I reach over to the nightstand, grab my phone, and thumb the screen awake. A handful of missed messages glare back—most from Derek, my agent, who’s been relentless for days.
You can’t hide forever, Sam. This book’s too big.
We have to confirm the press tour. Decide.
Call me. Seriously.
And my favorite.My commission is definitely not big enough to deal with this shit.
Which we both know isn’t true. My upcoming release earned a seven-figure advance from the publisher, and my prior nineteen books have made it possible for Derek to buy a dream vacation home in the Hamptons.
I toss the phone aside and rub my palms over my face. I went out on a limb last night… bringing Penny in on my secret.
The memory of her voice drifts back, bright and sure, as if she’s still sitting across from me at the island, beer bottle in hand, and that soft pink shine on her lips.
“You can’t keep this hidden forever,” she’d said with such earnestness. I believed it. “It’s too wonderful not to share.”
Wonderful.
I never imagined anyone saying that about what I do. At best, I figured people would think it’s indulgent. At worst, they’d call it shameful. But Penny looked right at me—unflinching—and said it like fact. “I’m just really proud of you, Sam. I think you’re extraordinary.”
We talked until nearly midnight. Two beers apiece, laughter that came too easily, and this charged current that never quite broke the surface. We didn’t touch, but I could feel the mutual attraction between us. I didn’t act on it. Instead, I soaked in the friendship she was offering.
When I finally drove her home, neither of us wanted the night to end. We sat in my truck outside Muriel’s house for half an hour, windows fogged, just talking about nothing and everything.
She’d called me extraordinary.
The word still knocks the breath out of me. Not talented. Not successful.Extraordinary.
Penny Pritchard has no idea what that did to me.
I swing my legs off the bed and rub the back of my neck, staring out at the yard through the big picture window. The sun is coming up full now, brushing the tops of the oaks with light. This whole property feels like someone else’s life—a life I’ve been borrowing instead of living.
I pad barefoot into the kitchen and start a pot of coffee. The machine sputters to life, filling the air with the rich, bitter scent that most people—myself included—can’t seem to live without. My thoughts, though, are anything but calm.
Derek’s been right about one thing… my next book launch is going to be massive. The preorder numbers are on track, so I’ve got a shot at hitting that coveted number one slot on theNew York Timesbestseller list. The publisher wants interviews, TV appearances, book signings, which is pretty much all the stuff I’ve avoided for years.
Until now, I’ve hidden behind an androgynous pen name and a logo—no headshot, no public readings, no hint of gender. Most fans assume S. P. Rochelle is a woman, and I’ve let them. It was easier that way.
Safe.
But Penny’s voice cuts through the doubt again. “You’re not hiding—you’re shrinking.”
And I can’t help wondering what would happen if I stopped.
If I stepped into the light.
What would my parents think? My mom would pray about it. My dad would probably say something about “real work” and “family values.” My friends would rib me mercilessly. The people in town… hell, they’d either laugh or whisper.
But then there’s Penny—leaning forward in my passenger seat last night, telling me she thought it was extraordinary.
Do I really care what everyone else thinks when she thinks it’s cool?
I take my mug to the window and look out at the dew sparkling on the grass. The truth hits quiet and deep… I’ve been living half a life. Pretending this world I built—the books, the success—wasn’t real just because I was afraid of what it might change.
Maybe staying here last night was me finally accepting it.
Maybe it’s time to stop hiding.
