Chapter 3
HOPE
“And just like that, he walked out of my life.”
Frost gives me one last warm smile before he turns toward the door.
The logo, Death’s Gambit, is proudly displayed on the back of his leather cut, and I can’t help but admire his ass as he walks away.
The bell above the door gives a soft jingle as he pushes it open, but he pauses on the threshold before stepping out.
When he glances back over his shoulder, I offer a small wave, and he dips his chin.
Do I watch him straddle his bike and fire it up before backing out of his spot and tearing off into the sunset? I absolutely do. In a matter of minutes, he’s gone.
For a moment, I just sit here staring at his empty spot. It feels surreal, like I was living out a scene from one of my novels, but with his departure, the spell’s broken. There’s nothing left to do but gather up my stuff and head home.
I tuck my laptop into my bag, replaying every little beat of the last half hour. Frost’s voice cutting in at just the right moment, those deep brown eyes that never wandered from my face.
I can’t believe I admitted that I write romance novels for a living to a hot ass biker. God, I even blushed like a teenager. I zip up my bag a little too quickly and mentally scold myself.
“Get a grip, Hope,” I mutter under my breath. “He was just being nice.”
Except… no. My heart doesn’t want to let it go, and it doesn’t seem to matter how much my brain is screaming at me to drop it. There was something between us. At least, it felt like we were connecting.
The scene was set. The backdrop was perfect.
A holiday-themed café with twinkling lights in the window.
A biker walks in, rescues the girl from an asshole, and then buys her a cup of coffee.
I shake my head, half-laughing at myself.
If I put it in a book, my readers would devour it.
If I told anyone it really happened to me, they’d say I dreamt it.
Who would’ve thought this would happen in real life?
I unlock my car, climb in, and sit for a second before starting the engine.
My hands curl around the steering wheel as I recall telling him I’m usually here on Saturdays.
He knows where to find me. Now, I have to make sure I’m here every weekend for the foreseeable future.
I tell myself that if I never see him again, it’ll be okay.
I can always write the ending I want in one of my novels.
Bullshit. It would suck to never see him again.
The ride home is a blur. Images of a tall, sexy biker invade my every thought while I drive through the streets.
Finally, I make it to my apartment, and I kick my door shut behind me with my heel.
Dropping my bag on the couch, I pull out my laptop and flip it open.
The familiar glow of my writing document illuminates the small space.
My characters stare back, frozen mid-argument, waiting.
“Well,” I say with a sigh, slipping into my chair. “You’re not going to believe what happened to me today, Scarlett.”
Scarlett, my lead female, is a confident, sharp-tongued, no-nonsense woman who sits, waiting for her story to unfold. I imagine her staring at me, tapping her foot, commanding me to get on with it. “Do tell, Hope. Why are your hands shaking? And is that a blush I see?”
“They aren’t shaking,” I mutter. “Okay, fine. Maybe they are a little.” I run a hand through my hair. “Frost, this tall, sexy, muscular man, with the whole broody biker thing, swoops in and saves me from a creep at the coffee shop. Like something out of your book.”
The lead male, Lachlan, crosses his arms. “So, you’re telling us you ran into your own cliché today?”
“Don’t start with me,” I snap accusingly at him. “He wasn’t a cliché. He was sweet and nice.”
Scarlett snickers, clearly enjoying this. “Nice? Or sexy? Make up your mind.”
I rub my temples in frustration. “Oh my god, both, okay? Happy?”
I’m half-laughing at myself, half-convinced that I’ve lost the last of my sanity.
Talking to my characters isn’t weird when I’m plotting, but talking to them about my love life?
Yeah, definitely sinking into unhinged behavior.
Before I can further defend my life choices, my phone blares to life beside me. BFF Incoming flashes across the screen.
I groan. “If I don’t answer, she’ll assume I’m dead.”
Lachlan smirks at me, the traitor. “Go on. Tell her about your leather knight.”
“You’re such an asshole,” I mutter as I snatch up the phone. “What’s up, girl?”
Amy’s voice explodes through the speaker. “Hope, why do you sound out of breath? What happened? And don’t lie, I felt a disturbance in the force.”
I close my laptop because even though my characters are fictional and can’t see or hear what I’m about to say, I want privacy.
“Okay,” I say, sinking back in my chair. “You’re not going to believe this…”