“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. “AndI 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 physicalattraction. 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, inme.
“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.
