CHAPTER NINETEEN
I am. I’m crazy.
Because what sane person would return to the location where she’s vulnerable to a man who drove two hours to sit outside her house without permission?
Me. That’s who. But my God, I’ve never felt anything like this. It’s a constant tug, like a thick rope loops from my chest to Saint’s, and I’m constantly being pulled until I’m too exhausted to fight that pull.
Following attraction and intrigue over instinct and common sense is a very good description of crazy.
The hum of the road beneath my tires is the only consistent sound in the oppressive silence of the car. My hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles white, a mirror to the tension coiling in my gut. The sunlight feels harsh today, glinting off the evergreens that line the winding drive. Every mile closer to the cabin feels like a tightening spring, a coil of dread and anticipation.
It’s been a whole day since I told him to leave. He hasn’t reached out since. Not a text, not a call, not even a cryptic emoji since he drove away.
My phone, lying face down on the passenger seat, feels useless to me.
I’ve checked it a hundred times, hoping for a flicker of something, anything, just to know he’s not a phantom, that he really did have the audacity to show up at my house and it wasn’t a fever dream. The silence of my phone screams.
My jaw aches from clenching. I told myself I was coming here to finish work, but deep down, I know I’m coming because he’s here and I’m not done with him. Because I’ve been pulled into his orbit and never want to be pushed out.
The turnoff appears, a gravel road whose crunch beneath my tires is starting to feel like the sound of coming home. The familiar trees close in, tall and silent, casting long shadows. My breath hitches. Please, don’t let him be there. Please, let him be there. I realize I’m begging for two very different things right now. I am so confused.
But then, as the trees thin and the small clearing where the cabin sits comes into view, I see it. His car. Dark, imposing, just like yesterday, but this time parked brazenly in my driveway, a territorial flag planted on my
property.
He’s here. Of course he’s here.
The anger from last night, temporarily dulled by the frantic morning, flares back to life, hot and immediate. He showed up at my home. The home I share with Shephard, with our girls. The audacity. The sheer, terrifying audacity. And now he’s just . . . waiting for me? As if I owe him something? My hands tighten on the wheel so hard my fingers ache.
I am so happy he’s here. I am so angry he’s here. I’m mad at myself for wanting to run into his arms, while simultaneously feeling the need to blacken his eye.
I steer my car slowly, carefully, pulling up behind his. The engine clicks as I cut the ignition, the sudden quiet amplifying the frantic thumping of my heart. I sit here for a long moment, gripping the steering wheel, just breathing, trying to get my racing thoughts under control. I’m not in the mood for sex. I’m too angry for that. But I am in the mood for conversation.
Maybe even an argument. A fight. A way to put all this to an end and somehow be okay with it.
I push open the car door, the sound a loud creak in the still air. The wood porch, the scent of pine and damp earth—it all feels alien, tainted, as I make my way toward the front door. My hand hovers over the doorknob, hesitating. What will I say? What will he say? Will he demand something?
Will he act like nothing happened?
I open the unlocked door to my rental, slowly, carefully, as if expecting a wild animal to spring out. The interior is dim and cool. My eyes scan the living room and kitchen until I find him.
He’s standing at the stove, his back to me, the faint scent of herbs and tomato sauce already wafting through the air. He’s wearing faded jeans and a dark T-shirt, the fabric stretching taut across his shoulders. One hand is sprinkling something on top of a dish; the other rests casually on the counter.
The picture of domesticity, completely at odds with the man who invaded my life, my home, last night.
And good God. He’s wearing socks. Why am I a sucker for a guy in a clean pair of socks?
He turns slightly, just enough for me to see the profile of his face, focused, intent on whatever he’s making. My gaze travels lower, to the dish he’s preparing. It’s a glass dish layered with what looks unmistakably like pasta, rich red sauce, and creamy white.
Lasagna. He made lasagna.
The savory and comforting scent hits me fully. It’s a jarring contrast to the tension in my body, to the raw anger that still simmers. Lasagna. As if this night is normal. As if he’s not the man who just left me after violating my personal space. He’s just . . . cooking for me.
He looks up then, slowly, as if sensing my presence, but without surprise. His dark eyes meet mine across the kitchen. There’s no fear in them, no apology, just a quiet intensity that sends a fresh ripple of unease through me. He doesn’t say anything. He just closes the bag of Parmesan he’s holding and gestures with his chin toward the table set for two.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” he says, his voice low, calm.
I walk to the table, my movements stiff, like those of a doll on strings.
The table is neatly laid. Two plates, silverware, even linen napkins. A bottle of red wine stands uncorked. He plates the lasagna, thick, generous slices oozing with cheese and rich sauce. He sets one plate in front of me, then takes his own seat opposite me. The silence stretches, thick with unspoken words, with the chaotic memories of last night. The comforting scent of food feels like a cruel trick.
I pick up my fork, but my appetite is nonexistent. I prod at a piece of pasta, then set the fork down. I can’t eat. Not yet.
He watches me, his expression unreadable. Finally, he sighs, a quiet exhalation. “Look, Petra,” he begins, his voice softer, “I’m sorry. You’re right. I crossed a line.”
“You showed up at my house, Saint. My family’s home.”
He doesn’t flinch. His gaze is steady, unwavering. “I know. But let’s not forget who followed who first.”
“I live two hours from here! You drove two hours and parked outside my home and watched me and my husband and my children for God knows
how long.”
“It was just half an hour.”
“Jesus Christ. Semantics.”
“I only did it because I wanted you to feel truly alive. I thought it might be fun, or that it might shake something loose. Inspire you in some
way.”
I stare at him, disbelief battling with a minuscule flicker of understanding.
“Adrenaline is a powerful muse,” he says simply. “And to be honest, I think you need more adrenaline in your life. I’ve met your husband.”
The dig makes me angry, but also forces me to suppress a laugh. I hate that he can make this moment feel more human with his humor. I want to be fully mad at him. I wanted an argument.
I push my plate away, the thought of food too much for the moment.
“We’re being too risky.” I can’t completely put the blame on him. I was a part of last night, too, as angry as I am that he showed up to begin with. I did start the game of cat and mouse when I tried following him to his own home. But I never would have parked. “You’re putting my marriage at risk.
That’s not a game.”
He holds my gaze as he takes my hand. “You’re right. We should have laid out strict rules before starting this whole thing. I got caught up in the moment. It won’t happen again. But my purpose here, my role, is not to unravel your life in any way. It’s to help you write. And have a little fun while doing it. That’s all.”
I look away from his face then, down at my hand, resting clenched in his. He does not want to threaten your marriage, I tell myself. It’s a statement that should bring relief. And it does, a little. But beneath it, a tiny, rebellious part of me, a part I barely acknowledge, feels a perverse twist of disappointment. It would be nice if he did. A dangerous thought, hot and shameful, flares. Maybe if he were a threat, if Shephard had to actually fight for me, if there were a real, tangible risk, then Shephard would value me more.
I think he appreciates me, but I worry he sees me as a mold that any other female could fit. Nothing scares me more than being ordinary. I’m not sure he sees all the special parts of me, and that just makes me sad.
“Are we good?” Saint asks. His thumb brushes softly across my wrist.
“It’s your last week here. I promise I won’t pull any more stunts.”
I nod. Saint nods.
And I guess that’s that. Another crisis averted. Another red flag folded up and tucked neatly away in a closet.
Saint releases my hand and takes his fork, digging into his lasagna.
But I’m not quite ready to eat yet.
“What happens after this last week is over?” I ask Saint.
“Whatever you want to happen.”
“Can I trust you won’t show up at my house?”
Saint smiles, but it’s a reassuring smile. Not a cocky one. “I know what this is, Petra. What we’re doing. I think you’re the one who keeps forgetting it’s a game. And if you never want to see me again, you never will. But, you aren’t retiring, and I imagine you’ll be back at this lake again.
The ball will always be in your court.”
Oh, God. The idea that there’s not a clear finality to what we’re doing fills me with dread. Not because I wouldn’t want to see him again someday after I pack up and leave, but because if I don’t end this with a clear goodbye, he’s more than likely all I’ll be thinking about when I’m back in the real world.
I don’t want the ball to be in my court. I don’t want there to be a ball or a court.
Why the hell do people cheat? This is fucking stressful!
Saint reaches for the bottle of wine. “I read what you emailed me,” he says as he pours. “Read it while I sat watching your house yesterday. Before you caught me.”
I squirm uncomfortably in my chair. I don’t know that I want to hear his thoughts.
“Petra,” he says, his voice softening, a deep resonance that makes the air thrum. “I don’t know why you aren’t the cockiest writer in the world.
You’re so great.”
The unexpected compliment disarms me, while also making me laugh.
I blink, meeting his eyes again. “Um. Thank you?”
“Seriously, though, I couldn’t put it down. Just seeing how you interpret the moments we’ve had together was the best reading experience I’ve ever had. The language you use, the way you craft a sentence—it’s all so powerful.” He sips his wine, his gaze thoughtful.
I don’t know why his words are making me blush like I’m in grade school. “Thank you. But you can stop now. This is so awkward.”
He reaches across the table and takes my hand, brushing a thumb over mine. “Take the compliments. The old Petra used to take the compliments. I told you I watched all your videos. I’ve seen who you used to be before the notoriety, and it makes me sad that that part of you is gone. I wish I could
have known the version of you before you started believing everyone else’s
version of you.”
His words hit me hard.
I miss that version too. Not that I thought more of who I was as a writer, but I definitely hadn’t been jaded yet, or worn down.
I miss the passion I used to have. I miss the interaction with my readers. I miss the book releases, the signings, the trips to other countries. I used to have so much fun with it all. I used to wake up ready to see which of my friends were online. Or I’d wake up wanting nothing more than to dive back into whatever manuscript I was writing.
Now I just lie in bed, dreading what each workday will bring, what awful email will set the tone for that day, what nagging thought will prevent me from opening my manuscript.
“I wish I could find that again,” I say, more to myself than to Saint.
“I wish you could too. This kind of writing, what you do . . . it’s intensely personal, even when it’s fiction. You pour yourself onto the page.
And the more famous you get, the more success you find, the more people think they own a piece of that. Of you. And they’re going to be louder, and it’s going to come from every angle, but what do you think happens to them
when you disappear completely?”
“They get what they want?” I reply.
Saint shakes his head. “No. They get nothing. They just move on to the next book. The next author. The next movie. The next popular thing.
Because hating you and loving you is a fad that they will move on from.
Every single person will move on from this experience but you. You’re the one stuck in it forever, because it’s yours. It’s your life, it’s your name, it’s your passion. And you need to control what you allow in, because what you allow in will control what you’re able to put back out.”
He pauses, allowing his words to sink in. His thumb moves in circles over the back of my hand, a gentle, reassuring rhythm.
A strange calm settles over me. A feeling of being truly understood in a way Shephard rarely manages.
“Thank you,” I say. It’s all the words I can muster without tearing up.
Saint’s words aren’t just flattery; they resonate in a way I’ve always hoped to feel, but have never had articulated to me before. He validates what I’m feeling without dismissing it. Without telling me I should just be
grateful to have a career. He makes me feel like my internal struggle is real, and that I’m actually strong enough to overcome it.
“You know you don’t need me, right?” He says the question like it’s a statement. “You wrote stacks of books before I showed up at your door. And I believe you’d still finish this book even if I didn’t show up at your door. If anything, I’m a distraction to your writing, not a muse.”
I shake my head. “I’m going to have to disagree with you on that.”
Saint pulls his hand from mine, a faint warmth lingering on my skin.
He gestures to my plate again, a small, encouraging smile on his lips. “You need to eat. And then, we get you back to work.”
I pick up my fork, and this time, the scent of the food doesn’t feel jarring. It feels . . . grounding. I take a bite. The flavors explode on my tongue—rich, savory, deeply comforting. It’s perfect.
By the time dinner is over, the last of the surviving light of dusk has faded, and the cabin is bathed in the warm glow of the lamps. The half- empty lasagna dish sits between us, a testament to the meal. More importantly, the tension that tightened my shoulders for days has eased, replaced by a quiet sense of purpose, a strange, burgeoning lightness. He has made me feel incredibly good, incredibly valued. Not as a sexual conquest, but as an artist, as a person.
He stands up, collecting the plates.
“I’ll clean up,” I say, taking the dishes from him. When I reach the sink, I can hear him gathering his things behind me. I spin around, sad to see him preparing to leave.
He walks to the door while shoving his phone into his pocket. “I’ll text you tomorrow.”
“You’re leaving?” I ask, walking toward him.
He nods, but wraps an arm around my waist when I reach him. “I am.
You’ve got a book to finish this week.” I don’t want him to leave. He leans in, and for a fleeting second, I brace myself for a passionate kiss. But it’s a soft, chaste, gentle press of his lips against my forehead.
“Sleep well, Petra,” he murmurs, his voice a low caress. “And write fiercely.”
When he opens the door to leave, the wind whips my hair around my face. The temperature has dropped several degrees, and the tops of the trees are swaying. I watch as he rushes to his car, the sky bursting with a bolt of lightning just as he opens the door.
A storm is coming.
