He smiled at her. "I've been following your story – your 'Cindermelly' – in The Mag. It's very good."

"You like it?" Wendy could feel her heart pumping in her chest.

"Yes, I do. I want to know if Melly defeats the pirates and finds her ninja astronaut prince." He waved a copy of the latest Mag, which held the second-last installment of her story. "I can't wait to find out what happens next!"

"Oh. Well, sorry, but you're going to have to." Wendy could feel the speeding pace of her heart, nervous pride mingled with a touch of fear. He was rather good-looking, with that overlong auburn hair and those high cheekbones. There was something elfin about him, she decided, those sharp yet childish features, his slender, wiry build. And he liked her story...

But he had just shown up on her doorstep, out of the blue. And she was sure she'd never met him before. If he was a stalker, Wendy was in real trouble. And she didn't even know his name.

"I'm afraid, sah, that you have me at a disadvantage," Wendy drawled, slipping effortlessly into the persona of a Southern belle.

"Why, what do you mean?" he replied, charmingly confused.

"Well, I don't know your name, even though you know mine," Wendy fluttered.

"You are Wendy St. Clair, aren't you?" he asked, looking perplexed.

"Yes, that's me," Wendy simpered impatiently. "I'm asking for your name."

"Oh! Well, that's easy. I'm Peter," he laughed. Helpful, but not too helpful. Wendy dropped the ingénue act as she felt a shiver of apprehension. She glanced at the sky for strength, at her toes in nervousness, and then looked up to ask for a surname. But, instead, she found herself caught in a mischievous minty-green gaze.

She suddenly found it hard to breathe. "Peter...?" she managed to gasp. And, retaining some of her usual paranoia mixed with offbeat humour, whispered, "Peter Pan?"

One of those green eyes winked, sending another blush up her cheeks. "What would you do if I said yes?" he asked, in a voice like...like somebody talking.

Wendy took a deep breath, gathering her wits. "I'd call Sleeping Brute and Cindermelly to scare you off."

"Would you really?" He raised a finger to his lips and glanced at the sky in a pondering gesture, then turned around and walked off her front step, a thigh-length jacket three or four shades darker than his eyes swishing a bit with every step.

When he'd reached the end of the St. Clair's walk, Wendy found herself shouting, "Wait!", leaning out of the door at a precarious angle. He paused at the end of the walk, and turned back to face Wendy, a quizzical look on his face.

Wendy took a deep breath, licked her lips, and suddenly wondered if this was such a good idea after all. "What will I do if I want to see you again?"

He grinned a knowing grin. "I'll come back – to hear your stories."

She stood in the doorway long after he was gone.