Chapter Eight #2
As the bartender turns away to prepare our drinks, I feel Saint’s gaze on me.
I glance over, and his eyes are already on mine, a subtle smirk playing on his lips.
It’s casual on the surface—the kind of scene that wouldn’t raise suspicion if anyone were watching—but the air between us is thick with the kind of tension that can’t be easily ignored.
“You look . . .” His eyes sweep over me. “Incredible.”
His compliment warms me up, more than the wine could even accomplish. “Thank you,” I say.
He adjusts himself so that his thigh is pressing against mine. “How did the court case go?”
I tilt my head, confused, but only for a second. Reya is a lawyer. He’s in character.
I grin. This is exciting. “We won. Unanimous verdict in less than two hours.”
“I wouldn’t have expected anything else,” he says.
I love this game. Too much. “What about you? How was your day?”
“It’s better now,” he says flirtatiously.
The bartender returns, setting down a short glass of whiskey for Saint and a tall-stemmed glass of wine in front of me. “Enjoy,” he says before walking away, leaving us alone in our little bubble.
Saint lifts his glass, swirling the amber liquid inside it before taking a slow sip, his eyes never leaving mine. I do the same, lifting my wine and taking a small, measured sip, trying to calm the rapid beating of my heart.
It feels like everyone in the room knows what’s happening between us, even though logically I know no one is paying attention. But the secrecy, the unspoken understanding of what this meeting is really about, makes it exciting. I wish I was taking notes right now.
Saint takes another sip of his whiskey, his eyes still holding mine over the rim of his glass. After he sets it back down, he leans a little closer, his voice low but casual. “How was the drive over?”
I raise an eyebrow and smile, feeling the tension loosen just a bit. “You mean the thirty minutes I spent rehearsing what to say when I saw you, then driving in circles around the parking lot trying to convince myself not to walk in?”
His lips twitch into a smirk. “You did seem a little flustered when you walked in. I was beginning to think you might pull a U-turn back to your car.”
I let out a soft laugh, shaking my head.
“Oh, I almost did. You should’ve seen me sitting in the car, giving myself a pep talk like some motivational speaker on a bad day.
‘You can do this, Petra. It’s just a casual drink, no big deal.
’” I mimic the exaggerated gestures of a pep talk, rolling my eyes at my own ridiculousness.
Saint grins, the amusement dancing in his eyes.
“Petra, is it?” he asks, a twinkle to his eye. “I thought your name was Reya tonight.”
Saint’s grin widens as he leans in, the air between us buzzing.
My stomach drops as I realize my mistake. Sometimes I forget we’re playing a game when he speaks to me, but that’s all this is. A game. It’s not about me, not about Petra and her guilt, but about Reya, who would embrace this kind of reckless thrill without hesitation.
I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks as I fumble for a response. “My bad. Reya.” I force a laugh, trying to play it off like I didn’t just slip up, but the awkwardness is impossible to hide.
Saint raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying my discomfort. “Are you forgetting who you’re supposed to be right now?” he teases, his voice low and laced with amusement. “Reya wouldn’t be apologizing. Reya is a badass, remember?”
I look down at my glass, suddenly feeling like he’s way better at this than I am, and I’m the one who is supposed to have the imagination. “You’re right. I just—” I pause, swallowing the embarrassment.
He chuckles softly, the sound rumbling in his chest. “You’re overthinking it.
” He glances at me, seeing the hesitation on my face.
He offers up a gentle smile as he leans in slightly.
“And if it’s guilt making you feel this way, don’t let it.
Your actions aren’t a factor in my marriage.
I made the choice to be here. That’s on me. ”
His words are surprisingly reassuring. “You don’t . . .” I struggle to find my question. “You don’t feel bad?”
His eyes narrow as he thinks about my question.
“I do. But my marriage is . . .” He takes a sip of his drink and then gingerly sets his glass on the bar.
“Complicated,” he says dryly. “But that’s for me to figure out.
When I’m with you, I just convince myself I’m doing a good deed.
Helping you with research. Every good writer needs to research.
” He washes away any trace of guilt on his face with a slow grin. “Who am I to deny you your muse?”
I literally do not know if I’m speaking to Cam or Saint right now. I don’t know how he does it—pretends so well. And if he isn’t pretending . . . he’s convincing. Because I am so much more at ease than I was five minutes ago.
Every brush of his knee against mine sends another jolt of awareness through my body. We may be sitting at a bar, trying to keep this casual, but nothing about this feels casual at all. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt more thrilled on a date before.
My pulse races. His proximity is intoxicating, and I know I’m playing with fire, but the danger of it only fuels my attraction. I’m acutely aware of how easy it would be for someone to recognize him. Or me. But it’s also rousing, knowing we’re on the edge of something forbidden.
That’s actually not a bad book title contender. The Edge of Forbidden. I grab my phone and type it into my notes before I forget it.
When I look up from my phone, I notice Saint’s posture shift. He’s suddenly more rigid now as his eyes flicker toward the entrance. At a couple who just walked through the door. I saw them out of the corner of my eye but don’t want to turn around.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, lowering my voice.
“It’s nothing,” Saint says, gripping the back of his neck. “False alarm.” He eases up, but only a little. Then he turns to me. “I have a dilemma.”
“What’s the dilemma?” I ask him.
“I’m hungry,” he says, scanning the restaurant discreetly.
“But the bartender told me before you got here that they only serve food at the tables, not at the bar. However, I’m not sure sitting at a table with a gorgeous woman who is not my wife will look very good if I actually do see someone I know.
” His gaze moves from scanning the restaurant and comes back to me.
“I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind if we got food to go and ate in the car. Not the ideal date, but . . .”
I want to smile, because he’s playing out the scene in my book with pure perfection.
I nod in understanding, because Reya does understand.
She understands it so much, I think she would almost rather cancel the date altogether, because in no way, shape, or form is what we’re doing okay.
But instead of objecting to what we’re doing, I say, “Let’s do it. ”
“Maybe you should wait outside,” he says, standing up. “I can get our food and meet you at your car.”
I stand up with him, grabbing my purse. “I want a cheeseburger. No tomatoes. French fries.” I down the rest of my wine. “I parked in the back.”
“Perfect,” he says. “See you soon.”
“Where’d you go to law school?” he asks.
The question makes me laugh because I’m a writer, not a lawyer, but that’s why we’re here. To pretend. I have fun with it. “Harvard. I’m super smart,” I say. “Genius level. Scientists want to study my brain.”
Saint laughs. We’re sitting in my car, and while I’m doing my best to eat in a civilized way, eating from to-go containers in a small car and trying to keep the mood alive is anything but easy.
Turns out we both like salty ketchup, so Saint opened several packets and poured salt directly onto the ketchup, and we’re taking turns dipping fries into it, making small talk as Cam and Reya. It has actually been fun. I’ve never seen him so at ease.
“Where’d you go to cop school, Cam?”
“Oh, you know,” he says. “The, um . . . academy. The cop academy.”
I laugh way too hard at that. “Where did Saint go to cop school?”
“LAPD, baby.”
“Maybe that’s where Cam should go, then. I don’t think I’ve written much of his history yet.” Right before I take a bite of another french fry, I say, “Tell me something interesting.”
“Interesting?” he asks. “Have I been boring you so far?”
“Of course not,” I say, laughing. “Just . . . tell me something real. And unique.”
Saint takes a sip of his water. He insisted we both order waters to go so we’d be sobered up before heading back to our respective places for the night.
He clears his throat and sets his drink back in the cup holder. “I have a brother,” he starts, his voice slipping into something lighter, almost playful. “He’s got one arm.”
I raise an eyebrow, intrigued but cautious. “Oh?”
“Yep,” he continues, “lost it in the army five years ago. He was standing guard next to an armored car, and boom—gone.”
I blink, unsure whether to laugh or gasp.
He watches me, a smirk tugging at his lips, like he knows exactly the effect this story is having.
“It’s true,” he says. “It was awful at the time, but he’s got a great sense of humor about it now,” he says, his eyes glinting with mischief.
“He likes to tell people that his lack of armor cost him an arm in the army.”
I can’t help it. I laugh, the absurdity of it washing over me. But then doubt creeps in. Is he messing with me? Is this an actual thing that happened to Saint’s brother, or is he making this up? I squint at him, trying to read his expression. “Wait, is that even true?”
Saint’s face remains perfectly neutral. “It’s absolutely true.”
“So that’s not something I can write into the book?”
“Please don’t,” Saint says immediately. “That would be way too close to home.” He wipes his mouth and closes his to-go box. “Now look who keeps forgetting to be in character,” he says. “I’m telling you stories from my real life. Not very helpful to the writer who needs content she can use.”
I love that he’s slipping out of character. “It’s harder than it seems to be someone else,” I say.
Saint watches me closely. “You do make it difficult not to be myself.”
That sentence makes my mouth run dry. I take a sip of water and help him start bagging up all the trash.
Once we’ve cleaned up our space in the car, he exits and walks over to a trash can and dumps it all in.
But when he walks back toward the car, he walks to the driver’s side, where I’m seated.
He opens the car door with that quiet confidence of his, extending a hand toward me. As I stand, he doesn’t let go.
Instead, with a slow, deliberate motion, he guides me closer to the back of the car, adjusting us so that my back presses gently against the closed door.
And then his mouth connects with mine. The kiss is soft, almost reverent, like he’s taking his time to savor every second, as if each touch, each breath, means something more. There’s no rush, no game. It truly feels like it’s just him and me right now—no roles, no walls.
It’s the kind of kiss that makes a person feel seen.
But then, as if a switch flips, I feel him stiffen.
The softness of his kiss begins to withdraw, replaced by something more restrained.
His hands, which have been holding me so gently, suddenly freeze in place.
I pull back slightly and see it—the way his gaze flicks around, scanning the street like he’s just remembered we’re not alone.
We’re out here, in public, exposed. It’s as if the mask he let slip for just a second is quickly being put back in place.
He takes a step back, his posture rigid now, his hand falling from my waist. The warmth that was there just moments ago cools, leaving behind the sharpness of reality. His eyes flick back to mine, a brief apology hidden somewhere in the tension of his expression.
“I should go,” he says, his voice quieter now, more controlled. He steps away, giving me space. “I’ll be in touch, Reya,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, like he’s forcing himself to say it before he walks away.
I want to stop him, to ask him for more, entreat him to stay with me just a little while longer, but the words get stuck in my throat. I just watch him retreat, slipping back into the Saint I’m used to. The man who always seems to be running from something, even when he’s standing still.
I pull out my phone after having that thought and jot it down as a note for my book. The man who always seems to be running from something, even when he’s standing still.