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 tohide 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 twirlthe 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.”
