Chapter Eight
I’ve been writing since the moment I woke up.
Saint is very good for my productivity. That is a proven fact.
My phone vibrates on the table beside me.
I’m so deep into my story, I’m afraid to pause and look at it.
Sometimes when I’m in this kind of writing frenzy, the world outside my writing fades into the background, and it’s too risky to jump back into it.
I ignore the text for half an hour, until I finish the chapter.
When I finally glance at my screen, I see it’s from Saint.
What are you doing tonight?
I blink at the words, my pulse skipping. The casualness of the text doesn’t match the density of the thrill it sends through me. Is he offering to come over again? To go out? Even a simple phone call from him would make this bored heart of mine flutter in a way it shouldn’t.
There’s an alarming allure to his attention.
I stare at the screen, hesitating for a moment. My fingers hover over it before I finally type back a response.
Writing. Unless you have an idea for research.
It’s a playful reply, one that keeps things ambiguous enough, but the tension beneath it is unmistakable. I press send and wait, chewing my bottom lip. The silence feels long even though it only lasts seconds. His response buzzes through my phone almost immediately.
Do your characters ever make risky moves and go out in public?
The words seem innocent enough, but I know better.
Is this a dare? An invitation? The thought sends a rush of adrenaline through me, mingling with the slow, creeping guilt that always accompanies thoughts of him.
If Saint is planning on following through with whatever I say next, I’ll make it work to my advantage.
I use an actual scene I’ve written in the book.
I respond with a text that reads Cam works up the courage to take Reya out on a date, but he’s nervous someone may recognize him. So they end up eating in his car.
The thrill of the idea pulses through me. I know this is a step into something potentially more lethal than what we’ve done before. We’ve flirted and crossed lines, but a date? It feels different—bolder. We’re treading into territory neither of us should be exploring.
But that’s also the pull, isn’t it?
My pulse is pounding as I consider the implications. Before I can overthink it, another text from Saint lights up my screen.
There’s a restaurant I’d like you to try, he texts. It’s in the next town over. You in the mood?
The thought of going out in public with him, even in another town, feels like too much of a risk.
But his words prove he’s playing this game with me, and the logic of us going to the next town over makes sense for both Cam in the book and Saint, who has a wife and probably friends and coworkers who would recognize him here.
He’s taking a risk for me. I like it, so I text him back.
When and where?
As soon as I send the message, the nerves kick in. My stomach flips in that heady mix of excitement and guilt. I’m not just thinking about crossing a line—I’m planning it. And I want to. More than anything, I want to.
The reply is quick and decisive.
Meet me at the Blue Lantern. 7 pm. I’ll be at the bar.
I know the place; I’ve passed it many times on my way to and from this lake. It’s perfect for keeping a low profile, for blending in.
See you then.
I try throwing myself back into my story after the text exchange, but my thoughts keep drifting to what this evening will hold. This isn’t just a random encounter. This is planned. It’s a decision.
By the time six o’clock rolls around, I’m dressed, my heartbeat pounding in my chest like a drum.
I’ve opted for something simple—a blouse and jeans—but I’ve never felt so self-conscious.
It’s as though every piece of fabric clinging to my skin is a reminder of what I’m doing. Of the secrets I’m keeping.
Once I’m in my car and backing out of the driveway, an unsettling fear slips over me. There isn’t a single person in the world who knows where I’m heading right now.
I don’t usually put myself in these positions, so I’m not sure what to do. Who to text. I’m almost to the end of the long asphalt road when an idea comes to me.
Mari.
I pull into their driveway, but before I even get out of the car, Louie is walking outside.
“Everything okay, Petra?”
I nod. “Everything’s great. Just wanted to speak to Mari real quick.”
Louie seems a little disappointed that I’m not here to ask him a question about the house. He nods, then yells, “Mari! Writer renter lady is here for you!”
I can hear Mari make a noise from outside my car, and then she billows out onto the patio and into the yard like a ghost gliding across the pavement. “Petra!” she says.
Louie is still standing within earshot, so I eye him in a way that lets Mari know I don’t want him to overhear me.
“Get lost!” she yells over her shoulder. Louie disappears into the house. “What is it?” Her hands are clasped giddily beneath her chin, her fingers wriggling.
“Nothing salacious. Calm down. I’m just going to a work meeting and wanted someone to know where I am.”
“A work meeting. Okay. Where will you be? Who will you be with? What time should I expect you home?”
“Him,” I say in a whisper. “The Blue Lantern. Start to worry if I’m not home by eleven.”
“Oh, that place is really good. Get the burger. Sounds basic, but trust me.”
“Thank you.”
“Anytime,” she sings, twirling her silk dress with her as she heads back toward her house. She waves over her shoulder as I’m climbing into my car.
I feel better. Safer.
But not home free. My mind is racing with what-ifs the entire drive to the restaurant. What if we’re caught? What if someone sees us? But with every anxious thought comes the undeniable thrill of being seen. Of someone noticing, but not quite catching on to what’s really happening between us.
I pull into the parking lot of the Blue Lantern at exactly 7 p.m. The restaurant is tucked into a row of other restaurants and bars, unremarkable but cozy enough.
It’s perfect for what we’re doing. I park at the back, taking extra care to make sure no one can see my car from the street.
It’s a rental, and no one would even notice me or my car, but I try to imagine what Reya would be doing in this situation.
My palms are damp as I grip the steering wheel. I sit there for a few moments, my breath shaky, before I finally gather the nerve to get out of the car.
I’ve never had to worry much about being recognized until recently.
I’ve always had a decent-size following, but it’s rare that people would actually approach me and know that I’m Petra Rose, the writer.
I’m not sure normal society outside the tight-knit book world really pays attention to what the authors who write the books they read look like.
Social media has changed that for my generation of writers, though.
The handful of times I got recognized in the first few years of my career, it was always by someone who followed me online because they read my books.
It would happen more if I was in a bookstore, or in a town where readers and authors were there for a book convention and happened to see me in passing.
Up until these past couple of years, I’d honestly have been shocked if someone recognized me in this town.
But it’s different now. I’m not just an author. I’m a . . . whatever they call people like me. People who have reached such a level of either success or infamy, or both, that they get recognized even by people who aren’t readers.
I’m glad I keep my personal life offline, at least. I could be in public with any man or woman in the world, and no one would think twice since I never post about whether or not I’m married or whether or not I have children.
The risks are high for Saint tonight, though. I keep that in mind as I walk toward the entrance and push open the door.
The restaurant is understated—low lighting, quiet booths, and a long bar that stretches along the back wall.
The low murmur of conversation around me makes me feel anonymous. People are engrossed in their own lives and their own company and pay very little attention to who is walking in or out the door.
I find Saint at the bar, already seated, his back to the room. It’s strategic—smart. He’s already ordered a drink, his fingers wrapped casually around the glass as he watches me approach in the mirror.
My nerves fade a little when I see him smile in the mirror across the bar. It’s a small, knowing smile, like we’re in on something no one else could possibly understand.
We’re supposed to blend in here, just another pair of strangers sitting side by side. My pulse quickens as I walk toward him. He doesn’t turn when I approach, but I see the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth in the reflection of the bar mirror.
“Late,” he says in a teasing tone as I slide onto the stool next to him.
“And not even fashionably,” I counter.
He gives me a quick, direct once-over, his eyes dark with amusement. “I beg to differ.”
The bartender approaches, a towel slung over his shoulder, his gaze flicking between us as he waits for our order.
Saint leans forward slightly, his forearms resting on the bar, and with a low, confident voice, he orders another old-fashioned. The word comes out smooth, probably like the drink he’s just finished. It’s simple, but there’s an intensity behind the choice that matches him perfectly.
The bartender nods, acknowledging the order, and then turns to me.
I take a moment, swallowing down the nerves that seem to be sitting heavy in my throat.
“I’ll have a glass of Sauvignon Blanc,” I say, opting for something light and crisp.
Understated, like I’m trying to make this feel as normal as possible, even though my insides are twisting with a mix of excitement and anxiety.