One Year Later
The coffee maker gurgles at 6:15 a.m. because Tucker programmed it that way, and the sound has become the opening line of every morning in this house.
Our house. The word still sends a thrill through me---small, electric, ridiculous for a woman who's been living here for six months. Butour houseis different frommy apartment.Our house is a shingled cottage on Harbor Street with a writing desk overlooking the water, bookshelves we built together (his side: literary fiction and military history; my side: romance novels stacked two deep), and a kitchen where Tucker makes pasta from scratch while I supervise from my perch on the counter.
Morning light floods the study as I settle into my chair. The laptop wakes, and the document is right where I left it---chapter seven ofUndertow,the third book in what my publisher has started calling the Tidehaven series. This one follows a Salt & Steel operative named West (loosely based on Riggs, who has been insufferable about it) and a marine biologist with a fear of commitment.
The words come easily these days. Not always---there are still mornings when the cursor blinks and the blank page stares and the old doubts crawl in through the cracks. But the difference between now and a year ago is that when the doubts come, they find a house full of evidence against them. A bookshelf withBreaking Pointin hardcover. A framed review from Diana Hartwell. A man in the kitchen who reads every draft and says things like, "The dialogue in chapter four needs work, but the emotional throughline is a gut punch," as if literary analysis over breakfast is normal.
Tucker appears in the doorway, barefoot, in running shorts and a T-shirt damp from his morning workout. Coffee in each hand. His hair is longer than when we met---he lets it grow now, one of the small civilian concessions he's made---and there's an ease in his posture that wasn't there a year ago. He moves like a man who knows where he's going.
"Morning, author." He sets a mug beside my laptop. Strong, black, exactly right.
"Morning, muscle."
He leans over my shoulder, scanning the screen. His chin rests on the top of my head, and the warmth of him settles over me like a blanket.
"That's not how operatives clear a building," he says.
"It's fiction, babe."
"It's wrong. West would check the corners before advancing. And he wouldn't announce himself."
"West is a fictional character based on Riggs. Riggs absolutely would announce himself."
"Fair point."
He kisses the top of my head and retreats to the kitchen. I hear him moving through his routine---protein shake, stretching, a phone call to Calder that sounds like shorthand. The rhythms of our life have settled into a pattern that wouldhave terrified me a year ago and now feels like the most natural thing in the world.
The doorbell rings at ten. Tucker, on a call, waves for me to get it.
Diana Hartwell stands on my porch in a linen blazer and oversized sunglasses, looking like she stepped out of a literary magazine. She's been spending more time in Tidehaven sinceBreaking Pointlaunched---partly because the town has become a destination for romance readers who want to see where the book was set, and partly because Diana is quietly, persistently buying property here.
"Kassidy, darling. I brought croissants and a proposition."
"Proposition before caffeine? Bold."
"You know I don't do subtle." She sweeps into the house with the confidence of a woman who owns four bestsellers and three beachfront properties. "Where's your giant?"
"My giant is on a work call. Come in."
We settle at the kitchen table. Diana unwraps the croissants---from the French bakery in Charleston, because Diana doesn't do grocery-store pastry---and levels me with a look.
"I want you to co-write a project with me."
The croissant stops halfway to my mouth. "Co-write?"
"A joint novel. My literary instincts, your romantic sensibility. I've been thinking about it since your book launch. There's a market for crossover fiction---literary romance---books that win awards AND sell. We'd be unstoppable."
"Diana, I'm mid-series---"
"I'm not talking about tomorrow. I'm talking about next year. AfterUndertow.Think about it. You have the voice, the emotional instinct. I have the structural expertise and a very intimidating agent. Together, we write the book that makes the literary establishment admit romance is literature."
Tucker slips out of the kitchen, phone to his ear, giving us a nod as he passes. Diana watches him go.
"You two are disgustingly happy," she says.
"Yeah." I take a bite of croissant, and the butter melts on my tongue, and the harbor sparkles outside the window, and the man I love is murmuring about threat assessments in the next room. "We really are."
