelling his masculine aftershave; I probably won't, and most likely it comes from somebody else in the line, but I can't help myself. My heart is about to explode as the excitement builds. This makes me waver over every word I had planned to say. Does it sound ridiculous, and do I seem like a lunatic with my overflowing emotions? Or will my nervousness betray me, causing me to stumble over my carefully rehearsed lines?

The person in front of me leaves with a happy smirk on his face, and the guide motions for me to move forward.

"This is it, Sophie. Don't blow it," I whisper to myself encouragingly, clutching the book tighter to my chest while trying to smooth my hair and clothes with my free hand to be more presentable.

And finally, after all this waiting and anticipation, I'm standing before him, unable to breathe, and tiny tears well up in my eyes.