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 twicesince 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.
