CHAPTER SIX
“You are not going to believe what happened last night,” I say, practically vibrating with a mix of disbelief and exhilaration, the phone pressed tight to my ear. Sunlight streams through the kitchen window, but my mind is still replaying the bizarre, utterly unexpected encounter that somehow, miraculously, jump-started my brain.
“Oh good, something dramatic,” Nora says, ever the enthusiast for chaos. “Tell me everything. Did you finally get to page twenty-one?”
“Something infinitely better.” I can practically hear Nora’s ears perk up. “I had a visitor. A very, very unexpected visitor. And . . . he was a cop.”
A beat of silence. Then, a dramatic gasp from Nora. “A cop? Petra, what did you do? I swear, if you’re writing your next book from jail, I am not sending you care packages.”
“No, nothing like that,” I assure her, already picturing her imagining me in an orange jumpsuit. “There was a police chase that ended near my rental. Some convict. But he shot himself in the road, and then a cop knocked on my door to see if I knew him. At, like, five in the morning. I almost died, I was so scared. But oh, my God, you should have seen him.”
“The cop?” Nora asks. “Or the dead guy? There was actually a real- life dead guy? Jesus, Petra. Did you see a body?”
“Well, real-life dead guy makes no sense, but yes, it actually happened. I’m not talking about the dead guy, though, I’m talking about
Cam. The cop.”
“HIS NAME WAS CAM?”
“No. It’s just what I call him because he’s exactly who I’m picturing as Cam now.”
Nora’s voice drops to that conspiratorial whisper she uses when she’s truly invested. “This is crazy. See? The universe is on your side. Was he hot? Because if it’s a cop, and it’s rural, there’s like a fifty-fifty chance he looks like he either hunts his own dinner in a fitted flannel shirt, or he can’t jump a fence.”
I lean against the counter, a genuine smile spreading across my face.
“Nora. He was . . . so hot. And his name is even hot. Detective Nathaniel
Saint.” I let the name hang in the air, relishing it.
Another gasp, even louder this time. “Stop it. That is such a book- boyfriend name. You have to be making this up. You probably fell asleep at your keyboard and dreamt him.”
“I swear it happened,” I insist, pushing off the counter and pacing the kitchen. “He was tall. And had these intense eyes. And the way his uniform fit . . . Ugh. My brain just immediately went, ‘Hello, Cam. Meet Reya’s leading man.’ It was like a sign, Nora. Like the universe decided to send me an actual living, breathing muse.”
“Your muse!” Nora crows, a triumphant note in her voice. “I knew it!
The universe does love us! So, did you, like, get his number? Did you flirt?
Did you offer him a cup of coffee and accidentally spill it on his very attractive uniform so you could help him take it off?”
I roll my eyes, though I’m still grinning. “No, you lunatic. I was too busy trying not to hyperventilate. But after he left, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. And then, I just wrote. I wrote pages, Nora. Actual, coherent pages.”
“No way,” she says, her tone shifting from playful incredulity to genuine surprise. “You’re not pulling my leg? You actually wrote something?”
“I’m serious,” I say, pulling up the file on my laptop. “I’m sending you the pages now.”
There’s a pause on Nora’s end, the sound of her typing, then a small “Ooh!” of surprise. “Petra! This is almost ten thousand words!” Her voice is practically giddy now. “See? I told you. You just needed a little reconnection to the book world to kick that block to the curb. And now karma’s dropped a hot cop in your lap. I think you’re getting your mojo back.”
“I guess so,” I admit, feeling a warmth spread through me that has nothing to do with the sun. It’s the warmth of words flowing again, of a story finally taking shape. “Writing just feels so . . . right, suddenly. Like something has been unlocked. I forgot how exciting it is.”
“You unlocked a payment from your publisher soon, that’s what you unlocked,” she says. “Okay, so here’s the crucial question. Is there a Ring camera? Do you have any security footage? Because I need a visual. For research purposes, obviously.”
I sigh dramatically, leaning my forehead against the cool surface of the refrigerator. “Believe me, I wish there was a camera. Or that I had thought to subtly, discreetly, incognito-ly snap a picture of him.”
The lingering image of him, framed by my cabin doorway, feels almost like a dream now, a vivid mirage. And while the words on the page are a fantastic start, a small, selfish part of me craves that visual proof, a physical anchor to the man who seemingly broke my curse.
“I have to go,” I say, already feeling the pull back to my laptop. The well of inspiration, so recently dry, is now overflowing. “I have to jot more down before he vanishes back into the ethereal realm of ‘hot cop muses.’”
“Go, go! Don’t let Cam escape. And seriously, if you get any surveillance footage, you know who to call.”
“You’ll be the first,” I promise, already picturing myself hunched over the keyboard. Just as I’m about to end the call, there’s a sudden knock on
the door. Could it be?
“Okay, gotta go,” I say.
“Wait,” she says, and my finger pauses on the screen while I head to see who is at my front door. “This means you’re on for another live stream, right? Readers will go apeshit over this.”
A tiny flicker of the earlier anxiety returns, a whisper of doubt. But then the image of the detective, tall and compelling, flashes in my mind, and everything in my life feels a little bit more manageable. More salvageable. “Fine,” I sigh, a smile touching my lips. “As long as you vet everything and read all the questions again.”
Another knock at the door.
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” she says. “Good luck!”
I end the call and look through the peephole, but my hope that it might be the cop is diminished when I see Mari standing at the front door.
I sigh, but open the door anyway. “Hey, Mari.” I motion for her to come in. She’s probably here for her brownie tray, so I head to the counter where I set it after washing and drying it.
“You get any sleep with all that ruckus last night?” she asks.
I shrug. “Enough.” I hand her the tray, but instead of heading toward the door, she walks over to the table and pulls out a chair.
I guess I’m having company.
She flicks her dress out so that it billows over the chair before she takes a seat. “How about those cops?” she asks. “Wasn’t too happy to see
them at our door, but they sure were easy on the eyes.”
“I only met one of them,” I say.
“I hope it was the hotter one,” she says. “Well, they were both good looking, but the tall one, my goodness. This road hasn’t seen that much action since that group of swingers booked the place three summers ago.”
I never know what’s going to come out of her mouth, I swear.
Mari notices the business card the officer left. It’s sitting on the table between us, so she picks it up, tapping it against her finger. “Yes, this one,” she says. “The tall one. Nathaniel Saint.”
“Do you know him?”
“Nah, I keep away from authority as much as possible. Never know with those guys. I keep out of most of the city and county stuff unless some dumbass on the city council is trying to suggest a law to ban rentals on the lake. Twice they’ve tried that, and twice me and Louie have gone and put a stop to it. This is our income, and I’ll be damned if I have to go get a nine- to-five. What a nightmare that would be.” She feigns wiping away sweat.
“Working away at some desk job that rots my soul until artificial intelligence deems me unnecessary before I’m even eligible for retirement, so I’m forced to rely on the hope that there’s a niche market on OnlyFans for an aging wannabe actress with hair like a Cabbage Patch doll. No thank you.”
She drops the business card back on the table but is still staring at it when she says, “If I didn’t see the dead body for myself, I’d think I dreamt it, but they talked to both me and Louie for a good half hour.”
“You . . . saw the body? What?”
“Heard the commotion. I’m nosy. Don’t worry, they got it all cleared out. Only thing left over from last night that I saw on the walk over was some spray paint markings in the road. Happened right in front of this house, you know. I was kind of expecting to see an outline of him on the asphalt, just like they do in the shows I work on, but they didn’t do that.
Probably because it wasn’t a murder and they got it on dashcam since they were in pursuit, but still. Would have been cool to see.”
Cool is not the word I would use to describe that, but okay. It is so hard to keep up with her; I don’t know how Louie does it. Maybe he doesn’t. Either way, her reminder of last night makes me tense up, despite her effervescent personality.
“Straight out of a crime novel,” she continues. “Too bad you don’t write suspense, Petra. That could have been some good motivation.”
I do write suspense. “Mari, what kind of books do you think I write?”
She shrugs. “Romance? I don’t know, I should probably read one.
Which one do you recommend?”
“None of them,” I say honestly. “They are suspense novels, though, but there are so many other books I’d recommend to you if you like that genre.”
Mari swats at my arm. “Stop that self-deprecation. It is so unattractive.”
I didn’t even realize I was being self-deprecating. I call it honesty.
“Let’s try having this conversation again,” she says. She straightens up, eyeing me. “Petra, which of your books do you suggest I read?”
She’s right. I never answer this question with pride, so I commit to at least trying. Maybe it will improve my current attitude toward my career.
“Start from the beginning,” I say, feigning confidence. “The release order is on my website. If you like the first one, you’ll be able to see my writing progress as you work your way through the books.”
Mari grins. “That’s better. I’ll visit your website. What is it? The Pitiful Petra dot com?”
She laughs at her own joke, but then says “Kidding” before I have time to find the humor in it. “You just act so pitiful when it comes to your career. I’m gonna compliment that pitiful out of you before you leave here,” she says as she stands. “Let me know if you ever need a shopping break.
I’m going estate hunting in the morning if you’re interested.”
“Not sure I need the distraction yet,” I admit.
“I’ll text you before I leave, just in case,” she says. She grabs her pan and heads toward the door. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and Louie will have a heart attack so we have an excuse to call the cops over here again.”
“Jesus, Mari.”
“A mild one,” she says, dismissively. “I don’t want him to die. Who would drive me to Los Angeles for all my auditions?” She winks at me and then closes the door behind her.
I stand up and lock it, then walk back over to the table.
I pick up the business card sitting next to my laptop. I scroll my thumb over Detective Saint’s name, wondering what people call him. There are so
many possibilities, but I imagine I’d call him Saint if I knew him on a more intimate level.
Do people call him Nathaniel? It seems too formal, too stiff for someone who carried himself with such confidence and ease.
Maybe they call him Nathan, a little more approachable, relaxed. Or maybe he’s just Nate to those closest to him. Or is he simply Detective to everyone?
Whatever people call him, I’ve been anxiously waiting for him to show back up. I should have asked Mari if they mentioned to her that they might return for a statement.
Surely, he’d need to take my statement, right? Last night, he said he’d be in touch today, or that someone from the precinct would be, and a part of me has been counting down the hours, expecting to hear the knock on my door any minute before the workday ended. But as the afternoon dragged on and the sun started to sink lower in the sky, I realized it was already nearing six o’clock, and I still hadn’t heard from him.
Just one knock, and it was Mari instead of the man I was hoping it would be.
Maybe they decided against asking the residents for statements after all. Maybe, in the light of day, they realized it was a waste of time, that the case was open and shut. Like Mari said, the man who died took his own life. Isn’t much more to investigate.
The thought feels logical, but it also leaves me with an odd sense of disappointment. I have a million questions about the events of last night, and not just for my own peace of mind.
For a writer, this is a rare opportunity. A chance to talk to a real detective, to ask him the kinds of questions that could add a layer of authenticity to my book. How often do I have a muse at my door, straight out of my work in progress?
And yet, the day is slipping away, and it seems like that opportunity might not come.
Still, part of me doesn’t want to let it go. What if I text him? Just to check in, to see if they still need my statement. I could frame it as a polite inquiry, but it would also be a subtle way to get him to respond, to reestablish that contact. And if nothing else, maybe it would open the door for me to ask some of the research questions that have been building in my mind since last night.
My fingers hover over my phone screen for a moment, debating if this is a good idea. Finally, I look at the business card phone number and type out a quick message.
Hi. It’s Petra Rose. Do you guys still need a statement from me?
I hit send before I can second-guess myself. The text is straightforward, professional, but also casual enough that it won’t seem out of place if he responds.
I’m not sure what I’m expecting. Maybe a delayed response, or a formal reply from one of his colleagues from a different phone number. But to my surprise, my phone vibrates almost immediately. His response comes back faster than I anticipated, and there’s something about that speed that makes my heart skip a beat.
We’ve been short-handed
today. Sorry about that. If it’s
not too late, I can swing by on my way home.
I reread his text, my stomach swirling at the thought of seeing him again. There’s something casual yet considerate in his tone, like he’s apologizing for being late to an unscheduled appointment, while also offering to make it up to me. And though it’s all business on the surface, I can’t help but feel a surge of excitement roll through me at the thought of him stopping by, even if it’s just to take my statement.
Sounds good. If you have a few
minutes while you’re here, I
have questions about some
scenes I’m writing. I could really
benet from picking the brain of a police officer.
I send the message quickly before I can overthink it. It’s true—I do need some insight for my book, and having an actual detective to talk to is an opportunity I can’t pass up. But if I’m honest with myself, it’s more than that. There’s a part of me that just wants to see him again, to spend a little more time in his presence, to feel that strange mix of curiosity and attraction that he sparked the first time he showed up at my door.
I’m all yours. Be there in an hour.
His response comes almost immediately, and it’s that first sentence that makes my breath catch. I’m all yours. It’s a simple phrase, probably meant as a professional gesture, but it hits me in a way I didn’t expect.
Excitement rolls through me, warm and electric, as I read it again.
I don’t even hesitate. I immediately rush to my bedroom to change clothes. I glance at myself in the mirror, realizing with a bit of embarrassment that I’ve already changed three times today, each outfit picked with the possibility in mind that he might come back. It’s ridiculous, I know. I don’t normally bring many cute clothing items when I hole up in a cabin to write. My usual wardrobe consists of sweatpants, old T-shirts, and a few hoodies I rotate depending on the weather. I’ll pack maybe one or two jeans and shirts that I use in case I get a wild hair and go to the grocery store. The most flattering thing I have with me that doesn’t scream trying too hard is a sundress that could easily pass as something I’d lounge around in on a lazy afternoon.
I slip it on, smooth it down, and decide to go barefoot to keep the look casual. I pull my hair up in a messy bun, just loose enough to look effortless, and put on the slightest touch of makeup. Just enough to give my skin a subtle glow, to make it look like I haven’t tried at all. It’s a delicate balance, one I don’t often concern myself with, but tonight feels different.
I sit at the kitchen table, trying to focus on the questions I want to ask him about my book while I wait for his arrival. I jot down a few actual procedural questions I have, but then write a few fake questions I don’t actually have, framing them in a way that makes it seem like I’m being productive, like this is purely for research purposes. But it’s for entirely selfish reasons.
Last night, after he left and I wrote several chapters, I was filled with a euphoria I haven’t felt in years. There’s something about putting a real-life face to my fictional character that made the story flow effortlessly. I’ve always imagined Cam in a vague, abstract way, but now that he’s based on someone who actually exists—someone I’ve met—it feels like the words are coming to life in a way they haven’t before.
The knowledge that Cam is now inspired by Detective Nathaniel Saint has done wonders for my confidence in this story. It helps minimize the nagging fear I always have that readers will call my work unrealistic. How could it be unrealistic if I’m writing Reya’s reactions to Cam based on my own reactions to Detective Saint? I’ve never felt more in tune with my character, and it’s all because of him.
When the knock finally comes, my heart leaps into my throat. But instead of rushing to answer, I force myself to pause. I stand on the other side of the door, my hand hovering over the handle, and I count to thirty. I want it to seem like I’m preoccupied, like I haven’t been waiting all day for this moment.
Taking a deep breath, I finally open the door, ready to see where this next chapter takes me. I try to seem collected, determined to maintain some semblance of professionalism. But the moment I see him, all my composure slips away.
I’m shocked to see him out of uniform. Instead of sporting the crisp, authoritative look I’ve come to associate with him, he’s dressed casually, and I do exactly what I told myself I wouldn’t do. I check him out.
My eyes can’t help but scan him from head to toe, taking in every detail. He’s wearing faded jeans, the kind that look soft from years of wear, with a few paint splatters on them that give him an effortlessly rugged look.
His T-shirt, snug enough to show off the lean lines of his torso, has a fist up in the air and the word GONZO printed across it. A Hunter S. Thompson T- shirt. I wonder if that was deliberate, if he’s making some kind of subtle, intellectual nod toward my writing career, or if it’s just a coincidence.
Either way, it catches my attention, and I can’t deny that he looks even better out of uniform than I could have imagined.
“Nice shirt,” I say, holding the door open a little wider, trying to sound casual even though my heart is still racing.
He grins, a slow, almost teasing smile, but he doesn’t reveal whether the shirt choice was intentional or not. His grin is infectious, and for a
moment, I find myself caught up in the easy confidence he radiates.
Now that I’m seeing him up close in the daylight, his age is easier to pin down than it was last night when shadows distorted his features. He’s definitely older than me, but not by a lot. Maybe four or five years, which would put him in his late thirties. There’s something about him that feels grounded, experienced, but without the weariness you often see in people who’ve lived through too much.
“Did you get any sleep after I left?” he asks, stepping inside the cabin like he’s done it a hundred times before, his presence filling the room.
“Not much, but I’m okay,” I reply, closing the door behind him, my voice a little lighter than I intended. “You?”
“Not any, but I’m okay,” he says, flashing that same slow smile, the one that feels just a little too knowing, a little too intentional. I don’t know if he means for it to come off as seductive, but there’s something about the way he holds my gaze that feels . . . different.
And I don’t know what to do with that. Normally, I can hold my own in moments like this, especially when it comes to flirtation, but the fact that he’s wearing a wedding ring keeps me in check. I don’t flirt with other women’s men. I’ve always drawn a firm line there.
But then again, this isn’t about me. Reya—my character—would flirt with him. That’s how her affair with Cam begins in the book, after all. She latches on to every flirtatious smile he throws her way, turning it into a game, letting it pull her deeper into the affair that eventually consumes her.
As I stand here, watching Detective Saint move through my kitchen, a part of me wonders how much writing I could get done tonight if I let myself slip into Reya’s skin for a little while.
What if I became her, just for a moment?
What if I allowed myself to step out of my own reservations, to lean into the flirtation and see where it takes me? It might inspire me, might help me push past this creative block and meet my deadline.
There’s a strange thrill in the idea of letting go, of becoming my character just long enough to capture her essence on the page.
The detective is making a slow spin in the kitchen, his eyes scanning the high ceilings and the deceivingly modern style of the cabin. “I’ve always wondered what the inside of this place looked like,” he says, his voice filled with genuine admiration. “It wasn’t at all what I expected when I walked in last night. This might be the nicest cabin on the whole lake.”
“I usually stay on the other side of the lake,” I reply, gesturing toward the wide windows that overlook the water. “It has the best sunset views. But this one is really nice.” Too nice.
He nods appreciatively, glancing toward the large windows overlooking the lake. It’s dusk now, so there’s a warm glow being cast over the room. “Is it not two-story? It looks multilevel from the outside.”
“Nope,” I say, shaking my head. “Just the one. All the rooms have ceilings this high.”
He gives an impressed nod, his eyes still scanning the space as if he’s taking mental notes. And I can’t help but watch him, my mind wandering again to Reya and Cam, and how easily this interaction could slip into something more if I let it. I force myself to stay grounded in the moment, but the line between fiction and reality feels thinner than ever.
He brings his eyes back to mine, locking me in his gaze with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken. “It’s gorgeous,” he says, his voice low and casual.
I nod in response, trying to keep my cool, but I’m not sure he’s talking about the house anymore. There’s something in the air that shifts the atmosphere. Neither of us speaks for a moment, and the silence between us becomes thick, almost palpable. I can feel it pressing against my skin, making me more aware of every breath, every movement. My mind clamors for something to say, anything to break the tension.
“What name do you go by?” I ask him, desperate to keep the conversation going. “Nathaniel? Nate?”
He tilts his head slightly, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Saint,
actually.”
Oh, I nailed it.
“Saint,” I repeat softly, more to myself than to him. The name lingers in the air between us, and I can’t help but think about how perfect it would be for a character.
Saint—it has a certain strength to it, an edge that makes it stand out more than the typical names I’ve used. It would make a better character name than Cam by a mile. But that would be too weird. Cam is already beginning to look exactly like this guy in my mind. I can’t make his name the same too. It would be too much.
“So,” I say, shifting the conversation back to safer ground, “you need a statement from me?”
Saint doesn’t answer right away. He stares at me quietly for a moment, like he’s weighing his words before he speaks. “Not anymore,” he finally says. “It’s all on dash- and body cam. Nothing to dispute.”
Those words jar me for a moment. Reminding me that with the advancement of technology, there are probably many things recorded digitally for eternity that no one would want a record of. That poor man.
But also, I have no idea what he did that made him a wanted man. I almost open my mouth to speak up and ask for more details, but Saint makes me nervous with his ease.
He leans against my kitchen island, crossing his legs at the ankles, looking so effortlessly breathtaking that I suddenly feel completely out of my element. There’s a confidence about him that makes me feel like I’m stumbling over my own thoughts. But then I remind myself—Would Reya
feel out of her element right now?
No, she wouldn’t.
Reya would be composed, in control. She would take whatever flirtatious energy was simmering between them and use it to her advantage.
She wouldn’t back down.
“If you don’t need a statement,” I ask, crossing my arms casually, “then why are you here?”
He quirks an eyebrow at me, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. “You said you needed to pick my brain.”
Oh, right. I did say that, didn’t I?
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat as I try to remember what questions I planned to ask him. But now that he’s standing right in front of me, my mind feels like it’s short-circuiting. Every carefully crafted question I had seems to vanish into thin air. I don’t want to look down at my list like an amateur, so I scramble to come up with something—anything—to keep the conversation from veering into awkward territory.
“Why do you wear a uniform if you’re a detective?” I blurt out, mentally kicking myself for how weak the question sounds.
“It’s a small town,” he replies, unfazed by my flustered state. “I only do detective work when it’s needed. Most of the time, I patrol, so I have to be in uniform.”
I nod as I search for a follow-up question, but none comes to mind.
The silence creeps back in, and I can feel it growing between us as I chew
on my lip, trying to think of something else to say. But then, before I can manage another weak question, he speaks up again.
“I have a confession,” he says, his tone suddenly more serious.
I blink in surprise, tilting my head slightly. “You do?”
He nods, and for a moment, I feel the air shift again, like whatever he’s about to say might change the dynamic between us. “I didn’t sleep when I got home, but it had nothing to do with my job.”
My brow furrows slightly in confusion. “Why couldn’t you sleep?”
“I googled you,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Watched a lot of your TikTok videos.”
Heat floods my face, and I instinctively cover my cheeks with my hands. “Oh, God. Not those.”
He laughs, a deep, easy laugh that seems to fill the entire cabin. “You and your friend . . . what’s her name?”
“Nora,” I mutter from behind my hands, still mortified.
“Yeah. Very entertaining,” he says, clearly enjoying my embarrassment. There’s something playful in his voice that makes me want to hide and laugh at the same time. “Why’d you stop? I couldn’t find any newer ones.”
I lower my hands, feeling the flush creep down my neck. “I just . . . it’s been a rough year. We did one in my private group the other night, but I don’t venture onto TikTok anymore.”
“Well, that’s a shame,” he says, his gaze never leaving mine. “In your text, you said you wanted to pick my brain. About what? You writing about a cop?” He says it with a sexy emphasis.
“I am, actually,” I reply, feeling the heat in my cheeks intensify.
His lips twitch into a small smile. “What a coincidence.”
I can feel the embarrassment climbing up my neck, spreading across my face like wildfire. “Yep,” I say again, my voice barely above a whisper.
“But to be fair, my character was a cop long before last night. This book has been in the works for over a year and a half, unfortunately.”
He chuckles softly, and the sound of his laughter sends a shiver down my spine. There’s a moment where our eyes meet, and I feel something in our look. The tension that’s been simmering beneath the surface suddenly feels more real, more electric. And for just a second, I wonder what Reya would do in this moment.
Would she let herself lean into the friction? Would she allow herself to blur the lines between what’s fictional and what’s real? I’m tempted to find out, but instead, I smile, feeling both flustered and exhilarated. And guilty.
We aren’t two single adults standing in a room together. This isn’t innocent
fiction.
“What’s your question?”
“I have lots, actually. A lot of . . . cop questions. I don’t even know
where to start.”
“What kind of book is it? Romance?”
I nod. “Romantic suspense. A love triangle. And the married cop is part of that triangle because he falls for a witness. It gets . . . messy. I just . .
.”
He waits quietly for me to finish.
“I don’t know anything about cops. Or love triangles, apparently.”
“Not sure I can answer questions about a love triangle. I’ve never been in one. But anything else is fair game.” His voice is low and curious, like he’s genuinely interested in my answer. He grins, and I can feel that smile slide right into my stomach, settling there like a slow-burning flame. It’s the kind of smile that makes you forget how to breathe for a second.
I’m still stuck on the fact he watched my old videos. I can’t believe I didn’t think to make them private on TikTok after all the drama. Which means he’s seen me drunk, spouting off ridiculous ideas, laughing until I snorted wine out of my nose. I’m mortified just thinking about it, but at the same time, there’s something intriguing about the fact that he’s here, standing in front of me, bringing it up as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to Google search someone you just met.
“Yeah, I’ve never been in one either,” I say, trying to downplay my embarrassment while still engaging in the conversation. “I’ve been second- guessing that whole part of it, but I do have questions that might come up about your job if you wouldn’t mind answering them as I go. I’m sure the more experience you have as a cop, the better you get at it over time, right?
You learn things on the job that you can’t learn in a classroom. Things I won’t be able to find on Google.”
“True,” he says, his smile softening a little as he nods in agreement.
“Writing is like that,” I continue, the words coming easier now. “If I lived through something, I could probably make it more realistic when I put
it into words on paper. There’s only so much you can imagine before your lack of experience starts to show. And I’ve never been a cop, so . . .”
“Or in a love triangle,” he adds.
Saint breaks our eye contact for the first time since we started this conversation, his gaze drifting down to his arms, which are folded across his chest. I follow his line of sight and see that he’s staring at his left hand, specifically at the wedding ring on his finger. He starts to twirl the ring absentmindedly with his thumb, and I can’t help but wonder what’s going through his mind.
That move makes my stomach tighten, not just from embarrassment but also from the sudden realization that this conversation is skirting perilously close to what might lead into inappropriate territory.
Maybe that’s why he’s here.
“This book you’re working on,” he says after a beat, his eyes lifting back to meet mine. “What are the main characters’ names?”
“Cam is the cop,” I reply, feeling a strange thrill at the fact he’s asking so many questions. “Reya is the female protagonist.”
“And who is the third?”
“Cam’s wife. Cam is the one having the affair, but Reya feels guilty because she doesn’t want to be the other woman, but she’s just too . . . intrigued by him.”
“Are there specific things that happen to Reya in the book that you’ve never experienced?” His voice is steady, but his question dwells, thick and heavy. “Or are you still outlining?”
Holy shit. This conversation is really going there. I can feel the heat creeping up the back of my neck, and suddenly I’m not sure if I’m ready to have this conversation with him. Not like this. Not while we’re standing so close, not while the air feels charged with something I can’t quite name.
I need a drink.
Without saying anything, I walk around him, moving toward the cabinet to grab a glass. “I need wine for this conversation,” I say, my voice a little breathless. I turn to face him, raising an eyebrow. “Want some?”
He shrugs, a slow, easy movement that somehow makes him seem even more relaxed. “I’ll take a glass,” he says, his gaze never leaving mine.
I grab the open bottle of wine I broke into for Mari from the refrigerator, feeling the coolness of the bottle against my skin as I pour two half glasses. When I turn to hand him his glass, we’re closer now. He’s still
leaning against the kitchen island, and I’m leaning against the sink, but our feet are just inches apart, and the proximity sends a shiver down my spine.
He takes the glass from my hand, his fingers brushing lightly against mine, and for a moment, I feel frozen in place.
He takes a sip, his eyes still locked on mine, watching me over the rim of the wineglass. There’s something in the way he watches me that feels different now, more intense, like we’re no longer just talking about the book. It’s as if the conversation is a stand-in for something else, something unspoken but undeniably present.
I don’t sip as delicately from my glass. I take a huge gulp, the wine sliding down my throat in a rush as I try to steady myself. I set the glass on the counter next to me, my hand lingering on it as I stare down at it, trying to gather my thoughts.
“Reya is very different from me,” I begin, my voice a little softer now.
“I don’t want you to think I took inspiration for her character from my own life.”
“I’m sure you took some. Would be impossible not to, right?”
“I suppose. But I do intentionally make my characters different from myself. It’s fun living vicariously through them. She’s only twenty-six, but she’s lived a busy life. Already out of law school and practicing, so when she meets Cam, she isn’t the most experienced with men. All her time has been put into becoming a badass attorney, but he’s the first thing that makes her nervous.” I glance up at him, my heart thudding. “Their attraction is intense. But . . . as you know, he’s married.” My eyes inadvertently glance down at his ring and then back up again.
Saint nods slowly, his expression unreadable as he sips from his wine again. He lowers the glass to his chest and holds it there like it’s a shield.
“How does that make Reya feel?” he asks, his voice quieter now, more probing, as if he’s asking me something more than just a plot detail.
“Jealous,” I say immediately, the word slipping out before I can stop it.
“Disappointed.”
His gaze darkens just a fraction, and I wonder if I’ve said too much, if I’ve let too much of myself slip into the story. But the way he’s looking at me like he’s searching for something in my answer makes me feel like I’m not the only one unsure how far we’re going to take this conversation.
For a moment, the air between us feels impossibly charged, the mass of his question still hanging there. We’re not just talking about Reya and
Cam anymore. There’s something more personal woven into this conversation, something that neither of us has said aloud, but we both know is there.
“Do they know each other very well?” he asks, his voice softer now, pulling me even more into the moment.
“Not at all,” I reply, shaking my head. “Not in the beginning.”
“So this attraction . . . it’s strictly physical?” His eyes are searching mine, his question hanging in the air, heavy, almost tangible.
“For now,” I admit, my voice quiet as I feel the tension between us
grow.
I have no idea what’s happening here.
Are we still talking about the book? Or are we talking about us now?
It’s as though the conversation has taken on a double meaning that neither of us is acknowledging outright.
Now that I’ve been picturing Cam as Saint in my head, it’s impossible to separate the two. For a writer, it’s a strange feeling—to be standing so close to a real-life version of your character. It’s like something I created has come to life, and that thought sends a rush of adrenaline through me.
I take another drink of wine, feeling my heart pounding so loud I’m sure Saint can hear it. I’m trying to keep my breathing steady, but it’s difficult.
“How does their affair begin?” he asks, his tone calm but curious, like he’s genuinely interested.
I swallow hard, knowing that the answer to this question will take us even deeper into a hazardous place. “A kiss,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “Cam loves his wife, but he’s never felt such a strong physical attraction to anyone like he does to Reya. So one night . . . when he’s at Reya’s house on business . . . he lets his weakness take over. And he kisses her. But in the middle of the kiss, he feels guilty, so he pulls away from her and storms out of the house.”
“Without apologizing?” Saint’s eyebrow rises, and I can tell he’s intrigued by the emotional conflict.
I nod, feeling my pulse race even faster. “Cam is a tortured soul,” I explain.
Saint nods slowly, thinking it over. His eyes stay locked on mine, and then he asks, “And that’s never happened to you? You’ve never been kissed by a man who is married to another woman?”
I shake my head, my voice quiet now. “No,” I say softly. “And now I feel stuck when I try to write Reya’s reaction.” I take another sip of my wine and then continue. “How would Reya react after that? Would she get angry at Cam for kissing her, even though she wanted it? Would she cry because he stormed out without a word? Or would she feel triumphant— like she won?”
Saint tilts his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as he considers my question. “That does sound like something you would have to experience before you could really nail the emotions.”
“Exactly,” I say, feeling a surge of validation, even as my heart races.
We stare at each other for a long, quiet moment, and my heart might be pounding louder than when I was woken up by police lights in the middle of the night.
Then, he does something I’m not expecting—he pulls his bottom lip in and chews on it for a moment, a classic move straight out of the novels I write. The sight of it makes me want to laugh, but the tension is too real, too thick, and I wonder if he realizes how perfectly he’s fitting the role of my fictional hero right now.
Is he biting that lip on purpose? Has he read a romance novel?
There’s a sudden intrusive buzzing sound that makes Saint stand up straighter. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and glances down at the screen. His expression changes slightly, and when he looks back at me, his eyes are serious. “It’s my wife,” he says.
The words hit me like a splash of cold water, and I try not to let the disappointment show. I set down my wineglass, my fingers trembling slightly. “You should probably answer it,” I say, trying to sound casual, unaffected.
Saint also sets his wineglass on the counter beside him, his eyes still locked on mine. “You’re right. I should answer it.”
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he tosses the phone onto the counter, and before I can even process what’s happening, he closes the gap between us. In an instant, his hand slips behind my head, and his mouth is on mine.
The kiss happens so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that I gasp. His lips are warm, soft, and when his tongue slides into my mouth, it sends chills rolling down my spine. I press myself against him instinctively, my hands moving up to the sides of his neck as his lips close over mine.
He tastes like mint and merlot, a combination that sends my senses reeling. I know immediately that this is how I’ll describe Cam’s kiss in the book—this taste, this feeling, this moment.
His phone is still buzzing away on the counter, but all I can think about is the way he chose this kiss over answering her call. I was right, at least about that feeling. Reya would feel triumphant, like she’d won something she didn’t even know she was fighting for.
But the triumph comes with a heavy side of guilt, and that feeling starts to creep in almost as quickly. I can’t ignore the fact that his phone is
buzzing because his wife is calling.
His literal wife.
And I won’t even allow my mind to start dissecting all the things I should feel guilty for.
The phone finally stops vibrating, and in the silence that follows, the only sounds are the soft, intoxicating hum of his mouth moving against mine and the quiet moan that escapes from me without warning. His hand slides down to the small of my back, pulling me closer, and I press myself into him, lost in the heat of the moment.
But then, just as quickly as it began, the phone starts buzzing again, jerking us both back to reality.
Saint pulls away from me, his breath heavy as he presses his forehead to mine. I gasp for air, my chest rising and falling as I try to catch my breath.
No kiss has ever left me this breathless, this affected.
When I open my eyes, I see that his are still closed, as if he’s trying to hold on to the moment for just a little longer.
Did I really just allow that to happen?
I’m awful.
The phone keeps buzzing, an insistent reminder of the reality we’re trying to ignore.
And then Saint releases me and grabs his phone, his expression unreadable, and without another word, he walks to the door.
The door slams behind him, and I stand here, feeling the weight of the silence in the cabin. He filled me with so many emotions in that brief moment, only to rip them away just as quickly. Now, all I’m left with is this aching feeling in my chest—an emptiness I wasn’t expecting.
I ache for more of that kiss. More of his flirtation. More of that triumphant feeling.
I hear the gravel crunch beneath his tires as he pulls away from the house, and even after he’s been gone for several minutes, I’m still standing in the same spot, touching my lips with my fingertips, trying to process everything that just happened.
The reaction that surprises me the most right now is my smile. If I were to have written Reya and Cam’s first kiss last night, I never would have thought she would smile after he left the way he did.
But I’m smiling. Despite the guilt I feel for the betrayal, I’m somehow smiling because it doesn’t feel like I’ve done anything wrong. It’s research.
Right?
Without thinking, I walk straight to my computer and open it. For the second night in a row, I sit down and immediately begin typing.
I am never telling a soul about that kiss.
