I’d frowned. “But… Ilikemy job.” Even if, technically, I’m notdoing it for job purposes anymore. As an author, I’ve written… oh, say, fifty books. Or so. Who’s counting?
As aretiredauthor, though? Hundreds,at least.
Did you know that when you retire you can do whatever you want?Whatever I wantincluding writing hundreds of books that will never see the light of day because they’re the bits ofsubparglorified fanfiction about the person I do all of my fangirling over—not to be confused with the bits ofdecentglorified fanfiction that I do publish. Except instead of “y/n” I just insert my own name, or variations of it, or my pen name, or variations ofit.
In other words, retirement is fun, and I am not quite willing to give it up yet, kidnapped or not. And the fangirling? How am I supposed to make edits of the man “right in front of me” if I don’t have my laptop? No, sir, I will not be leaving it behind.
Stone sighed, shook his head, and shrugged. “Not my captive,” he’d said. “Archie can decide what he wants to do with you.”
Yes, please.
It was a risk, of course, going with Stone. Even with the pictures he showed me—even after hearing Archie’s voice on the phone when Stone called him as we drove out of the city—I didn’t quite know if I could believe him. People get pictures with other people all the time, and crazy people especially.
Not for the first time, I wonder if I should be calling anyone crazy, all things considered. Ididget in the car with the man based on only the essence of a possibility that hemighttake me to Archie. I did not scream, call for help, or do any of the other anti-kidnap measures one is supposed to do when being kidnapped.
Are crazy people allowed to call other people crazy?
Not that it matters, since Stone isn’t crazy. He did know Archie—hedoesknow Archie. So the only crazy one is… me.
Classic Sarelia, really.
A tea kettle whistles, and I blink as Archie and Stone’s whispered conversation—argument?—gets drowned out by the shrill noise.
I appear to have lost some time there gazing atArchie—who is, still, somehow, incredibly, amazingly, dreamily, right in front of me.
I pinch myself, then inhale harshly through my teeth when it hurts.
Archie and Stone both stop to turn to me, concern painting frowns on their faces.
I try to smile reassuringly, but end up gaping at Archie instead.
He’s just so…there.
“You okay, love?” he asks, and my heart stops beating, then resumes at mach five.
I am definitely not okay.
“I’m great!”
His mouth thins as he holds back his amusement, but his eyes are less successful at hiding his mirth, crinkling at the edges and sparkling mischief at me.
My jaw drops.
Mygoodness, he’s cute.
“Your tea will be ready in a click,” he says.
I nod, then let my head rest in my hand as my eyes track him around the small kitchen.
Seeing an opening, Stone declares his departure. “I’ve got things to do,” he says, sweeping a hand down his shirt. The floral design preens under his touch.
“Retirement is not ‘things,’” Archie grouses, and I find myself in the uncomfortable situation of disagreeing with him. Retirement is many things, in my experience, and they’re allwonderful.
“Says you.” Stone sniffs. “You’ll see, though. It’ll hit you one day—that you don’t want to be doing any of this anymore. Then you’ll buy a new wardrobe, drop your responsibilities on someone else’s doorstep, and find yourself a nice, warm beach to have a nap on.”
Archie scowls. “Sarelia is not aresponsibility. She is anhonor.”
Oh. My. Gosh.
