I blink, unsure whether to laugh or gasp. He watches me, a smirk tugging at his lips, like he knows exactly the effect this story is having. “It’s true,” he says. “It was awful at the time, but he’s got a great senseof humor about it now,” he says, his eyes glinting with mischief. “He likes to tell people that his lack of armor cost him an arm in the army.”
I can’t help it. I laugh, the absurdity of it washing over me. But then doubt creeps in.Is he messing with me?Is this an actual thing that happened to Saint’s brother, or is he making this up? I squint at him, trying to read his expression. “Wait, is that even true?”
Saint’s face remains perfectly neutral. “It’s absolutely true.”
“So that’s not something I can write into the book?”
“Please don’t,” Saint says immediately. “That would be way too close to home.” He wipes his mouth and closes his to-go box. “Now look who keeps forgetting to be in character,” he says. “I’m telling you stories from my real life. Not very helpful to the writer who needs content she can use.”
I love that he’s slipping out of character. “It’s harder than it seems to be someone else,” I say.
Saint watches me closely. “You do make it difficult not to be myself.”
That sentence makes my mouth run dry. I take a sip of water and help him start bagging up all the trash. Once we’ve cleaned up our space in the car, he exits and walks over to a trash can and dumps it all in. But when he walks back toward the car, he walks to the driver’s side, where I’m seated. He opens the car door with that quiet confidence of his, extending a hand toward me. As I stand, he doesn’t let go.
Instead, with a slow, deliberate motion, he guides me closer to the back of the car, adjusting us so that my back presses gently against the closed door.
And then his mouth connects with mine. The kiss is soft, almost reverent, like he’s taking his time to savor every second, as if each touch, each breath, means something more. There’s no rush, no game. It truly feels like it’s just him and me right now—no roles, no walls.
It’s the kind of kiss that makes a person feel seen.
But then, as if a switch flips, I feel him stiffen. The softness of his kiss begins to withdraw, replaced by something more restrained. His hands, which have been holding me so gently, suddenly freeze in place. I pull back slightly and see it—the way his gaze flicks around, scanning the street like he’s just remembered we’re not alone. We’re out here, in public, exposed. It’s as if the mask he let slip for just a second is quickly being put back in place.
He takes a step back, his posture rigid now, his hand falling from my waist. The warmth that was there just moments ago cools, leaving behind the sharpness of reality. His eyes flick back to mine, a brief apology hidden somewhere in the tension of his expression.
“I should go,” he says, his voice quieter now, more controlled. He steps away, giving me space. “I’ll be in touch, Reya,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, like he’s forcing himself to say it before he walks away.
I want to stop him, to ask him for more, entreat him to stay with me just a little while longer, but the words get stuck in my throat. I just watch him retreat, slipping back into the Saint I’m used to. The man who always seems to be running from something, even when he’s standing still.
I pull out my phone after having that thought and jot it down as a note for my book.The man who always seems to be running from something, even when he’s standing still.
Chapter Nine
“‘The man who always seems to be running from something, even when he’s standing still’?” Nora practically yells the line back at me. “Petra, this is so good! I am so invested in this story, and you sent me one chapter! When will you have more?”
“I have over ten chapters,” I say. “Forty-six thousand words.”
“Are you serious? You’ve written forty-six thousand words?”
“Yep.”
“That’s like half a book!”
“I know. I’m so relieved, but I’m scared to get too cocky. I might jinx it.”
“Are you happy with what you’ve written so far?” she asks. “You’re not going to toss it and start over and confuse me by changing the entire plotline?”
She knows me so well. “So far it’s a keeper,” I say. “I’ll send the rest to you if you want to read more of what I have.”
I’m curious what she’ll say if she can find the time to read it. I don’t know if the reason I like what I’ve written so far is because of the whole muse aspect I’ve still kept hidden from Nora, or if I just like Saint so much that I’m confusing my trash writing with my exhilarating feelings for him. It would be good to have an outsider’s opinion.
“Absolutely you better send it, right now, while I’m on the phone.”
God, I love her. I don’t know if she’s actually excited to read this, but she knows how much confidence her excitement lends. I open the file and attach it to an email while she waits, and then I hit send.
“It’s rough,” I say.
“I know, I know, it sucks, it’s trash, you have to flesh it out more,” she says. “I do this for a living, too, you know.” I hear her download the file after it comes through. “Still untitled?” she asks, looking at the first page.
