CHAPTER SEVEN
I just told Mari about the kiss.
I didn’t mean to. But she showed up here unannounced wearing floral overalls. And she’s been drinking a mimosa from a YETI cup, so she seems harmless and bored.
She came for a visit just as I was needing a breather from the most recent all-nighter I pulled, so we came out here to the front porch to sit on the patio furniture, and the conversation just ended up here. Right here, with me saying “It was just a kiss,” and her just staring at me in amusement.
“Oh, my,” she says.
“I know,” I say.
I can’t believe I caved that easily. To her, not to the kiss. But she was being nosy, asking me about seeing a mysterious black car in my driveway two days ago. I explained to her that it was the detective, and he had stopped by to take a statement. But when I was telling her, I don’t know what happened. I just couldn’t hide it. I was blushing, I couldn’t stop
smiling.
I became a flailing idiot.
Then, out of nowhere, she accused me of sleeping with him. “You’re porking the porker!” she said.
I became defensive, but instead of making a full denial, I said something like “No, I’m not! I swear, it didn’t go that far! It was just a
kiss.”
That’s when she said, “Oh, my.”
And I responded with “I know.”
And now here we are. Staring at each other.
She sips from her YETI cup, a long, constant sip. “Well. Good for you.
I’ve been married to Louie since I was seventeen. It wasn’t until I was in my fifties that I realized my lips had never touched another man’s and likely never would at that point because I was in my fifties and Louie was healthy as an ox. And to be honest, it made me kind of sad. Because what if Louie is a terrible kisser? What if we aren’t even doing it right? How would we know when we’ve only experienced each other?”
She’s staring off into the distance, focused on nothing in particular.
“Now my youth is gone, and the thought of Louie putting his tongue in my mouth makes me want to walk right out there to the spot where that young man ended his life the other night and do the same exact thing.”
“Jesus, Mari.”
“Have zero regrets, Petra. Kiss all the men. And the women, too, while you’re at it. Because there are some of us in the world who never got to do any of those fun things.”
Her YETI is empty now. She’s trying desperately to get the last drop to empty onto her tongue.
“At least you and Louie have had a long marriage. Not a lot of people get that.”
She waves me off with a flippant hand. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Wouldn’t change a thing, blah blah blah.”
I laugh. “Have you ever kissed a costar? For a role?” I ask her.
“A couple of times, but those don’t count. Makeout scenes are actually terrible. You have some sweaty director in a chair five feet away yelling action at the two of you, and the heat from the lights is making you both sweat, while the guy you’re being forced to pretend to want to kiss has been a whiny little bitch for the last two solid weeks and you’d rather be strangling him with your hands than your tongue.”
“Sounds awful.”
“It is very, very hard being an actress. Okay, going home. Out of alcohol.” She stands up, but I remain in my chair as she walks down the porch steps. “And don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you smooched the cop.
Hell, this is my third mimosa today—I probably won’t even remember it
happened by the time I make it home.”
“Thank you.”
As Mari is walking away, she says, “And yes, I am possibly an alcoholic, but I’m too old for interventions, so don’t even try.”
“I won’t. I promise. Enjoy your next mimosa.”
“I will. Enjoy your next makeout.”
All I can do is laugh at that. It feels good to laugh, because the last twenty-four hours have been getting stressful again.
I walk back into the house and take a seat in front of my laptop. The writing was going well for like an entire day after Saint kissed me. But then
day two came, and I still hadn’t heard a word from him. The silence started to get the best of me, even though he owes me nothing. Not even a text.
But it’s almost as if I need another boost of him to get back into my groove. I’ve been trying to live off the memory of the kiss alone. The way his lips moved against mine, the feel of his hands on me, the unexpected thrill of it all. It’s a kiss that has taken root in my thoughts, refusing to let go, lingering in the quiet moments. Which has literally been every moment since he slammed the door.
At least I was productive after. I wrote several chapters, words pouring out of me like they hadn’t in weeks. I even rewrote some of the notes I’ve taken over the past year and a half to make Cam more like Saint. Every time I sat down to type, I saw Saint in my mind—his face, his voice, his presence. Cam took on new dimensions, becoming a character that felt more real, more tangible, because I had someone to model him after. It felt exhilarating, watching the pages fill with a story that was suddenly alive in a way it hadn’t been before.
But before Mari came over, I had been staring at this blinking cursor taunting me again as I struggled to find the words.
I know what needs to happen in the story, but the energy from the kiss has faded, leaving me with the familiar frustration of writer’s block. It’s as if the high from that moment has worn off, and now I’m left wondering if I can even recapture it again without him.
I talked to Nora last night, but I didn’t tell her about the kiss. Other than Mari, who knows next to nothing about me or my life, I’m never telling anyone. That is definitely something I want to keep private. I’ve always been a private person, and this . . . well, this feels too personal, too complicated to share, even with my best friend.
I write under my real name, but just my first and middle name. My last name is Andrews, but readers don’t know that. I’ve never worried too much about my personal life being revealed to them. They know very little about me. I have the version of myself I portray to the readers, but none of them know if I’m dating or married or single or a mother or a lonely cat lady. I don’t put anything out there beyond my writing, and I want to keep it that way. It’s always been a kind of shield, keeping my real life separate from the persona I present to the world. My readers get the stories, but they don’t get me, and that’s how I like it.
Which is why—as much as I trust Nora—I would never tell her about my kiss with Saint. I feel too guilty, and she’s one of the only true friends in all areas of my life. I’d hate to taint her version of me, whatever that may be.
I’m more worried about how other people would feel about my actions than how I feel. Is this really any different from two actors kissing for the camera? It’s art.
Obviously, a spouse would never be forgiven for kissing someone else based on the excuse that it’s research for a book, but it sure as hell makes it easier to forgive myself that way. I feel very little guilt compared to the moment it happened, thanks to all the clever ways I’ve excused it. And I don’t know what that says about me. Whether it means I’m cold and detached—or is it simply that I’ve compartmentalized what happened as part of my process, something separate from real life?
In fact, I feel so little guilt, I’m starting to wonder how far I can take this thing with Saint. I’ve picked up my phone several times to text him again, but each time I chicken out.
Cam and Reya have kissed in the book, but I’m having trouble writing about the relationship they develop because I’ve never had feelings for a married man. I’ve never felt like the other woman. There are so many ways a relationship with a married man would differ from a more traditional relationship. Not only would you not be able to go public with it, even to your closest friends, but you would also have to go to great lengths to keep it private.
What would that feel like? To love a man who can only love you part- time?
To be the one left behind, always waiting for stolen moments, knowing that someone else gets the best of him while you only get the leftovers?
It’s a feeling I can’t quite grasp, but I know it’s something Reya would be wrestling with in the story. It’s a layer of complexity I haven’t fully explored yet, and I know it’s the key to making the relationship between Cam and Reya feel real.
I’ve been at war with myself over whether or not to call him. On one hand, it feels reckless, like I’m stepping into dangerous territory. On the
other hand, it’s work.
I settle on a compromise with myself.
I’ll text him.
I keep in mind that his wife might see this message, so I stay professional. I don’t want to raise any red flags. Just a simple, innocent request.
This is Petra Rose. I have a
research question if you have time for it.
I stare at my phone after I send the text, half expecting him to respond immediately like he did the last time I texted him. But this time, the dots don’t appear. He doesn’t text me back right away, and the silence stretches out longer than I expect.
I watch the phone for a moment, waiting, but when nothing happens, disappointment creeps in.
He’s had time to think over what he did, and he’s starting to regret it.
I stare at my computer for several minutes, wondering if I shouldn’t have sent the text. I know I shouldn’t have sent the text. But I feel more disappointment that he didn’t answer right away than I do guilt from sending it. I know I’m walking a fine line here, but the pull of curiosity is stronger than my sense of caution.
I need to busy myself, so I go to the kitchen to cook dinner and leave my phone on the table. I make a salad and grill a chicken breast, trying to focus on the task at hand rather than the gnawing sense of anticipation building in my chest.
I eat my entire meal while staring pathetically at my phone. Each bite feels like it’s dragging time out even longer.
I guess he really does regret that kiss.
Maybe he’s trying to distance himself, to draw a line in the sand that I’ve already crossed. The thought stings more than I expected it to.
I take my plate to the sink and begin rinsing it, but I almost drop it when I hear my phone buzz. I turn off the water and rush to my phone, my heart racing with a mixture of excitement and anxiety. I can feel a swirl of excitement roll through my entire body when I see it’s a response from Saint.
Saint: Are you having writer’s block again? More than happy
to help. ;)
Holy shit. He even added a wink.
I wasn’t expecting that. I wasn’t even really expecting him to respond, but that reply proves that we’re both on the same page after that kiss a couple of days ago.
Me: Yeah, I guess you could say
that. After you left the other night,
I wrote several chapters. But today I’m stuck.
Saint: What’s tripping you up?
Me: I’m not sure I know how it feels
to be the other woman. I have no
idea how to describe things
between Cam and Reya because I
have no idea how often she would
be thinking about his wife or the
future of their relationship when they’re together.
Saint: Are Cam and Reya in love?
Me: Yes. Very much in love.
Saint: So you’re wondering how
two people who are in love
would navigate a normal night
together, when one of those characters is married?
Me: Yes. Exactly that.
Saint: It sounds like you would
need to experience that
rsthand. Research can only go so far, I’m assuming.
Me: Experience has denitely proven helpful in the recent past.
Saint: It would be rude of me
not to help you. I can be there in an hour.
Me: I would appreciate that.
I calmly set my phone back down on the table, but my reaction is anything but calm right now. My heart is racing, my hands trembling with anticipation. I want to scream. This entire situation is insane. I can’t even believe I’ve gotten myself involved with this guy, but again—it’s for research. That’s all. Research.
I only have one hour before he gets here. One hour to shower, dry my hair, brush my teeth, make my bed, and clean up two days’ worth of complete chaos. I move through my routine in a blur, my mind spinning with a thousand different thoughts, each one louder than the last.
I spend the better part of the next hour worrying more about how I look than about the state of the cabin. My reflection in the mirror becomes a battlefield of indecision. Hair up or down? Light makeup or bare faced?
Casual or a bit more put together? It’s ridiculous how much thought I’m putting into it, as if the way I present myself could somehow control the course of the evening. But I can’t help it. Every detail feels like it matters in a way it hasn’t before, like how I appear might influence the direction of my career.
My heart is racing as I change my outfit for the third time, settling on something that toes the line between casual and deliberately chosen. A fitted sweater that hugs my curves but not too much, jeans that look good but aren’t trying too hard, and just a touch of mascara to make my eyes pop. It’s
all calculated to look effortless. Why are women so pathetic sometimes?
Men don’t have to do a damn thing other than show up.
By the time I finish getting the dishes cleaned and put away, I hear the familiar sound of gravel crunching beneath tires. He’s here. A surge of nerves mixed with anticipation floods through me, and I quickly finish the last sip of the wine I’ve been nursing for the past hour. It doesn’t help calm me down as much as I’d hoped, but it gives me something to focus on other than the fact that he’ll be at my door in seconds.
When the knock finally comes, I take a deep breath, trying to compose myself. I pause for a moment before heading to the door, wanting to seem as calm and collected as possible. When I open it, Saint stands there in full uniform, but there’s something about the way he’s looking at me that makes the moment feel anything but professional. He’s holding a change of clothes in his hands, and I catch myself staring at them before I look up to meet his eyes.
“I didn’t have time to run back to the station to change,” he says, his voice carrying a casual familiarity. “Mind if I do it here?”
I shake my head, pointing behind me toward the hallway. “Bathroom is through that door.”
He doesn’t wait for further invitation. He steps inside with that same devilish grin I’ve come to associate with him, a grin that sends a spark of heat through me. Without missing a beat, he steps closer, his hand slipping around my neck, and before I can even process what’s happening, his lips are on mine. The kiss is sudden, consuming, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I respond instinctively, my body moving toward him, meeting him halfway as if this kind of greeting is completely familiar to us now. The feeling of his mouth on mine pulls me into a daze, a moment where nothing else exists but the heat of the kiss and the weight of his hands on me.
He backs me up two steps, his mouth never leaving mine, and kicks the door shut behind him with an easy motion. “I can only stay an hour,” he murmurs against my lips, his breath warm on my skin. “I wish I could stay all night.”
I blink, pulling back slightly, my mind trying to catch up to what’s happening. Is he in character right now? The way he’s kissing me, the way he’s speaking—it’s as if he’s channeling Cam. But I don’t know if that’s intentional or if I’m projecting. The line between Saint and Cam is becoming increasingly muddled, and I’m starting to wonder if he’s doing it
on purpose. This kiss—this greeting—feels like something Cam would do at this point in the story. But would Saint? Under normal circumstances, I doubt it. But in this moment, nothing feels normal.
Saint sets his clothes on the counter and heads straight for the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of wine with an ease that suggests he’s done this before. He grabs the glass I was drinking from earlier, refills it, and slides it across the island toward me. Then, he pulls another glass from the cabinet and fills it for himself.
The whole scene feels surreal, like we’ve slipped into an alternate reality where this is just what we do. Share wine, exchange kisses, play out a story that might not even be ours.
“How was your day, Reya?” he asks, the name of my character slipping from his lips as if it’s always belonged there. The shift in tone, in context, makes me realize with certainty that he’s completely in character right now. I have to bite back my smile at the realization.
“It was good,” I reply, picking up my glass and taking a small sip.
“How was yours, Cam?”
He walks toward me, his presence overwhelming the small space between us. He’s so tall, I have to tilt my head back slightly when he stops in front of me. He touches my chin with his finger, tipping my face up toward his. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” he whispers, his voice low and intimate, just before he brings his mouth down on mine again.
Good God, my knees feel like they might give out under the weight of that kiss. His lips press against mine with a hunger that leaves me breathless, and for a moment, I lose myself in the sensation. When he pulls back, his eyes searching mine, he adds softly, “I’ll be right back.”
He heads for the bathroom to change clothes, leaving me standing there, dazed and a little dizzy from the kiss. My mind is racing, trying to process what just happened—and what might happen next. Does he expect me to pretend I’m in love with him? Is this all part of some role play he’s initiated, or is there something more happening here? The uncertainty is exhilarating and terrifying all at once. I don’t know how this will play out, but the anticipation is coursing through me.
When Saint emerges from the bathroom, he’s no longer in his uniform.
He’s opted for a simple navy T-shirt and jeans. He walks over to the table and casually lays his police uniform and gun on top of it, and the sight of
them sends a shiver down my spine. It’s a reminder of the reality he’s left behind, and the role he’s chosen to step into now.
He moves toward me with purpose, his hands finding their way around my waist before effortlessly lifting me onto the island in front of him. The ease with which he moves, the way his body fits so perfectly against mine . . . it’s straight out of a book. His lips find my neck, and I close my eyes, letting the sensation of his mouth on my skin wash over me.
He’s making me dizzy.
I lean my head to the side, allowing him more access to my neck, my skin tingling under the slow, deliberate slide of his tongue. I can feel his left hand tracing a path down my thigh, pulling my leg up around his waist as he moves closer, pressing himself against me. It’s a strange mix of control and tenderness, and I can’t help but wonder if this is how he is with his wife.
Is this the way he kisses her, the way he touches her?
I push the thought away, refusing to let it take root. Right now, he’s here. Right now, his mouth is on my neck, and I need to focus on that.
“Tell me something,” he whispers against my skin, his voice sending shivers down my spine.
“Mmhmm,” I mutter, barely able to form a coherent response.
“What kind of guy is Cam?” His question is laced with curiosity, but his lips never stop moving against my skin.
I open my eyes, the reality of the moment sinking in.
If he’s asking about Cam, does that mean he’s kissing me as Saint right now? Is this real, or is this part of the game we’ve been playing? God, I hope it’s real.
“He’s . . .” I pause, trying to gather my thoughts as his tongue slides precariously close to my ear. It’s hard to focus with the way he’s making me feel, but I manage to speak. “He’s good, but rough around the edges. He’s controlling. Jealous. Has a temper.”
Saint pulls back just enough to look me in the eye, his expression thoughtful. “He wouldn’t hurt Reya, would he?”
“Never,” I say, my voice soft but certain. “He’s madly in love with her.
Tries his best to protect her.”
“Tries?” Saint’s brow furrows, his gaze questioning. “Does that mean he doesn’t always succeed?”
I shake my head, my breath catching in my throat. “Not always.”
He rubs his thumb over my bottom lip, his eyes darkening as he stares at my mouth. I love the way he looks at me in this moment, the intensity of his gaze, the way it makes me feel seen in a way I’ve never felt before. I want to capture this feeling, write it down, describe it in detail, but I’m afraid that if I wait until later, I won’t be able to capture the fullness of it.
The way his eyes make me feel like I’m the only thing that matters.
“Does anything bad happen to Reya in your book?” he asks, his voice low, but full of genuine concern.
“Yes,” I whisper. Normally, I wouldn’t spoil the plot for anyone, but in this moment, I don’t care. Saint isn’t just anyone, and I doubt he’ll ever
read my work.
“What happens to her?”
“Well. A lot, actually. She loses her best friend. There’s an attempted kidnapping. A car chase. Someone breaks into her house.”
Saint’s eyes narrow in concern. “Does anyone ever hurt her?”
“Yes,” I admit. “She gets hurt toward the end of the book. The person who breaks into her house . . . after he ties her up, she realizes her arm is broken.”
“Does she know who is doing these things to her?”
“She doesn’t.”
“Why do these things keep happening to her?”
“Reya is a lawyer. She has evidence that this character is trying to locate.”
Saint runs the backs of his fingers over my cheek as I speak. He seems so interested in my answers, it makes me wonder if he’s planning to act any of these scenes out. Is that why I’m telling him about it? Because part of me hopes he does? Do I actually want to know what it’s like to be kidnapped?
To have a broken arm?
No. That would be taking things a little too far. I’m not so sure I’m willing to go that deep for research.
“What happens next?” he asks. “How does she find out who is doing all this?”
I clear my throat. “I’m not sure. I haven’t gotten that far into the story yet.”
He pulls back farther, shifting his weight slightly on the island, though my leg is still wrapped around his waist, keeping us intimately connected.
His thumb continues to stroke my hip, a steady, comforting rhythm. His
gaze softens, losing some of the intensity it often holds, becoming surprisingly empathetic.
“You know, for someone who writes such compelling stories, you seem hesitant to talk about your own.” His voice is quiet, almost gentle.
“Maybe even embarrassed.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, feigning ignorance, my voice a little too high.
He doesn’t let up. His eyes, surprisingly perceptive, search mine. “I don’t know. When you talk about your story, or your career, you just seem embarrassed.”
Wow. Isn’t he an astute one. I sigh. “Embarrassed doesn’t feel like the right word. But yes. You’re right. It’s hard talking about myself.”
“Has it always been? Or is it just since the adaptation controversy?”
I give him a look that must be full of surprise, because he immediately shoots me back a reassuring glance.
“Look, I know I barely know you at all,” he says. “But it’s weird, because I feel like I kind of do after watching all your videos. And the you I saw in those videos just isn’t the same you standing in front of me.”
“Ouch. I’m more disappointing in real life?”
“Disappointing and disappointed are two very different things. You are far from disappointing, Petra.”
I push off the counter and pace for a moment, not sure what he wants from me. “I don’t like this conversation. I liked pretending you had no idea about me or the noise online.”
“You’re hard to scroll past. Even out here in the middle of nowhere, we all have cell service.”
“It’s not really something I like to talk about,” I murmur, looking away, staring at the polished surface of the island, anywhere but at him. The thought of revisiting the vitriol, much less talking to him about it, makes my chest ache.
“I get it,” he says, his voice softer now, almost soothing. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. I just can’t imagine it’s easy, having your passion picked apart by strangers. And on top of that, having them feel like they’re entitled to more than just your words on paper. They feel entitled to rip you apart, without even having spent a single second in the room with you.” He pauses, and when I glance at him, he’s watching me with a look of legitimate concern. “How are you handling it? Are you okay?”
The directness of his question catches me off guard. The way he says it, as if he genuinely cares, is disarming. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, a surprising response to his empathy. “Well, it hasn’t been fun,” I admit, the words barely a whisper, forcing them out. “I feel like the whole past year broke something inside me. I haven’t been able to write anything meaningful.” I look up at him, my eyes pleading. “Until you kissed me.”
A slow smile spreads across his mouth. “It helped?”
I nod. “A lot.”
With that, he kisses me again, soft and quick, then wraps his arms around me. He gently caresses my shoulder with his thumb.
“What did you used to love about writing?” he asks.
“Everything. I’ve just always gotten a thrill out of putting words to paper.”
“So it’s the act of writing, not necessarily the act of being read?”
“I mean, it’s nice when people want to read what I write, but it’s not why I write. I write for my own enjoyment. It’s therapy for me. It’s what
makes me happy.”
“Then why haven’t you been writing?”
The question is so simple, but so complex. Saint moves his hands to my shoulders, pushing me away just enough so that he can look me in the eye.
“I’m serious. If it makes you happy, why aren’t you doing it?”
“I just didn’t think my career would ever take off like it did, or that people would have such passionate feelings toward what I do in my spare time. It’s the aftermath I don’t really like. And it’s impossible to get away from. I fear that any move I make from here on out will always become a headline. I think that’s why I’ve had writer’s block, because in reality, I’m a little bit scared to finish the book and give it to the world.”
“Then don’t give it to anyone. Just write it and keep it for yourself.”
“Have to pay the bills,” I say flatly. The hard truth behind the dream breaks through the kindness of the moment. “I’m sure I’ll still sell books when I release another one, which is why I’m writing. But my desire has changed. My audience has changed. I think that’s what makes me the saddest. I feel like I’ve let down everyone who used to admire me.” I separate myself from him and put my hands on my hips. “But I’m just not the type to try and change people’s minds. If me defending myself will require me to speak ill of someone else, I’d rather just take the loss.”
Saint is staring at me with what looks like admiration. “There you are,” he whispers, gently tucking my hair behind my ears.
His words, simple yet profound, land with an unexpected weight, cutting through years of self-doubt and poisoned thoughts.
“I want you to write,” he says. “And I want you to publish. I know I’m just one person, but I want to read everything you’ve written and everything you haven’t written, so even if you’re only writing for you and me, let that be enough to finish at least one more book.”
A warmth spreads through my chest, a sensation that has nothing to do with physical touch and everything to do with genuine connection. It makes me uncomfortable, so I cut through it with humor. “And you promise you’ll buy it? I need the royalties. The whole dollar.”
He laughs. “I’ll buy ten copies,” he jokes.
“Wow. Baller.”
I realize, as he kisses me again with a smile, that he sees me. He truly sees me, beyond Reya, beyond Cam, beyond the initial physical attraction.
He sees Petra, the struggling author, and he’s offered me a listening ear instead of just another nosy inquisition.
A different kind of attraction sparks within me, a deeper, more personal fascination. I wrap my arms around his waist.
“Thank you,” I whisper. This conversation has been liberating in so many ways.
He smiles, a soft, genuine smile that reaches his eyes, making them
crinkle at the corners.
“Will you let me read some of it?”
The question takes me completely by surprise. No one but Nora reads my first drafts. They’re my messiest, most vulnerable thoughts. “You want to read my book?” I ask, incredulous.
“I mean, I am helping you research. And if it helps your process to know that someone else is invested in the story . . . I’d be honored.”
My heart gives a surprising lurch. The idea of him, Saint, reading my words, seeing the raw, unpolished beginnings of Reya’s story. The parts of her that are so clearly me and the parts of Cam that are so clearly him—it’s terrifying. But it’s also exhilarating. It’s a bridge between our fantasy and my reality, a sign of a deeper engagement. He’s not just playing a character; he’s investing in my art, in me.
“Maybe,” I say, a shy smile finally breaking through. “Okay.” The thought of his eyes on my words, of his mind engaging with the world I’m building, suddenly feels like the most powerful inspiration of all. This is more than just research now. This is a collaboration.
He grins, and then kisses me. And just like during our first kiss, his phone begins to vibrate. He doesn’t even flinch. He just kisses me even deeper, ignoring the incoming call.
With every vibration of his phone, he pulls me tighter against him as if he’s trying to drown out the noise with my touch.
“You should get that,” I whisper, pulling away.
We both know it’s his wife.
He reluctantly steps away from me and pulls his phone out of his pocket. He carries it to the front door and takes the call outside.
I watch him through the window. He’s gripping the back of his neck as he speaks to whoever is on the other end of that call.
I wonder what her name is. How long they’ve been together. Does he
have children?
The call doesn’t last long.
He heads back toward the house, so I walk away from the window.
When he’s back inside, his expression is regretful. He walks past me and scoops up his uniform and gun. He doesn’t say a word. He just grips my face with one hand and kisses me, almost possessively.
Then he leaves.
I’m left speechless, standing alone in the kitchen.
I don’t know what just happened, it occurred so fast.
Was that part of his act? I’m getting reality and fiction confused. Was he doing what he thought Cam would do in that situation? Or did Saint really feel guilty enough after that phone call that he just left without a word?
I have no idea what was going through his head, so all I can do is focus on what’s going through mine. I take my computer to the bedroom with me, full of new ideas and new feelings and new thoughts.
I write until I fall asleep.
