His words are surprisingly reassuring. “You don’t ...” I struggle to find my question. “You don’t feel bad?”
His eyes narrow as he thinks about my question. “I do. But my marriage is ...” He takes a sip of his drink and then gingerly sets his glass on the bar. “Complicated,” he says dryly. “But that’s for me to figure out. When I’m with you, I just convince myself I’m doing a good deed. Helping you with research. Every good writer needs to research.” He washes away any trace of guilt on his face with a slow grin. “Who am I to deny you your muse?”
I literally do not know if I’m speaking to Cam or Saint right now. I don’t know how he does it—pretends so well. And if he isn’t pretending ... he’s convincing. Because I am so much more at ease than I was five minutes ago.
Every brush of his knee against mine sends another jolt of awareness through my body. We may be sitting at a bar, trying to keep this casual, but nothing about this feels casual at all. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt more thrilled on a date before.
My pulse races. His proximity is intoxicating, and I know I’m playing with fire, but the danger of it only fuels my attraction. I’m acutely aware of how easy it would be for someone to recognize him. Or me. But it’s also rousing, knowing we’re on the edge of something forbidden.
That’s actually not a bad book title contender.The Edge of Forbidden. I grab my phone and type it into my notes before I forget it.
When I look up from my phone, I notice Saint’s posture shift. He’s suddenly more rigid now as his eyes flicker toward the entrance. At a couple who just walked through the door. I saw them out of the corner of my eye but don’t want to turn around.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, lowering my voice.
“It’s nothing,” Saint says, gripping the back of his neck. “False alarm.” He eases up, but only a little. Then he turns to me. “I have a dilemma.”
“What’s the dilemma?” I ask him.
“I’m hungry,” he says, scanning the restaurant discreetly. “But the bartender told me before you got here that they only serve food at the tables, not at the bar. However, I’m not sure sitting at a table with a gorgeous woman who is not my wife will look very good if I actually do see someone I know.” His gaze moves from scanning the restaurant and comes back to me. “I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind if we got food to go and ate in the car. Not the ideal date, but ...”
I want to smile, because he’s playing out the scene in my book with pure perfection. I nod in understanding, because Reya does understand. She understands it so much, I think she would almost rather cancel the date altogether, because in no way, shape, or form is what we’re doing okay. But instead of objecting to what we’re doing, I say, “Let’s do it.”
“Maybe you should wait outside,” he says, standing up. “I can get our food and meet you at your car.”
I stand up with him, grabbing my purse. “I want a cheeseburger. No tomatoes. French fries.” I down the rest of my wine. “I parked in the back.”
“Perfect,” he says. “See you soon.”
“Where’d you go to law school?” he asks.
The question makes me laugh because I’m a writer, not a lawyer, but that’s why we’re here.To pretend.I have fun with it. “Harvard. I’m super smart,” I say. “Genius level. Scientists want to study my brain.”
Saint laughs. We’re sitting in my car, and while I’m doing my best to eat in a civilized way, eating from to-go containers in a small car and trying to keep the mood alive is anything but easy.
Turns out we both like salty ketchup, so Saint opened several packets and poured salt directly onto the ketchup, and we’re taking turns dipping fries into it, making small talk as Cam and Reya. It has actually been fun. I’ve never seen him so at ease.
“Where’d you go to cop school, Cam?”
“Oh, you know,” he says. “The, um ... academy. The cop academy.”
I laugh way too hard at that. “Where didSaintgo to cop school?”
“LAPD, baby.”
“Maybe that’s where Cam should go, then. I don’t think I’ve written much of his history yet.” Right before I take a bite of another french fry, I say, “Tell me something interesting.”
“Interesting?” he asks. “Have I been boring you so far?”
“Of course not,” I say, laughing. “Just ... tell me something real. And unique.”
Saint takes a sip of his water. He insisted we both order waters to go so we’d be sobered up before heading back to our respective places for the night.
He clears his throat and sets his drink back in the cup holder. “I have a brother,” he starts, his voice slipping into something lighter, almost playful. “He’s got one arm.”
I raise an eyebrow, intrigued but cautious. “Oh?”
“Yep,” he continues, “lost it in the army five years ago. He was standing guard next to an armored car, and boom—gone.”
