“You showed up at myhouse, Saint. My family’shome.”
He doesn’t flinch. His gaze is steady, unwavering. “I know. But let’s not forget who followed who first.”
“I live two hours from here! You drove two hours and parked outside my home and watched me and my husband and my children for God knows how long.”
“It was just half an hour.”
“Jesus Christ.Semantics.”
“I only did it because I wanted you to feel trulyalive. I thought it might be fun, or that it might shake something loose. Inspire you in some way.”
I stare at him, disbelief battling with a minuscule flicker of understanding.
“Adrenaline is a powerful muse,” he says simply. “And to be honest, I think you need more adrenaline in your life. I’ve met your husband.”
The dig makes me angry, but also forces me to suppress a laugh. I hate that he can make this moment feel more human with his humor. I want to be fully mad at him. I wanted an argument.
I push my plate away, the thought of food too much for the moment. “We’re being too risky.” I can’t completely put the blame on him. I was a part of last night, too, as angry as I am that he showed up to begin with. I did start the game of cat and mouse when I tried following him to his own home. But I never would have parked. “You’re putting my marriage at risk. That’s not a game.”
He holds my gaze as he takes my hand. “You’re right. We should have laid out strict rules before starting this whole thing. I got caught up in the moment. It won’t happen again. But my purpose here, my role, is not to unravel your life in any way. It’s to help you write. And have a little fun while doing it. That’s all.”
I look away from his face then, down at my hand, resting clenched in his.He does not want to threaten your marriage,I tell myself. It’s a statement that should bring relief. And it does, a little. But beneath it, a tiny, rebellious part of me, a part I barely acknowledge, feels a perverse twist of disappointment.It would be nice if he did.A dangerous thought, hot and shameful, flares. Maybe if hewerea threat, if Shephard had to actuallyfightfor me, if there were a real, tangible risk, then Shephard would value me more.
I think he appreciates me, but I worry he sees me as a mold that any other female could fit. Nothing scares me more than being ordinary. I’m not sure he sees all the special parts of me, and that just makes me sad.
“Are we good?” Saint asks. His thumb brushes softly across my wrist. “It’s your last week here. I promise I won’t pull any more stunts.”
I nod. Saint nods.
And I guess that’s that. Another crisis averted. Another red flag folded up and tucked neatly away in a closet.
Saint releases my hand and takes his fork, digging into his lasagna. But I’m not quite ready to eat yet.
“What happens after this last week is over?” I ask Saint.
“Whatever you want to happen.”
“Can I trust you won’t show up at my house?”
Saint smiles, but it’s a reassuring smile. Not a cocky one. “I know what this is, Petra. What we’re doing. I think you’re the one who keeps forgetting it’s a game. And if you never want to see me again, you never will. But, you aren’t retiring, and I imagine you’ll be back at this lake again. The ball will always be in your court.”
Oh, God. The idea that there’s not a clear finality to what we’re doing fills me with dread. Not because I wouldn’t want to see him again someday after I pack up and leave, but because if I don’t end this with a clear goodbye, he’s more than likely all I’ll be thinking about when I’m back in the real world.
I don’t want the ball to be in my court. I don’t want there to be a ball or a court.
Why the hell do people cheat? This is fucking stressful!
Saint reaches for the bottle of wine. “I read what you emailed me,” he says as he pours. “Read it while I sat watching your house yesterday. Before you caught me.”
I squirm uncomfortably in my chair. I don’t know that I want to hear his thoughts.
“Petra,” he says, his voice softening, a deep resonance that makes the air thrum. “I don’t know why you aren’t the cockiest writer in the world. You’re so great.”
The unexpected compliment disarms me, while also making me laugh. I blink, meeting his eyes again. “Um. Thank you?”
“Seriously, though, I couldn’t put it down. Just seeing how you interpret the moments we’ve had together was the best reading experience I’ve ever had. The language you use, the way you craft a sentence—it’s all so powerful.” He sips his wine, his gaze thoughtful.
I don’t know why his words are making me blush like I’m in grade school. “Thank you. But you can stop now. This is so awkward.”
