I had just finished my first glass of India Pale Ale in the pub of the Edinburgh hotel I’d checked into an hour earlier, and it seemed as good a time as any to throw myself a pity party and reflect on the strange turns my life had taken recently. I wasn’t happy about it. I needed to get back on track. And it occurred to me, why not treat myself as I would a damaged book? Study the twists and turns and knots and smudges that had left me short-tempered and befuddled. And threadbare. Then I could dust off my pages, resew the torn folds, trim the frays and smooth out the dents. And be my happy self again. Trust me, nobody liked a grumpy bookbinder.

“You look like you could use another, love, and quickly,” the waitress said, placing a second glass of ale on the table to replace the one I’d just swilled.

Great. Just in case I’d imagined things were okay with me, a kind stranger was here to assure me that I was indeed a total mess.

I smiled at her, an older woman with short, curly gray hair and a teasing grin, and said lightly, “I don’t look that bad, do I?”

She studied me for a moment. “Aye, you do, love. And for that, the IPA’s on the house.”

“Thanks a lot,” I said with a rueful laugh, then explained, “It’s just jet lag. I’ll be fine in twenty-four hours.”

She nodded judiciously. “Of course it’s jet lag if you say so.” Her eyes narrowed as she studied me. “But my woman’s intuition thinks ’tis a man you’re mulling over.”

I laughed a bit desperately. “Truly, I’m not.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Then you’ll be returning the IPA?”

“No.” I gripped the beer I’d been craving for the last six hours of my transatlantic flight. “No, I’m sorry. I’m going to need this.”

Her eyes twinkled gaily. “Aye, I knew it.” She tapped the side of her head. “Can’t another woman tell when one of her ilk is suffering, then? And isn’t it always about a man. Damn their skins!”