Fifteen minutes creep by. He’s taking a route I don’t recognize, leading me farther away from the sanctuary of my cabin. My stomach churns with a mix of anticipation and dread when he turns onto a county road. What will I see? What will I learn?
Will I regret it?
Then, as soon as I make the turn, the brake lights of his car catch my eye, bright red against the green of the trees. He is already pulled over.
He’s already outside his car.
He’s waiting for me.
My breath hitches.How did he know? How did he even see me?I’m scrambling for a plausible reason for being on this street, in this neighborhood.
He’s standing by the driver’s side, looking directly at my car with crossed arms as he leans against his own. There’s no mistaking the stern set of his jaw, the narrowed eyes. My heart sinks.He definitely knows.
He gestures for me to pull over. It’s just a quick motion of his head, but I feel like a small child caught with my hand in the cookie jar.
I pull over and shift into park as he pushes off his car and begins walking toward mine. I press the button to roll down my window, and the whirring sound of the glass descending seems impossibly loud in the sudden quiet.
“Get out, Petra.” His voice is low, commanding. Not angry, not yet, but with an undeniable sternness.
I hesitate, frozen by a potent cocktail of shame and fear. My cheeks burn. He sees my reluctance, and with a sigh, he opens my car door and reaches for me.
Before I can protest, he has me. One strong arm loops behind my back, the other under my knees. He lifts me, effortlessly, as if I weigh nothing. The suddenness of it, the unexpected intimacy, steals my breath. My hands instinctively grip his shoulders. My body feels surprisingly light, almost buoyant, as he carries me to the front of my own car.
With a practiced ease that makes my stomach flip, he sets me down on the hood, my legs dangling, the bottoms of my thighs sticking to the metal, warm from the heat of the engine.
His hands brace against the car on either side of my legs, trapping me between his arms. He leans in, his face close, his eyes dark with an unreadable intensity. The scent of him fills my senses.
“You better stop digging.” His voice is a low rumble, a warning.
I can feel the heat radiating off him, the solidness of his chest so close to mine. My pulse quickens. “I ... I just ...” I stammer, my voice thin, pathetic.
“You already know I’m married.” It’s not a question. It’s a statement, a reminder, heavy with unspoken implications.
My gaze drops, unable to meet his. Shame washes over me, a hot tide. “I was just curious about you,” I whisper, the words barely audible. They sound hollow, even to my own ears. A lame excuse for something far more complicated.
He sighs, a slow, deliberate exhalation that stirs the hair at my temples. “I thought we had an agreement.” His words are firm, a boundary drawn in the air between us.
My eyes flicker up to his. “I wasn’t going to do anything. I just wanted to see where you go when you aren’t with me. Where you live.”
“It’s not your business,” he says.
“I know. I just ...” I can’t articulate myself right now. Men rarely, if ever, leave me speechless and nervous like Saint does.
I look back at his face and ask the one question I’m most curious about. “I just want to know things. Things that will help my book.”
“Like what?” he responds, his voice flat.
“Are you happy?” The question slips out before I can stop it, a desperate plea for some crack in his carefully constructed facade.
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “Yes.” The word is clipped, definitive.
A bitter taste floods my mouth. “Then why are you cheating on your wife with me?” The accusation hangs in the air.
His eyes narrow. “Youaskedme to.” The bluntness of his reply stings. It’s a cold dose of reality. And it’s true. I did, maybe not outright. But I definitely initiated it, fueled by a reckless desire for something I knew I shouldn’t want.
“But do you feel guilty?” I press, my voice rising slightly, desperate to find a chink in his armor, a flicker of guilt, anything.
“Are you really asking these things because of your book? Or should I be worried you’re about to cross a line?” His tone is bordering on condescending. It makes me feel small, insignificant, just another secret to be kept among so many other secrets that he tucks away.
