Chapter Six #4
“What kind of book is it? Romance?”
I nod. “Romantic suspense. A love triangle. And the married cop is part of that triangle because he falls for a witness. It gets . . . messy. I just . . .”
He waits quietly for me to finish.
“I don’t know anything about cops. Or love triangles, apparently.”
“Not sure I can answer questions about a love triangle. I’ve never been in one.
But anything else is fair game.” His voice is low and curious, like he’s genuinely interested in my answer.
He grins, and I can feel that smile slide right into my stomach, settling there like a slow-burning flame.
It’s the kind of smile that makes you forget how to breathe for a second.
I’m still stuck on the fact he watched my old videos.
I can’t believe I didn’t think to make them private on TikTok after all the drama.
Which means he’s seen me drunk, spouting off ridiculous ideas, laughing until I snorted wine out of my nose.
I’m mortified just thinking about it, but at the same time, there’s something intriguing about the fact that he’s here, standing in front of me, bringing it up as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to Google search someone you just met.
“Yeah, I’ve never been in one either,” I say, trying to downplay my embarrassment while still engaging in the conversation.
“I’ve been second-guessing that whole part of it, but I do have questions that might come up about your job if you wouldn’t mind answering them as I go.
I’m sure the more experience you have as a cop, the better you get at it over time, right?
You learn things on the job that you can’t learn in a classroom.
Things I won’t be able to find on Google. ”
“True,” he says, his smile softening a little as he nods in agreement.
“Writing is like that,” I continue, the words coming easier now. “If I lived through something, I could probably make it more realistic when I put it into words on paper. There’s only so much you can imagine before your lack of experience starts to show. And I’ve never been a cop, so . . .”
“Or in a love triangle,” he adds.
Saint breaks our eye contact for the first time since we started this conversation, his gaze drifting down to his arms, which are folded across his chest. I follow his line of sight and see that he’s staring at his left hand, specifically at the wedding ring on his finger.
He starts to twirl the ring absentmindedly with his thumb, and I can’t help but wonder what’s going through his mind.
That move makes my stomach tighten, not just from embarrassment but also from the sudden realization that this conversation is skirting perilously close to what might lead into inappropriate territory.
Maybe that’s why he’s here.
“This book you’re working on,” he says after a beat, his eyes lifting back to meet mine. “What are the main characters’ names?”
“Cam is the cop,” I reply, feeling a strange thrill at the fact he’s asking so many questions. “Reya is the female protagonist.”
“And who is the third?”
“Cam’s wife. Cam is the one having the affair, but Reya feels guilty because she doesn’t want to be the other woman, but she’s just too . . . intrigued by him.”
“Are there specific things that happen to Reya in the book that you’ve never experienced?” His voice is steady, but his question dwells, thick and heavy. “Or are you still outlining?”
Holy shit. This conversation is really going there. I can feel the heat creeping up the back of my neck, and suddenly I’m not sure if I’m ready to have this conversation with him. Not like this. Not while we’re standing so close, not while the air feels charged with something I can’t quite name.
I need a drink.
Without saying anything, I walk around him, moving toward the cabinet to grab a glass. “I need wine for this conversation,” I say, my voice a little breathless. I turn to face him, raising an eyebrow. “Want some?”
He shrugs, a slow, easy movement that somehow makes him seem even more relaxed. “I’ll take a glass,” he says, his gaze never leaving mine.
I grab the open bottle of wine I broke into for Mari from the refrigerator, feeling the coolness of the bottle against my skin as I pour two half glasses.
When I turn to hand him his glass, we’re closer now.
He’s still leaning against the kitchen island, and I’m leaning against the sink, but our feet are just inches apart, and the proximity sends a shiver down my spine.
He takes the glass from my hand, his fingers brushing lightly against mine, and for a moment, I feel frozen in place.
He takes a sip, his eyes still locked on mine, watching me over the rim of the wineglass.
There’s something in the way he watches me that feels different now, more intense, like we’re no longer just talking about the book.
It’s as if the conversation is a stand-in for something else, something unspoken but undeniably present.
I don’t sip as delicately from my glass. I take a huge gulp, the wine sliding down my throat in a rush as I try to steady myself. I set the glass on the counter next to me, my hand lingering on it as I stare down at it, trying to gather my thoughts.
“Reya is very different from me,” I begin, my voice a little softer now. “I don’t want you to think I took inspiration for her character from my own life.”
“I’m sure you took some. Would be impossible not to, right?”
“I suppose. But I do intentionally make my characters different from myself. It’s fun living vicariously through them.
She’s only twenty-six, but she’s lived a busy life.
Already out of law school and practicing, so when she meets Cam, she isn’t the most experienced with men.
All her time has been put into becoming a badass attorney, but he’s the first thing that makes her nervous.
” I glance up at him, my heart thudding.
“Their attraction is intense. But . . . as you know, he’s married.
” My eyes inadvertently glance down at his ring and then back up again.
Saint nods slowly, his expression unreadable as he sips from his wine again. He lowers the glass to his chest and holds it there like it’s a shield. “How does that make Reya feel?” he asks, his voice quieter now, more probing, as if he’s asking me something more than just a plot detail.
“Jealous,” I say immediately, the word slipping out before I can stop it. “Disappointed.”
His gaze darkens just a fraction, and I wonder if I’ve said too much, if I’ve let too much of myself slip into the story. But the way he’s looking at me like he’s searching for something in my answer makes me feel like I’m not the only one unsure how far we’re going to take this conversation.
For a moment, the air between us feels impossibly charged, the mass of his question still hanging there. We’re not just talking about Reya and Cam anymore. There’s something more personal woven into this conversation, something that neither of us has said aloud, but we both know is there.
“Do they know each other very well?” he asks, his voice softer now, pulling me even more into the moment.
“Not at all,” I reply, shaking my head. “Not in the beginning.”
“So this attraction . . . it’s strictly physical?” His eyes are searching mine, his question hanging in the air, heavy, almost tangible.
“For now,” I admit, my voice quiet as I feel the tension between us grow.
I have no idea what’s happening here.
Are we still talking about the book? Or are we talking about us now? It’s as though the conversation has taken on a double meaning that neither of us is acknowledging outright.
Now that I’ve been picturing Cam as Saint in my head, it’s impossible to separate the two. For a writer, it’s a strange feeling—to be standing so close to a real-life version of your character. It’s like something I created has come to life, and that thought sends a rush of adrenaline through me.
I take another drink of wine, feeling my heart pounding so loud I’m sure Saint can hear it. I’m trying to keep my breathing steady, but it’s difficult.
“How does their affair begin?” he asks, his tone calm but curious, like he’s genuinely interested.
I swallow hard, knowing that the answer to this question will take us even deeper into a hazardous place.
“A kiss,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Cam loves his wife, but he’s never felt such a strong physical attraction to anyone like he does to Reya.
So one night . . . when he’s at Reya’s house on business .
. . he lets his weakness take over. And he kisses her.
But in the middle of the kiss, he feels guilty, so he pulls away from her and storms out of the house. ”
“Without apologizing?” Saint’s eyebrow rises, and I can tell he’s intrigued by the emotional conflict.
I nod, feeling my pulse race even faster. “Cam is a tortured soul,” I explain.
Saint nods slowly, thinking it over. His eyes stay locked on mine, and then he asks, “And that’s never happened to you? You’ve never been kissed by a man who is married to another woman?”
I shake my head, my voice quiet now. “No,” I say softly.
“And now I feel stuck when I try to write Reya’s reaction.
” I take another sip of my wine and then continue.
“How would Reya react after that? Would she get angry at Cam for kissing her, even though she wanted it? Would she cry because he stormed out without a word? Or would she feel triumphant—like she won?”
Saint tilts his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as he considers my question. “That does sound like something you would have to experience before you could really nail the emotions.”
“Exactly,” I say, feeling a surge of validation, even as my heart races.
We stare at each other for a long, quiet moment, and my heart might be pounding louder than when I was woken up by police lights in the middle of the night.
Then, he does something I’m not expecting—he pulls his bottom lip in and chews on it for a moment, a classic move straight out of the novels I write.
The sight of it makes me want to laugh, but the tension is too real, too thick, and I wonder if he realizes how perfectly he’s fitting the role of my fictional hero right now.
Is he biting that lip on purpose? Has he read a romance novel?
There’s a sudden intrusive buzzing sound that makes Saint stand up straighter. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and glances down at the screen. His expression changes slightly, and when he looks back at me, his eyes are serious. “It’s my wife,” he says.
The words hit me like a splash of cold water, and I try not to let the disappointment show. I set down my wineglass, my fingers trembling slightly. “You should probably answer it,” I say, trying to sound casual, unaffected.
Saint also sets his wineglass on the counter beside him, his eyes still locked on mine. “You’re right. I should answer it.”
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he tosses the phone onto the counter, and before I can even process what’s happening, he closes the gap between us. In an instant, his hand slips behind my head, and his mouth is on mine.
The kiss happens so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that I gasp. His lips are warm, soft, and when his tongue slides into my mouth, it sends chills rolling down my spine. I press myself against him instinctively, my hands moving up to the sides of his neck as his lips close over mine.
He tastes like mint and merlot, a combination that sends my senses reeling. I know immediately that this is how I’ll describe Cam’s kiss in the book—this taste, this feeling, this moment.
His phone is still buzzing away on the counter, but all I can think about is the way he chose this kiss over answering her call. I was right, at least about that feeling. Reya would feel triumphant, like she’d won something she didn’t even know she was fighting for.
But the triumph comes with a heavy side of guilt, and that feeling starts to creep in almost as quickly. I can’t ignore the fact that his phone is buzzing because his wife is calling.
His literal wife.
And I won’t even allow my mind to start dissecting all the things I should feel guilty for.
The phone finally stops vibrating, and in the silence that follows, the only sounds are the soft, intoxicating hum of his mouth moving against mine and the quiet moan that escapes from me without warning.
His hand slides down to the small of my back, pulling me closer, and I press myself into him, lost in the heat of the moment.
But then, just as quickly as it began, the phone starts buzzing again, jerking us both back to reality.
Saint pulls away from me, his breath heavy as he presses his forehead to mine. I gasp for air, my chest rising and falling as I try to catch my breath.
No kiss has ever left me this breathless, this affected.
When I open my eyes, I see that his are still closed, as if he’s trying to hold on to the moment for just a little longer.
Did I really just allow that to happen?
I’m awful.
The phone keeps buzzing, an insistent reminder of the reality we’re trying to ignore.
And then Saint releases me and grabs his phone, his expression unreadable, and without another word, he walks to the door.
The door slams behind him, and I stand here, feeling the weight of the silence in the cabin. He filled me with so many emotions in that brief moment, only to rip them away just as quickly. Now, all I’m left with is this aching feeling in my chest—an emptiness I wasn’t expecting.
I ache for more of that kiss. More of his flirtation. More of that triumphant feeling.
I hear the gravel crunch beneath his tires as he pulls away from the house, and even after he’s been gone for several minutes, I’m still standing in the same spot, touching my lips with my fingertips, trying to process everything that just happened.
The reaction that surprises me the most right now is my smile. If I were to have written Reya and Cam’s first kiss last night, I never would have thought she would smile after he left the way he did.
But I’m smiling. Despite the guilt I feel for the betrayal, I’m somehow smiling because it doesn’t feel like I’ve done anything wrong. It’s research. Right?
Without thinking, I walk straight to my computer and open it. For the second night in a row, I sit down and immediately begin typing.
I am never telling a soul about that kiss.