“Livable?” I echo. “Sam, this looks like a movie set. I expected you to show me some secret man cave or, I don’t know, your bourbon collection—not this.”
He shrugs, but there’s that flicker again, something quiet and self-conscious.
“This is where I’ll work,” he says.
“Uh-huh.” I glance around the empty space. “Okay, so you’re not a male escort—you’re running an escort agency. Makes sense now.”
He laughs, head tipping back. “Not quite.”
I cross my arms, mock impatient. “Then what? You’ve got to give me something, because I’m two seconds from calling HGTV and telling them you’re mynew favorite mystery millionaire.”
He grins and walks toward a built-in cabinet that stretches the length of one wall. With a flick of the latch, he opens the doors to reveal shelves filled top to bottom with books.
Dozens of them.
I step closer, curiosity buzzing in my chest. The spines gleam under the light and I pull one down at random. The glossy cover has a black background with bleached tree branches angled across the front, blooming with purple flowers and the title,The Shadow Princess,by S. P. Rochelle.
I frown, turning it over. “Wait. Rochelle?”
When I look up, understanding slams into place.
“You wrote these.” I breathe.
Sam’s grin widens. “Yup.”
I stare at him, then at the book, then back again. “You’re an… author?”
“Yup.”
I flip the book over, read the back cover aloud. “Thalia Clairmont was born heir to the throne of Vyronas—a legacy she didn’t even know she carried after Bastien Dunne, the man she loved, erased her memories and sent her through the veil into another world. He insists it was to keep her safe after her parents’ murder and the fall of their kingdom, but Thalia can only see betrayal wherehe sees devotion.
“Now, as fragments of her past return, so do the truths Bastien tried to bury. Torn between love and fury, trust and vengeance, Thalia must face the kingdom that once claimed her—and the man who took everything from her in the name of protection.”
I glance up and I know my mouth is sagging open. “Is this a romance?”
“Fantasy romance, to be precise,” he replies with a straight face. “And pretty spicy at that.”
My eyebrows shoot so high, I’m afraid they might launch into the atmosphere. “You… Sam-Pete Rochelle… write romance books?”
“Kind of hard to believe, right?”
I look at the cover. “New York Timesbest-selling author?” I’m sure the surprise is written all over my face. “You made theNew York Timesbestseller list?”
“A few times,” he replies with a shrug.
“Holy shit, Sam,” I murmur in awe. “This is huge.” I stare at the book, confused, then back up to him. “I mean… but how? When?”
“Been writing since my second year of college,” he says simply.
My brain scrambles to keep up. “But there are”—I look at the shelves again—“at least twenty books here. And all this—” I gesture around the house. “This is from writing?”
“Yeah.”
I shake my head, dumbfounded. “So that’s why you dropped out of UNC.”
“Yup.”
I let out a stunned laugh, pacing in a small circle, and spread my arms wide to indicate the house. “You’re obviously doing very well.”
