The bell above the bookstore door jingled softly as Sarah stepped inside, shaking the rain from her umbrella. Her gaze scanned the shelves, landing on a table stacked with vintage first editions. She reached for a worn copy of To the Lighthouse, but her fingers brushed against someone else's.

“Oh,” Sarah said, looking up.

Holland Taylor stood across from her, a bemused smile playing at her lips. Her eyes were a stormy blue, and they lingered on Sarah’s face for just a moment too long.

“Great taste,” Holland said, her voice low and rich, like velvet.

Sarah blinked, caught off guard by the warmth radiating from the woman. “You too,” she managed, her voice softer than she intended.

Holland tilted her head, studying Sarah with an intensity that made her heart race. “Funny thing about Virginia Woolf—she has a way of making strangers feel like soulmates.”

Sarah laughed, the sound nervous but genuine. “Are you suggesting we’re soulmates?”

Holland’s smile widened, a flash of mischief in her expression. “I’m not ruling it out.”

They stood there, the world outside muffled by the rain, their hands still lightly touching over the book. Neither seemed willing to break the connection.

Finally, Holland took a step closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Do you believe in love at first sight?”

Sarah’s breath hitched. “I didn’t. Until now.”

Holland didn’t hesitate. She leaned in, her lips brushing softly against Sarah’s, tentative but full of unspoken promises. Sarah melted into the kiss, her hands sliding up to rest on Holland’s arms.

(Remember Sarah Paulson is 49 and Holland Taylor is 81)