Chapter Twenty-Five
This is still the worst night of my life.
I haven’t been able to sleep since we returned to the hotel a few hours ago. I still don’t know how to feel, even after four hours of tossing and turning and poring over every second of the last two years, and this book, and my friendship, and my marriage, and every single lie Saint has told me.
I don’t even know if I can stay mad at Nora forever, because I know her intentions were in the right place when it comes to my career. But for right now I need her to feel my anger enough to at least lose sleep over.
I’m sure it was meant to be harmless encouragement on Nora’s part. She thought her old friend would simply swing by and knock on my door and ask me a simple question, and that his looks would spark something in me that would help me write.
But it sparked a lot more than that.
I know I’ll ultimately forgive her, but it’s going to take time. I just hope she never presses about what happened between me and Saint. I don’t feel comfortable telling her that story, but I’m relieved to know he didn’t give her any details of how far he actually took things.
How far we took things.
God. My brain is a convoluted mess of thoughts, and my chest is knotted with emotions.
I pull my laptop in front of me, hoping to get my mind off everything that happened tonight. I do the one thing I know I shouldn’t do as an author.
I pull up my book on Goodreads.
I begin sifting through all the reviews that were left today about Woman Down.
I don’t usually do this on release day—hell, I try to avoid it for all eternity—but this book is different.
This book is personal. I feel the need to read every review written about it because so much of it was drawn from my own experience.
And for whatever reason, I need to know what people think about the relationship between Cam and Reya.
Each review feels like a magnifying glass on my soul. Every comment about Cam stirs something inside me.
He was so dreamy.
So protective.
I want a Cam in my life.
If these readers only knew.
I try to imagine him—Eric—flipping through the pages, recognizing the parts that mirrored our time together as he worked his way toward the end.
I know he said it was the best book I’ve ever written, but I’m still curious if he finished it.
I don’t know why I care. He certainly acted like he had, but at this point I know what a great actor he is.
There’s no way he hasn’t read it, though.
He probably devoured it faster than Shephard did.
I think that’s why I’m going through the reviews one by one, looking at each username, trying to find a hint that any of the words I’m reading are his.
If he was brave enough to show up at my signing, I’m sure he’s left a review.
My fingers tap at the keyboard, and my eyes diligently scan my screen for an hour, but nothing jumps out at me and screams that he wrote any of the words I’m reading.
I should let it go.
Let the memory of him go.
Hopefully tonight really was the last of him. The book has released, I love my husband, I’m full of regret, and I need to move forward.
Just when I’m about to close my laptop and try to push the pervading thoughts of Saint from my mind forever, an email notification pops up. The sharp sound slices through the quiet.
I click on the notification, and as soon as I read the subject line, I feel a familiar heat slide down my chest and settle like a lead weight in my stomach.
Reservation Confirmation
Wait. For what?
The email is from the rental company I use to book the cabins, but it isn’t for Louie and Mari’s cabin. It’s the west-facing cabin. The one I’d wished I was in last time.
I open the email and scan it quickly, my pulse spiking with confusion and dread. It’s their standard confirmation email—polite, professional, ordinary. But the content is anything but.
The cabin has been reserved in my name for twenty-one days, starting next Friday, the week after this tour ends. My fingers tremble as I scroll down to the payment section. It’s marked as prepaid.
I never made this reservation.
I never would.
After what happened with Saint, I vowed I’d never set foot in that town again. So how is this happening? I feel a chill crawl up my spine as I stare at the screen. I know for a fact I didn’t book this.
I’m trying to make sense of it all when another email notification pops up. This time, it’s from an email address I don’t recognize. My pulse quickens as I click on it, fear and curiosity warring inside me.
The email is short. Too short.
All it says is I think it’s time we start working on your next book, Petra.