Page 48 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

Apparently, Dylan has invited a friend over, or maybe a date. He’s never even brought up the possibility of having someone visit, so I’m dying to know who this woman is and why she’s his first guest since I moved in. Am I also preemptively jealous? Absolutely, but my curiosity is stronger than my jealousy, so I get up and head into the hall, stopping short when I see who’s here. She spots me at the same time and flashes me a radiant smile.

“You must be Philippa,” she says.

“Yeah, and you’re—” I almost say Euphoria Belladonna but stop myself in time.

“Trish.” She steps forward, holding out a hand for me to shake.

I take her hand, aware that I’m staring but unable to stop myself. This woman is stunning. Literally stunning. I am officially stunned. Her lightly tanned skin is flawless. Her cheekbones are the stuff of legends. Her thick black hair falls to her waist, loose and layered in a way that looks effortless but probably isn’t. She’s about my age, with striking green eyes I thought were enhanced on the book covers but now suspect needed no enhancement at all. She’s tall and thin, built like a runway model, in artfully distressed jeans, an open puffer coat, and a low-cut, loose tee that simultaneously suggests she threw on whatever was most comfortable and she knows what looks great on her and dresses accordingly, a skill I’ve always envied but never had.

She steps back, dropping my hand to flick Dylan’s chest.

“You didn’t tell her we were coming, did you?” she asks him.

He lifts a shoulder. “I thought it would be a fun surprise.”

“Sure, Dyl. Because random people showing up on your doorstep is always a ‘fun surprise.’” Trish rolls her eyes with exaggerated irritation, but I get the sense she and Dylan know each other well and are used to a little mutual teasing. “Mind giving Naomi a hand with the gear while I tell your landlady what we’re doing here?”

Landlady? That’s how he describes me to his friends?

Good to know, I guess.

Dylan steps around Trish and heads toward the gravel drive, where I can just make out the back end of a bright-red Jeep, and a short, forty-something woman with a peroxided pixie cut unloading photography equipment. I lean forward, craning to get a better view, but Trish links her arm through mine and suggests we go sit somewhere we can “say a proper hello.”

I lead her into the living room and indicate the green velvet sofa, hoping she’ll bypass the overly vocal armchair. She follows my direction, tossing her coat beside her as she settles in and makes herself comfortable in a way my parents never even considered faking.

“I’m guessing you figured out how Dylan and I know each other?” she asks.

I nod as I carefully lower myself onto the armchair. “You’re pretty unmistakable.”

“Only to people who love the books—or are related to the author, I guess.” She flashes me another bright smile, and while it feels 100 percent sincere and friendly, if the next thing out of her mouth is a request for whatever cash I have stowed away in the house, I would give it to her.

Oh, to have the power of luminous beauty and natural charisma.

“How many covers did you shoot together?” I ask.

“Twenty-five, maybe? Whichever books didn’t have another love interest.” She crosses her long legs, letting a platform-sneakered foot swing. “We’ve been terrible about keeping in touch since the last shoot, though we get drinks whenever he comes to Portland for work. And he called me about your boat. Said you could use help funding repairs. We got Naomi on board—she’s the photographer who shot most of the covers—and figured we could try crowdsourcing with a little help from Zane and Euphoria.” She spreads her hands in an energetic voilà gesture.

And I am . . . speechless. This goes way beyond a heart pinch. It’s a full-on vise lock.

Trish laughs at my lack of response, good-humored and making her green eyes light up.

“Honestly, you’re the one doing him a favor,” she says. “I was so glad when we talked last week. He sounded excited for the first time in years. Like the old Dylan was back, the one who rallied people behind a cause or rambled with infectious enthusiasm about the last concert he saw. Not the guy who was shattered by all the shit that went down with his wife.”

The word hits me like a tidal wave, a ten-ton slam straight into my chest. I don’t know what my face registers, but I force myself to breathe and to blink, drawing on every last ounce of willpower to not blubber out, His wife? What wife? He’s married?

Clearly, I’ve been asking the wrong questions in truth or dare.

I’m also insanely grateful I never made an overt pass at him.

And I’m very confused.

I must do a half-decent job of masking my freak-out because Trish fills what would be a truly agonizing silence by telling me about Dylan’s crowdsourcing idea, how they’ll take photos and shoot short videos on the boat, explaining that renovating it is a tribute to the author and her readers’ imaginations. They’ll send signed pics to anyone who makes a sizable donation, and if we get the boat fully repaired and seaworthy, they’ll film a scene on the Zephyr’s Revenge II and share it with donors. Lots of details are yet to be worked out, but the first step is to shoot as much footage as possible in the next few hours, before Trish and Naomi have to return to Portland.

“Dylan mentioned you might have some costumes we can use,” she says.

“I sold most of them,” I tell her. “But there’s some real antique clothing in the attic.”

“Would you mind?” She brushes a hand over her tee. “This doesn’t really cut it. And neither of us is twenty-five anymore. We could use a little help selling this.”