Mateo’s jaw tightens. “That’s bullshit.”
“Is it?” I set my glass down harder than I mean to. “Because that’s what Owen just implied, too. That when people find out, they’re going to judge me. And he’s probably right. You didn’t hear what they were saying at book club—all that detail, all those similarities. When they figure out it’s me, they’re going to lookat me the way my mother did. The way Owen just did. Like I should be ashamed of what I wrote. Like writing about love and sex makes me less than.”
“Is that what you believe?” he asks quietly. “That you should be ashamed?”
“No.” The word comes out fierce. Surprising, even to me. “I’m proud of that book. I’m proud of every word. But being proud of something doesn’t protect you from other people’s judgment. It just means it hurts more when they use it against you.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then: “You wrote a book about falling in love in a place that feels like home. There’s nothing shameful in that, Sadie. Not one word of it.”
“I wrote a love letter to this place. To the community that gave me a home when I needed one. I changed names and details and made it fiction. But the heart of it? Yeah, that’s real. This town made me feel like I could breathe again.”
“Then that’s what you tell people if they ask.” He moves closer, and I can smell the forge on him still—smoke and metal and heat.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” I whisper. “The judgment. The way people look at you when they find out you write romance, like you’re somehow less than. Especially when it’s steamy. When there’s sex on the page.”
“You’re right. I don’t know.” His voice is gentle. “But I know you. I know you pour your heart into everything you do. The shop. The book club. The community. This book, too, I’m guessing.”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“Anyone who judges you for that isn’t worth your time.” He reaches out, his hand hovering near mine on the counter. Not quite touching, but close enough to feel the warmth. “You left your family because they tried to make you small. Don’t let Owen—or anyone else—do the same thing.”
“What if the whole town turns on me?”
“Then they’re idiots.” His mouth quirks in a half-smile. “But I don’t think they will. You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because they love this place as much as you do. And if your book is a love letter to Sierra Rose Ridge?” He shrugs. “That’s not disgusting or shameful.”
Something in my chest eases slightly. “When did you get so wise?”
“I have my moments.” He finally lets his hand settle over mine, his calloused palm warm and solid against my skin. “You’re not alone in this, Sadie. I mean that.”
“Why?” The question slips out before I can stop it. “Why do you care so much?”
His eyes hold mine, and there’s something in them I can’t quite read. Something that makes my breath catch, my heart pound, and every nerve ending light up, like I’m standing too close to a live wire.
We’re in my tiny kitchen, barely a foot between us. I can see the exact moment he realizes how close we are. The way his gaze drops to my mouth. Lingers there.
My pulse pounds in my ears.
He takes a step closer—just one—and suddenly the air feels thick. Charged.
I should step back, laugh this off. I should do anything except stand here staring at his lips and wondering what they’d feel like against mine.
But I don’t move.
And neither does he.
“Sadie.” My name comes out rough, saturated with want.
“Yeah?” I barely recognize my own voice.
He leans in—just barely. Enough that I know I’m not imagining this. If I wanted to close the distance, I could.
Do I want to?
God, yes.
