Six pairs of eyes turn to me.
Breathe. Just breathe.
“I think,” I say carefully, “that good authors are good at research. And small Southwest towns have a lot in common. The author probably visited several and combined elements.”
“Ah, yes. That would make sense,” Macy agrees as she deflates a fraction in her seat.
The conversation shifts to the romance itself—the chemistry, the steam level, the emotional payoff. I half-listen as they dissectmy words, my characters, my secret now laid bare on pages they’re holding in their hands.
By nine o’clock, they’re gathering their things, still chattering about the book.
“We should all follow Sienna Saguaro on social media,” Amy says, pulling out her phone. “See if she drops hints about book two.”
Oh, god. They want book two.
“I already am,” Macy admits. “Very mysterious. No personal photos, just book quotes and cover reveals.”
They filter out one by one, thanking me for hosting. Carol is the last to leave, pausing at the door. “I do love a good mystery. Trying to figure out puzzles.”
My stomach tightens. “Mysteries are popular.”
“They are. Sienna Saguaro has created quite the puzzle, hasn’t she? All those details, all those similarities.” She smiles. “Makes you wonder.”
“Sure does!” My upbeat tone is a far cry from the dread filling inside me.
“Have a good night, Sadie.” The door chimes as Carol leaves.
I lock it behind her with shaking hands.
They didn’t figure it out. You’re safe. You’re—
A knock on the glass makes me jump.
I look up to find Owen standing on the other side of the door, hands in his pockets, that familiar cocky smirk on his face.
No. Nope. Not now. Not ever.
I could pretend I don’t see him. Turn off the lights, slip out the back, and take the stairs up to my apartment. Ignore him until he leaves.
Except I’m staring directly at his face and he’s definitely staring back. He knocks again, harder this time. “Open up, Sadie. I can clearly see you.”
I unlock the door, but don’t open it all the way. “What do you want, Owen?”
“I read your book, Sienna.” He says it so casually. Kindly. “It’s really good, by the way.”
The world tilts.
No, it capsizes.
“I don’t know what you’re—“
“Come on, Sadie. You really thought I wouldn’t figure it out?” He pushes the door open wider, stepping inside before I can stop him. “The dedication thanking S.R.? The Southwest setting? The bookshop owner heroine who moved here half a decade ago to escape her controlling family?”
Every word is a nail in a coffin.
“How did you—“
“I read it.” He pulls a copy ofWildfire Summerfrom his jacket pocket, dog-eared and highlighted. Owen is not the kind of guy to take notes, but here he is, waving a fully annotated copy of my book in front of me. “Cover to cover. Took me about three pages to recognize you in the main character. She’s even got your body type—I’m surprised you went that route, honestly.” He flips through the pages. “Then again, I guess if you can’t change it in real life, might as well romanticize it on the page, right?”
