Chapter 3
I’m rearranging the chairs.
Again.
For the fourth time.
Book club doesn’t start for another hour, but the anxiety roiling through my veins doesn’t give a shit about that. It needs a place to go, and apparently, that means moving furniture from here to there to fucking nowhere because there is no feasible way my secret won’t be discovered.
I stop. Take a breath. And plop into the chair I just placed in the circle.
Get yourself together, Sadie. They’re not going to figure it out. It’s just a book. Lots of books are set in small towns.
Macy’s setting out wine glasses and cheese plates, humming along to the playlist she put on. She has no idea my hands are shaking or that my brain is doing an acrobat show trying to figure out how to survive tonight.
“You okay?” she asks, glancing over. “You seem nervous.”
Okay, so maybe she’s more perceptive than I give her credit for.
“You know me. I just want everything to be perfect.” I force a smile and adjust the chair next to me an inch to the left.
It isn’t right, so I move it back. Too much.
I test the boundaries of my sanity once more, finding some not-truly-happy medium between too far left and too close to the chair I’m in.
It’s futile.
The women start arriving at 7. Carol Brennan comes in first, punctual as always, with her copy of Wildfire Summer already bristling with Southwest color-schemed sticky notes.
Then Lin Mendoza and her daughter, Rebecca.
Amy Dawson and Elaine Briggs arrive together, already mid-conversation about something on their phones.
By 7:15, half a dozen women have settled into the circle of imperfectly placed chairs, wine glasses in hands, books on laps.
Carol clears her throat, drawing everyone’s attention. “Alright, ladies. Wildfire Summer by Sienna Saguaro. Who wants to start?”
“I loved it,” Amy says immediately. “The slow burn was chef’s kiss. And the way the hero pined for her for years? I was dying.”
“The bookshop setting was perfect,” Lin adds. “It felt so real, like the author really knows what it’s like to run a small business in a town like this.”
My heart skips.
Don’t panic. That’s a normal observation.
“That’s what I found so interesting.” Carol’s voice cuts through the chatter. She’s leaning forward, book open in her lap. Her finger points to the page. “The level of detail. The town square with the town hall, the cliffs, even the legend about the star-crossed lovers.”
“I didn’t even think about that,” Macy pipes in, quickly flipping through the pages of her book.
“The legend in the book is about forbidden love between a missionary’s daughter and a Native American man,” Carol says, reading from a sticky note. Several women nod, flipping through their copies. “Our legend is about Rosa Delgado and—“
Shit, shit, shit.
”—the ranch hand her father forbade her to marry!“ Macy adds, finishing Carol’s thought.
“Exactly, and in the book, the lover falls from the cliffs during a storm. Just like Rosa threw herself from Red Rock Ridge after Sam Thornfield was murdered!” Carol continues, leaning forward with excitement. “Similar themes. Different names. But the structure is nearly identical.”
“Lots of small towns have legends like that,” I hear myself say from behind the counter. Everyone turns to look at me. “Star-crossed lovers, forbidden romance. It’s a common trope.”
“Of course.” Carol’s smile doesn’t waver. “I’m just saying, whoever wrote this clearly spent time in a town exactly like Sierra Rose Ridge. The Farmers Market, the monthly wine and stargazing event at the winery—“
“Wait, why didn’t I make the connection? The book has Sips & Stars?” Elaine interrupts, flipping pages. “I thought that was our thing.”
“It’s called ‘Starlight Sipping’ in the book,” Amy reads aloud. “But yeah, same concept. Wine tasting under the stars once a month.”
The room buzzes with excitement as they start comparing details. The bookshop description. The downtown layout. The small details about desert wildflowers and summer monsoons.
I’m gripping the counter so hard my knuckles are white.
They’re connecting the dots.
Shit.
“This town sounds so much like Sierra Rose Ridge,“ Macy says, laughing. “I wonder if the author visited extensively.”
“Or lives around here,” Carol muses. “The level of detail is remarkable.”
Why didn’t I realize people would notice Sunset Ridge was manifested from Sierra Rose? I made it too obvious, even though I thought I hid everything. I could’ve done better. Instead of Starlight Sipping, I could’ve done… what could I have done?
Bonfires and bourbon?
That sounds ridiculous.
“It’s cool how detailed it is. It’s like the author really gets small-town life?“ Macy adds. “Sadie, you’re our resident bookstore owner. That basically means you’re an expert on all things books. Did you read this yet? What do you think?”
Six pairs of eyes turn to me.
Breathe. Just breathe.
“I think,” I say carefully, “that good authors are good at research. And small Southwest towns have a lot in common. The author probably visited several and combined elements.”
“Ah, yes. That would make sense,” Macy agrees as she deflates a fraction in her seat.
The conversation shifts to the romance itself—the chemistry, the steam level, the emotional payoff. I half-listen as they dissect my words, my characters, my secret now laid bare on pages they’re holding in their hands.
By nine o’clock, they’re gathering their things, still chattering about the book.
“We should all follow Sienna Saguaro on social media,” Amy says, pulling out her phone. “See if she drops hints about book two.”
Oh, god. They want book two.
“I already am,” Macy admits. “Very mysterious. No personal photos, just book quotes and cover reveals.”
They filter out one by one, thanking me for hosting. Carol is the last to leave, pausing at the door. “I do love a good mystery. Trying to figure out puzzles.”
My stomach tightens. “Mysteries are popular.”
“They are. Sienna Saguaro has created quite the puzzle, hasn’t she? All those details, all those similarities.” She smiles. “Makes you wonder.”
“Sure does!” My upbeat tone is a far cry from the dread filling inside me.
“Have a good night, Sadie.” The door chimes as Carol leaves.
I lock it behind her with shaking hands.
They didn’t figure it out. You’re safe. You’re—
A knock on the glass makes me jump.
I look up to find Owen standing on the other side of the door, hands in his pockets, that familiar cocky smirk on his face.
No. Nope. Not now. Not ever.
I could pretend I don’t see him. Turn off the lights, slip out the back, and take the stairs up to my apartment. Ignore him until he leaves.
Except I’m staring directly at his face and he’s definitely staring back. He knocks again, harder this time. “Open up, Sadie. I can clearly see you.”
I unlock the door, but don’t open it all the way. “What do you want, Owen?”
“I read your book, Sienna.” He says it so casually. Kindly. “It’s really good, by the way.”
The world tilts.
No, it capsizes.
“I don’t know what you’re—“
“Come on, Sadie. You really thought I wouldn’t figure it out?” He pushes the door open wider, stepping inside before I can stop him. “The dedication thanking S.R.? The Southwest setting? The bookshop owner heroine who moved here half a decade ago to escape her controlling family?”
Every word is a nail in a coffin.
“How did you—“
“I read it.” He pulls a copy of Wildfire Summer from his jacket pocket, dog-eared and highlighted.
Owen is not the kind of guy to take notes, but here he is, waving a fully annotated copy of my book in front of me.
“Cover to cover. Took me about three pages to recognize you in the main character. She’s even got your body type—I’m surprised you went that route, honestly.
” He flips through the pages. “Then again, I guess if you can’t change it in real life, might as well romanticize it on the page, right? ”
He read my book. He knows it’s mine.
He knows.
The thought makes me want to throw up.
“What do you want?” I ask again, hating how small my voice sounds.
“Nothing. Yet.” He sets the book on the counter between us like evidence. “Just wanted you to know that I know before everyone else does. And everyone else will figure it out, Sadie.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Threatening?” He laughs. “I’m just being honest. You wrote a romance novel about a small town that’s clearly Sierra Rose Ridge, with a bookshop owner heroine who’s clearly you. How long do you think it’ll take before someone else connects the dots?”
He’s right. They’ve already started connecting them.
“The BookTok videos are already speculating,” he continues, scrolling through his phone. “People are trying to figure out which Southwest town inspired the setting. Someone posted a whole Reddit thread comparing architectural details.” He looks up. “It’s only a matter of time.”
“Why are you here, Owen?” My hands are fists at my sides.
His expression shifts, something almost like concern crossing his face. Almost.
“I’m just saying, when it all comes out—and it will—you’re not going to know how to handle it.
All that attention, all those people judging you.
” His eyes drop, doing that quick scan down and back up that always made me feel like I was failing some invisible test. “Writing steamy romance. Publishing it for the world to see. What do you think people are going to say?”
The shame hits like a wave. Because part of me—the part Owen spent two years carving out and shaping—knows exactly what they’ll say. The same thing my family said when they found out.
“You should go,” I whisper.
“I’m trying to help you. Someone needs to prepare you for what’s coming.” He reaches out like he’s going to touch my arm, and I step back.
“I said go.”
The bell over the door chimes. I glance over at the same moment Owen looks behind him.
Mateo.