“I don’t know. I tried texting her, but she hasn’t responded. I hope she’s asleep and hasn’t seen anything.”
“I’m worried she’s seen the messages and turned off her phone.” I’m already grabbing my keys.
“Mateo—“
“I need to go.” I’m pulling on my boots, not bothering to change out of the gray sweats and t-shirt I slept in.
The Hendersons’ railing is due on Monday. I’m supposed to work on it all day today and finish the scrollwork on the top rail. It’s a $4,000 commission, and it’s the biggest one I’ve landed this quarter.
But none of that matters right now.
“What are you going to do?”
“Whatever she needs.”
Isabel follows me to the door. “The comments are getting worse. Judith’s calling it pornography. People are saying she’s disgraced the town. Someone even suggested boycotting Wildflower Books.”
I pause with my hand on the doorknob. “Who?”
“Does it matter?”
“It might.” Because if someone’s actively organizing against Sadie, I need to know. I need to be ready.
Isabel’s expression softens. “Just be careful. This is messy, and if you get involved, you could become a target too.”
“I don’t care.” I leave without another word, climbing into my truck and speeding away.
The drive to Sadie’s apartment takes only a matter of minutes, but the entire time, my brain is racing through the comments. The way Judith framed it, like writing a love story with sex in it makes Sadie dangerous. Like the woman who’s poured five years of love into this town is suddenly a threat because she put some of that love on the page.
Writing pornography set in Sierra Rose Ridge?
Bullshit.
Sadie wrote a romance novel. A love story. She created characters, built a world, and poured her heart into something people are connecting with all over the country.
And now they’re crucifying her for it because it has sex scenes.
I park outside Wildflower Books, take the stairs to her apartment two at a time, and knock on her door.
No answer.
“Sadie?” I knock again, harder. “It’s Mateo. Open up.”
Still nothing.
I pull out my phone and call her. It goes straight to voicemail.
I try the door handle. Locked, obviously.
“Sadie, I know you’re in there.” I keep my voice calm, even though everything in me wants to break down this door. “Your car’s parked outside. I just need to know you’re okay.”
A long moment of silence.
Then the lock clicks.
The door opens a crack, and Sadie’s face appears in the gap. She looks like she hasn’t slept. She probably hasn’t. If this all exploded a few hours ago, she probably hasn’t been able to settle her mind.
Red-rimmed eyes, hair pulled back in a messy bun, and wrapped in an oversized sweater that swallows her whole. She looks like she’s been crying for hours and trying to pretend she hasn’t. She’s a beautiful mess.
