Chapter Seven #3
“Tell me something,” he whispers against my skin, his voice sending shivers down my spine.
“Mmhmm,” I mutter, barely able to form a coherent response.
“What kind of guy is Cam?” His question is laced with curiosity, but his lips never stop moving against my skin.
I open my eyes, the reality of the moment sinking in.
If he’s asking about Cam, does that mean he’s kissing me as Saint right now? Is this real, or is this part of the game we’ve been playing? God, I hope it’s real.
“He’s . . .” I pause, trying to gather my thoughts as his tongue slides precariously close to my ear. It’s hard to focus with the way he’s making me feel, but I manage to speak. “He’s good, but rough around the edges. He’s controlling. Jealous. Has a temper.”
Saint pulls back just enough to look me in the eye, his expression thoughtful. “He wouldn’t hurt Reya, would he?”
“Never,” I say, my voice soft but certain. “He’s madly in love with her. Tries his best to protect her.”
“Tries?” Saint’s brow furrows, his gaze questioning. “Does that mean he doesn’t always succeed?”
I shake my head, my breath catching in my throat. “Not always.”
He rubs his thumb over my bottom lip, his eyes darkening as he stares at my mouth.
I love the way he looks at me in this moment, the intensity of his gaze, the way it makes me feel seen in a way I’ve never felt before.
I want to capture this feeling, write it down, describe it in detail, but I’m afraid that if I wait until later, I won’t be able to capture the fullness of it.
The way his eyes make me feel like I’m the only thing that matters.
“Does anything bad happen to Reya in your book?” he asks, his voice low, but full of genuine concern.
“Yes,” I whisper. Normally, I wouldn’t spoil the plot for anyone, but in this moment, I don’t care. Saint isn’t just anyone, and I doubt he’ll ever read my work.
“What happens to her?”
“Well. A lot, actually. She loses her best friend. There’s an attempted kidnapping. A car chase. Someone breaks into her house.”
Saint’s eyes narrow in concern. “Does anyone ever hurt her?”
“Yes,” I admit. “She gets hurt toward the end of the book. The person who breaks into her house . . . after he ties her up, she realizes her arm is broken.”
“Does she know who is doing these things to her?”
“She doesn’t.”
“Why do these things keep happening to her?”
“Reya is a lawyer. She has evidence that this character is trying to locate.”
Saint runs the backs of his fingers over my cheek as I speak.
He seems so interested in my answers, it makes me wonder if he’s planning to act any of these scenes out.
Is that why I’m telling him about it? Because part of me hopes he does?
Do I actually want to know what it’s like to be kidnapped? To have a broken arm?
No. That would be taking things a little too far. I’m not so sure I’m willing to go that deep for research.
“What happens next?” he asks. “How does she find out who is doing all this?”
I clear my throat. “I’m not sure. I haven’t gotten that far into the story yet.”
He pulls back farther, shifting his weight slightly on the island, though my leg is still wrapped around his waist, keeping us intimately connected.
His thumb continues to stroke my hip, a steady, comforting rhythm.
His gaze softens, losing some of the intensity it often holds, becoming surprisingly empathetic.
“You know, for someone who writes such compelling stories, you seem hesitant to talk about your own.” His voice is quiet, almost gentle. “Maybe even embarrassed.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, feigning ignorance, my voice a little too high.
He doesn’t let up. His eyes, surprisingly perceptive, search mine. “I don’t know. When you talk about your story, or your career, you just seem embarrassed.”
Wow. Isn’t he an astute one. I sigh. “Embarrassed doesn’t feel like the right word. But yes. You’re right. It’s hard talking about myself.”
“Has it always been? Or is it just since the adaptation controversy?”
I give him a look that must be full of surprise, because he immediately shoots me back a reassuring glance.
“Look, I know I barely know you at all,” he says. “But it’s weird, because I feel like I kind of do after watching all your videos. And the you I saw in those videos just isn’t the same you standing in front of me.”
“Ouch. I’m more disappointing in real life?”
“Disappointing and disappointed are two very different things. You are far from disappointing, Petra.”
I push off the counter and pace for a moment, not sure what he wants from me. “I don’t like this conversation. I liked pretending you had no idea about me or the noise online.”
“You’re hard to scroll past. Even out here in the middle of nowhere, we all have cell service.”
“It’s not really something I like to talk about,” I murmur, looking away, staring at the polished surface of the island, anywhere but at him. The thought of revisiting the vitriol, much less talking to him about it, makes my chest ache.
“I get it,” he says, his voice softer now, almost soothing.
“I shouldn’t have brought it up. I just can’t imagine it’s easy, having your passion picked apart by strangers.
And on top of that, having them feel like they’re entitled to more than just your words on paper.
They feel entitled to rip you apart, without even having spent a single second in the room with you.
” He pauses, and when I glance at him, he’s watching me with a look of legitimate concern.
“How are you handling it? Are you okay?”
The directness of his question catches me off guard.
The way he says it, as if he genuinely cares, is disarming.
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, a surprising response to his empathy.
“Well, it hasn’t been fun,” I admit, the words barely a whisper, forcing them out.
“I feel like the whole past year broke something inside me. I haven’t been able to write anything meaningful.
” I look up at him, my eyes pleading. “Until you kissed me.”
A slow smile spreads across his mouth. “It helped?”
I nod. “A lot.”
With that, he kisses me again, soft and quick, then wraps his arms around me. He gently caresses my shoulder with his thumb.
“What did you used to love about writing?” he asks.
“Everything. I’ve just always gotten a thrill out of putting words to paper.”
“So it’s the act of writing, not necessarily the act of being read?”
“I mean, it’s nice when people want to read what I write, but it’s not why I write. I write for my own enjoyment. It’s therapy for me. It’s what makes me happy.”
“Then why haven’t you been writing?”
The question is so simple, but so complex. Saint moves his hands to my shoulders, pushing me away just enough so that he can look me in the eye.
“I’m serious. If it makes you happy, why aren’t you doing it?”
“I just didn’t think my career would ever take off like it did, or that people would have such passionate feelings toward what I do in my spare time.
It’s the aftermath I don’t really like. And it’s impossible to get away from.
I fear that any move I make from here on out will always become a headline.
I think that’s why I’ve had writer’s block, because in reality, I’m a little bit scared to finish the book and give it to the world. ”
“Then don’t give it to anyone. Just write it and keep it for yourself.”
“Have to pay the bills,” I say flatly. The hard truth behind the dream breaks through the kindness of the moment.
“I’m sure I’ll still sell books when I release another one, which is why I’m writing.
But my desire has changed. My audience has changed.
I think that’s what makes me the saddest. I feel like I’ve let down everyone who used to admire me.
” I separate myself from him and put my hands on my hips.
“But I’m just not the type to try and change people’s minds.
If me defending myself will require me to speak ill of someone else, I’d rather just take the loss. ”
Saint is staring at me with what looks like admiration. “There you are,” he whispers, gently tucking my hair behind my ears.
His words, simple yet profound, land with an unexpected weight, cutting through years of self-doubt and poisoned thoughts.
“I want you to write,” he says. “And I want you to publish. I know I’m just one person, but I want to read everything you’ve written and everything you haven’t written, so even if you’re only writing for you and me, let that be enough to finish at least one more book.”
A warmth spreads through my chest, a sensation that has nothing to do with physical touch and everything to do with genuine connection. It makes me uncomfortable, so I cut through it with humor. “And you promise you’ll buy it? I need the royalties. The whole dollar.”
He laughs. “I’ll buy ten copies,” he jokes.
“Wow. Baller.”
I realize, as he kisses me again with a smile, that he sees me. He truly sees me, beyond Reya, beyond Cam, beyond the initial physical attraction. He sees Petra, the struggling author, and he’s offered me a listening ear instead of just another nosy inquisition.
A different kind of attraction sparks within me, a deeper, more personal fascination. I wrap my arms around his waist.
“Thank you,” I whisper. This conversation has been liberating in so many ways.
He smiles, a soft, genuine smile that reaches his eyes, making them crinkle at the corners.
“Will you let me read some of it?”
The question takes me completely by surprise. No one but Nora reads my first drafts. They’re my messiest, most vulnerable thoughts. “You want to read my book?” I ask, incredulous.
“I mean, I am helping you research. And if it helps your process to know that someone else is invested in the story . . . I’d be honored.”
My heart gives a surprising lurch. The idea of him, Saint, reading my words, seeing the raw, unpolished beginnings of Reya’s story.
The parts of her that are so clearly me and the parts of Cam that are so clearly him—it’s terrifying.
But it’s also exhilarating. It’s a bridge between our fantasy and my reality, a sign of a deeper engagement.
He’s not just playing a character; he’s investing in my art, in me.
“Maybe,” I say, a shy smile finally breaking through. “Okay.” The thought of his eyes on my words, of his mind engaging with the world I’m building, suddenly feels like the most powerful inspiration of all. This is more than just research now. This is a collaboration.
He grins, and then kisses me. And just like during our first kiss, his phone begins to vibrate. He doesn’t even flinch. He just kisses me even deeper, ignoring the incoming call.
With every vibration of his phone, he pulls me tighter against him as if he’s trying to drown out the noise with my touch.
“You should get that,” I whisper, pulling away.
We both know it’s his wife.
He reluctantly steps away from me and pulls his phone out of his pocket. He carries it to the front door and takes the call outside.
I watch him through the window. He’s gripping the back of his neck as he speaks to whoever is on the other end of that call.
I wonder what her name is. How long they’ve been together. Does he have children?
The call doesn’t last long.
He heads back toward the house, so I walk away from the window. When he’s back inside, his expression is regretful. He walks past me and scoops up his uniform and gun. He doesn’t say a word. He just grips my face with one hand and kisses me, almost possessively.
Then he leaves.
I’m left speechless, standing alone in the kitchen.
I don’t know what just happened, it occurred so fast.
Was that part of his act? I’m getting reality and fiction confused. Was he doing what he thought Cam would do in that situation? Or did Saint really feel guilty enough after that phone call that he just left without a word?
I have no idea what was going through his head, so all I can do is focus on what’s going through mine. I take my computer to the bedroom with me, full of new ideas and new feelings and new thoughts.
I write until I fall asleep.