CHAPTER EIGHT
I’ve been writing since the moment I woke up.
Saint is very good for my productivity. That is a proven fact.
My phone vibrates on the table beside me. I’m so deep into my story, I’m afraid to pause and look at it. Sometimes when I’m in this kind of writing frenzy, the world outside my writing fades into the background, and it’s too risky to jump back into it. I ignore the text for half an hour, until I finish the chapter.
When I finally glance at my screen, I see it’s from Saint.
What are you doing tonight?
I blink at the words, my pulse skipping. The casualness of the text doesn’t match the density of the thrill it sends through me. Is he offering to come over again? To go out? Even a simple phone call from him would make this bored heart of mine flutter in a way it shouldn’t.
There’s an alarming allure to his attention.
I stare at the screen, hesitating for a moment. My fingers hover over it before I finally type back a response.
Writing. Unless you have an idea for research.
It’s a playful reply, one that keeps things ambiguous enough, but the tension beneath it is unmistakable. I press send and wait, chewing my bottom lip. The silence feels long even though it only lasts seconds. His response buzzes through my phone almost immediately.
Do your characters ever make
risky moves and go out in public?
The words seem innocent enough, but I know better. Is this a dare? An invitation? The thought sends a rush of adrenaline through me, mingling with the slow, creeping guilt that always accompanies thoughts of him. If Saint is planning on following through with whatever I say next, I’ll make it work to my advantage. I use an actual scene I’ve written in the book.
I respond with a text that reads Cam works up the courage to take Reya out on a date, but he’s nervous someone may recognize him. So they end up eating in his car.
The thrill of the idea pulses through me. I know this is a step into something potentially more lethal than what we’ve done before. We’ve flirted and crossed lines, but a date? It feels different—bolder. We’re treading into territory neither of us should be exploring.
But that’s also the pull, isn’t it?
My pulse is pounding as I consider the implications. Before I can overthink it, another text from Saint lights up my screen.
There’s a restaurant I’d like you to try, he texts. It’s in the next town over. You in the mood?
The thought of going out in public with him, even in another town, feels like too much of a risk. But his words prove he’s playing this game with me, and the logic of us going to the next town over makes sense for both Cam in the book and Saint, who has a wife and probably friends and coworkers who would recognize him here.
He’s taking a risk for me. I like it, so I text him back.
When and where?
As soon as I send the message, the nerves kick in. My stomach flips in that heady mix of excitement and guilt. I’m not just thinking about crossing a line—I’m planning it. And I want to. More than anything, I want to.
The reply is quick and decisive.
Meet me at the Blue Lantern. 7 pm. I’ll be at the bar.
I know the place; I’ve passed it many times on my way to and from this lake. It’s perfect for keeping a low profile, for blending in.
See you then.
I try throwing myself back into my story after the text exchange, but my thoughts keep drifting to what this evening will hold. This isn’t just a random encounter. This is planned. It’s a decision.
By the time six o’clock rolls around, I’m dressed, my heartbeat pounding in my chest like a drum. I’ve opted for something simple—a blouse and jeans—but I’ve never felt so self-conscious. It’s as though every piece of fabric clinging to my skin is a reminder of what I’m doing. Of the secrets I’m keeping.
Once I’m in my car and backing out of the driveway, an unsettling fear slips over me. There isn’t a single person in the world who knows where I’m heading right now.
I don’t usually put myself in these positions, so I’m not sure what to do. Who to text. I’m almost to the end of the long asphalt road when an idea
comes to me.
Mari.
I pull into their driveway, but before I even get out of the car, Louie is
walking outside.
“Everything okay, Petra?”
I nod. “Everything’s great. Just wanted to speak to Mari real quick.”
Louie seems a little disappointed that I’m not here to ask him a question about the house. He nods, then yells, “Mari! Writer renter lady is here for you!”
I can hear Mari make a noise from outside my car, and then she billows out onto the patio and into the yard like a ghost gliding across the pavement. “Petra!” she says.
Louie is still standing within earshot, so I eye him in a way that lets Mari know I don’t want him to overhear me.
“Get lost!” she yells over her shoulder. Louie disappears into the house. “What is it?” Her hands are clasped giddily beneath her chin, her fingers wriggling.
“Nothing salacious. Calm down. I’m just going to a work meeting and wanted someone to know where I am.”
“A work meeting. Okay. Where will you be? Who will you be with?
What time should I expect you home?”
“Him,” I say in a whisper. “The Blue Lantern. Start to worry if I’m not home by eleven.”
“Oh, that place is really good. Get the burger. Sounds basic, but trust
me.”
“Thank you.”
“Anytime,” she sings, twirling her silk dress with her as she heads back toward her house. She waves over her shoulder as I’m climbing into
my car.
I feel better. Safer.
But not home free. My mind is racing with what-ifs the entire drive to the restaurant. What if we’re caught? What if someone sees us? But with every anxious thought comes the undeniable thrill of being seen. Of someone noticing, but not quite catching on to what’s really happening between us.
I pull into the parking lot of the Blue Lantern at exactly 7 p.m. The restaurant is tucked into a row of other restaurants and bars, unremarkable but cozy enough. It’s perfect for what we’re doing. I park at the back, taking extra care to make sure no one can see my car from the street. It’s a rental, and no one would even notice me or my car, but I try to imagine what Reya would be doing in this situation.
My palms are damp as I grip the steering wheel. I sit there for a few moments, my breath shaky, before I finally gather the nerve to get out of the car.
I’ve never had to worry much about being recognized until recently.
I’ve always had a decent-size following, but it’s rare that people would actually approach me and know that I’m Petra Rose, the writer. I’m not sure normal society outside the tight-knit book world really pays attention to what the authors who write the books they read look like.
Social media has changed that for my generation of writers, though.
The handful of times I got recognized in the first few years of my career, it was always by someone who followed me online because they read my books. It would happen more if I was in a bookstore, or in a town where readers and authors were there for a book convention and happened to see me in passing. Up until these past couple of years, I’d honestly have been shocked if someone recognized me in this town.
But it’s different now. I’m not just an author. I’m a . . . whatever they call people like me. People who have reached such a level of either success
or infamy, or both, that they get recognized even by people who aren’t readers.
I’m glad I keep my personal life offline, at least. I could be in public with any man or woman in the world, and no one would think twice since I never post about whether or not I’m married or whether or not I have children.
The risks are high for Saint tonight, though. I keep that in mind as I walk toward the entrance and push open the door.
The restaurant is understated—low lighting, quiet booths, and a long bar that stretches along the back wall.
The low murmur of conversation around me makes me feel anonymous. People are engrossed in their own lives and their own company and pay very little attention to who is walking in or out the door.
I find Saint at the bar, already seated, his back to the room. It’s strategic—smart. He’s already ordered a drink, his fingers wrapped casually around the glass as he watches me approach in the mirror.
My nerves fade a little when I see him smile in the mirror across the bar. It’s a small, knowing smile, like we’re in on something no one else could possibly understand.
We’re supposed to blend in here, just another pair of strangers sitting side by side. My pulse quickens as I walk toward him. He doesn’t turn when I approach, but I see the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth in the reflection of the bar mirror.
“Late,” he says in a teasing tone as I slide onto the stool next to him.
“And not even fashionably,” I counter.
He gives me a quick, direct once-over, his eyes dark with amusement.
“I beg to differ.”
The bartender approaches, a towel slung over his shoulder, his gaze flicking between us as he waits for our order.
Saint leans forward slightly, his forearms resting on the bar, and with a low, confident voice, he orders another old-fashioned. The word comes out smooth, probably like the drink he’s just finished. It’s simple, but there’s an intensity behind the choice that matches him perfectly.
The bartender nods, acknowledging the order, and then turns to me.
I take a moment, swallowing down the nerves that seem to be sitting heavy in my throat. “I’ll have a glass of Sauvignon Blanc,” I say, opting for something light and crisp. Understated, like I’m trying to make this feel as
normal as possible, even though my insides are twisting with a mix of excitement and anxiety.
As the bartender turns away to prepare our drinks, I feel Saint’s gaze on me. I glance over, and his eyes are already on mine, a subtle smirk playing on his lips. It’s casual on the surface—the kind of scene that wouldn’t raise suspicion if anyone were watching—but the air between us is thick with the kind of tension that can’t be easily ignored.
“You look . . .” His eyes sweep over me. “Incredible.”
His compliment warms me up, more than the wine could even accomplish. “Thank you,” I say.
He adjusts himself so that his thigh is pressing against mine. “How did the court case go?”
I tilt my head, confused, but only for a second. Reya is a lawyer. He’s in character.
I grin. This is exciting. “We won. Unanimous verdict in less than two hours.”
“I wouldn’t have expected anything else,” he says.
I love this game. Too much. “What about you? How was your day?”
“It’s better now,” he says flirtatiously.
The bartender returns, setting down a short glass of whiskey for Saint and a tall-stemmed glass of wine in front of me. “Enjoy,” he says before walking away, leaving us alone in our little bubble.
Saint lifts his glass, swirling the amber liquid inside it before taking a slow sip, his eyes never leaving mine. I do the same, lifting my wine and taking a small, measured sip, trying to calm the rapid beating of my heart.
It feels like everyone in the room knows what’s happening between us, even though logically I know no one is paying attention. But the secrecy, the unspoken understanding of what this meeting is really about, makes it exciting. I wish I was taking notes right now.
Saint takes another sip of his whiskey, his eyes still holding mine over the rim of his glass. After he sets it back down, he leans a little closer, his voice low but casual. “How was the drive over?”
I raise an eyebrow and smile, feeling the tension loosen just a bit. “You mean the thirty minutes I spent rehearsing what to say when I saw you, then driving in circles around the parking lot trying to convince myself not to walk in?”
His lips twitch into a smirk. “You did seem a little flustered when you walked in. I was beginning to think you might pull a U-turn back to your car.”
I let out a soft laugh, shaking my head. “Oh, I almost did. You should’ve seen me sitting in the car, giving myself a pep talk like some motivational speaker on a bad day. ‘You can do this, Petra. It’s just a casual drink, no big deal.’” I mimic the exaggerated gestures of a pep talk, rolling my eyes at my own ridiculousness.
Saint grins, the amusement dancing in his eyes.
“Petra, is it?” he asks, a twinkle to his eye. “I thought your name was Reya tonight.”
Saint’s grin widens as he leans in, the air between us buzzing.
My stomach drops as I realize my mistake. Sometimes I forget we’re playing a game when he speaks to me, but that’s all this is. A game. It’s not about me, not about Petra and her guilt, but about Reya, who would embrace this kind of reckless thrill without hesitation.
I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks as I fumble for a response. “My bad. Reya.” I force a laugh, trying to play it off like I didn’t just slip up, but the awkwardness is impossible to hide.
Saint raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying my discomfort. “Are you forgetting who you’re supposed to be right now?” he teases, his voice low and laced with amusement. “Reya wouldn’t be apologizing. Reya is a badass, remember?”
I look down at my glass, suddenly feeling like he’s way better at this than I am, and I’m the one who is supposed to have the imagination.
“You’re right. I just—” I pause, swallowing the embarrassment.
He chuckles softly, the sound rumbling in his chest. “You’re overthinking it.” He glances at me, seeing the hesitation on my face. He offers up a gentle smile as he leans in slightly. “And if it’s guilt making you feel this way, don’t let it. Your actions aren’t a factor in my marriage. I made the choice to be here. That’s on me.”
His words are surprisingly reassuring. “You don’t . . .” I struggle to find my question. “You don’t feel bad?”
His eyes narrow as he thinks about my question. “I do. But my marriage is . . .” He takes a sip of his drink and then gingerly sets his glass on the bar. “Complicated,” he says dryly. “But that’s for me to figure out.
When I’m with you, I just convince myself I’m doing a good deed. Helping
you with research. Every good writer needs to research.” He washes away any trace of guilt on his face with a slow grin. “Who am I to deny you your muse?”
I literally do not know if I’m speaking to Cam or Saint right now. I don’t know how he does it—pretends so well. And if he isn’t pretending . . . he’s convincing. Because I am so much more at ease than I was five minutes ago.
Every brush of his knee against mine sends another jolt of awareness through my body. We may be sitting at a bar, trying to keep this casual, but nothing about this feels casual at all. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt more thrilled on a date before.
My pulse races. His proximity is intoxicating, and I know I’m playing with fire, but the danger of it only fuels my attraction. I’m acutely aware of how easy it would be for someone to recognize him. Or me. But it’s also rousing, knowing we’re on the edge of something forbidden.
That’s actually not a bad book title contender. The Edge of Forbidden.
I grab my phone and type it into my notes before I forget it.
When I look up from my phone, I notice Saint’s posture shift. He’s suddenly more rigid now as his eyes flicker toward the entrance. At a couple who just walked through the door. I saw them out of the corner of my eye but don’t want to turn around.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, lowering my voice.
“It’s nothing,” Saint says, gripping the back of his neck. “False alarm.”
He eases up, but only a little. Then he turns to me. “I have a dilemma.”
“What’s the dilemma?” I ask him.
“I’m hungry,” he says, scanning the restaurant discreetly. “But the bartender told me before you got here that they only serve food at the tables, not at the bar. However, I’m not sure sitting at a table with a gorgeous woman who is not my wife will look very good if I actually do see someone I know.” His gaze moves from scanning the restaurant and comes back to me. “I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind if we got food to go and ate in the car. Not the ideal date, but . . .”
I want to smile, because he’s playing out the scene in my book with pure perfection. I nod in understanding, because Reya does understand. She understands it so much, I think she would almost rather cancel the date altogether, because in no way, shape, or form is what we’re doing okay. But instead of objecting to what we’re doing, I say, “Let’s do it.”
“Maybe you should wait outside,” he says, standing up. “I can get our food and meet you at your car.”
I stand up with him, grabbing my purse. “I want a cheeseburger. No tomatoes. French fries.” I down the rest of my wine. “I parked in the back.”
“Perfect,” he says. “See you soon.”
“Where’d you go to law school?” he asks.
The question makes me laugh because I’m a writer, not a lawyer, but that’s why we’re here. To pretend. I have fun with it. “Harvard. I’m super smart,” I say. “Genius level. Scientists want to study my brain.”
Saint laughs. We’re sitting in my car, and while I’m doing my best to eat in a civilized way, eating from to-go containers in a small car and trying to keep the mood alive is anything but easy.
Turns out we both like salty ketchup, so Saint opened several packets and poured salt directly onto the ketchup, and we’re taking turns dipping fries into it, making small talk as Cam and Reya. It has actually been fun.
I’ve never seen him so at ease.
“Where’d you go to cop school, Cam?”
“Oh, you know,” he says. “The, um . . . academy. The cop academy.”
I laugh way too hard at that. “Where did Saint go to cop school?”
“LAPD, baby.”
“Maybe that’s where Cam should go, then. I don’t think I’ve written much of his history yet.” Right before I take a bite of another french fry, I say, “Tell me something interesting.”
“Interesting?” he asks. “Have I been boring you so far?”
“Of course not,” I say, laughing. “Just . . . tell me something real. And unique.”
Saint takes a sip of his water. He insisted we both order waters to go so we’d be sobered up before heading back to our respective places for the night.
He clears his throat and sets his drink back in the cup holder. “I have a brother,” he starts, his voice slipping into something lighter, almost playful.
“He’s got one arm.”
I raise an eyebrow, intrigued but cautious. “Oh?”
“Yep,” he continues, “lost it in the army five years ago. He was standing guard next to an armored car, and boom—gone.”
I blink, unsure whether to laugh or gasp. He watches me, a smirk tugging at his lips, like he knows exactly the effect this story is having. “It’s true,” he says. “It was awful at the time, but he’s got a great sense of humor about it now,” he says, his eyes glinting with mischief. “He likes to tell people that his lack of armor cost him an arm in the army.”
I can’t help it. I laugh, the absurdity of it washing over me. But then doubt creeps in. Is he messing with me? Is this an actual thing that happened to Saint’s brother, or is he making this up? I squint at him, trying to read his expression. “Wait, is that even true?”
Saint’s face remains perfectly neutral. “It’s absolutely true.”
“So that’s not something I can write into the book?”
“Please don’t,” Saint says immediately. “That would be way too close to home.” He wipes his mouth and closes his to-go box. “Now look who keeps forgetting to be in character,” he says. “I’m telling you stories from my real life. Not very helpful to the writer who needs content she can use.”
I love that he’s slipping out of character. “It’s harder than it seems to be someone else,” I say.
Saint watches me closely. “You do make it difficult not to be myself.”
That sentence makes my mouth run dry. I take a sip of water and help him start bagging up all the trash. Once we’ve cleaned up our space in the car, he exits and walks over to a trash can and dumps it all in. But when he walks back toward the car, he walks to the driver’s side, where I’m seated.
He opens the car door with that quiet confidence of his, extending a hand toward me. As I stand, he doesn’t let go.
Instead, with a slow, deliberate motion, he guides me closer to the back of the car, adjusting us so that my back presses gently against the closed door.
And then his mouth connects with mine. The kiss is soft, almost reverent, like he’s taking his time to savor every second, as if each touch, each breath, means something more. There’s no rush, no game. It truly feels like it’s just him and me right now—no roles, no walls.
It’s the kind of kiss that makes a person feel seen.
But then, as if a switch flips, I feel him stiffen. The softness of his kiss begins to withdraw, replaced by something more restrained. His hands, which have been holding me so gently, suddenly freeze in place. I pull back
slightly and see it—the way his gaze flicks around, scanning the street like he’s just remembered we’re not alone. We’re out here, in public, exposed.
It’s as if the mask he let slip for just a second is quickly being put back in place.
He takes a step back, his posture rigid now, his hand falling from my waist. The warmth that was there just moments ago cools, leaving behind the sharpness of reality. His eyes flick back to mine, a brief apology hidden somewhere in the tension of his expression.
“I should go,” he says, his voice quieter now, more controlled. He steps away, giving me space. “I’ll be in touch, Reya,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, like he’s forcing himself to say it before he walks away.
I want to stop him, to ask him for more, entreat him to stay with me just a little while longer, but the words get stuck in my throat. I just watch him retreat, slipping back into the Saint I’m used to. The man who always seems to be running from something, even when he’s standing still.
I pull out my phone after having that thought and jot it down as a note for my book. The man who always seems to be running from something, even when he’s standing still.
