His eyebrow lifts, a hint of surprise and admiration in his expression. “A writer,” he repeats, as if testing the word. “What kind of books do you write?”
“Mostly romantic suspense,” I say, feeling oddly self-conscious as I admit it. “And the occasional short story, but ...” My voice drifts. “Sorry, I hate talking about my job. It’s awkward.”
He gives me a small smile, his lip twitching slightly. “What’s your name?”
For a second, I have the wild urge to tell him my name is Reya—the name of the character I’ve been writing about. The urge is so strong that I almost blurt it out, but I catch myself just in time. I can’t lie to a cop. Instead, I give him my real name. Begrudgingly.
“Petra Rose.”
He smiles a little wider, but not from familiarity. He nods as if he’s committing it to memory. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow, Petra Rose.”
I watch him as he walks down the length of my driveway, his figure eventually swallowed up by the blinding patrol lights. He folds himself into a midnight-black car, only visible because of the lights.
Once he reverses and rejoins the activity down the road, I close the door and lock it behind me. I lean against it for a moment, my heart still racing, and glance down at the business card in my hand.Nathaniel Saint.Even his name sounds like it belongs in one of my books.
He could definitely be Cam.
Despite the time and the strange events of the night, I feel a sudden burst of inspiration. I walk straight to my laptop, the unexpectedness of the events pushing me forward. The details of Detective Nathaniel Saint swirl in my mind, and I can’t resist the urge to write them down.
I recall everything about him—his voice, his presence, the way he made me feel both uneasy and comforted at the same time.
The words pour out of me like they haven’t in a long, long time. Somehow, the fear, the uncertainty, and the strange energy of the nighthave all worked together to crack open the creative block I’ve been struggling with.
Nathaniel Saint has become Cam, and with every word I type, the story starts to flow again.
I cannot believe tonight just happened.
Chapter Six
“You are not going tobelievewhat 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,veryunexpected visitor. And ... he was acop.”
A beat of silence. Then, a dramatic gasp from Nora. “A cop? Petra, what did youdo? 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 guymakes 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 ...sohot. 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 universedoeslove 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 justwrote. I wrote pages, Nora. Actual, coherent pages.”
