It was a Sunday in April, the kind where the light through the dogwood trees makes everything look like a painting. Charlotte was reading on a bench at Forsyth Park, shoes off, a half-finished lemonade beside her. James sat down on the wrong bench — his friend's bench — and didn't notice for twenty minutes because he was too busy trying to figure out what she was reading.

He asked. She showed him the cover. He'd never heard of it, but said it sounded incredible — which was either charming or a lie, she still hasn't decided. They talked until the fountain lights came on, then walked to dinner at a place neither of them had been.

He texted her that night to say the book was actually very good. She already knew. That was the beginning.