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 benefit 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, oldT-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 screamtrying too hardis 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 countto 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 wordGonzoprinted 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—wouldflirt 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 expectedwhen I walked in last night. This might be the nicest cabin on the whole lake.”
