Chapter 3 #2
The relief that floods through me is so intense that my knees almost buckle. Seeing him walk through that door just made the whole world tilt back into balance.
When did Mateo become the person who makes everything feel manageable?
He’s standing just beyond the doorway, still in his work clothes, covered in ash and soot from the forge. His eyes go from me to Owen and back again, and his entire body tenses.
Owen turns, that smirk sliding back into place. “Mateo. Good to see you, man. I’m just checking on Sadie. Making sure she’s okay.”
“She’s fine, and she asked you to leave,” Mateo says, his voice low and even.
“So?” Owen asks.
“So leave.”
For a second, I think Owen’s going to push back.
He’s the same height as Mateo. Owen’s heavier, too, though not because of muscle.
Mateo’s got that earned strength from his work.
And there’s something in his stance—the set of his shoulders and the cold steadiness of his gaze—that seems to make Owen reconsider.
“Yeah, alright.” Owen taps his copy of Wildfire Summer with his other hand. “I’ll see you around, Sadie. We should talk soon about what happens next.”
He brushes past Mateo on his way out. Mateo waits until Owen’s truck pulls away from the curb before stepping fully inside and locking the door behind him.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod. Then shake my head. Then nod again.
I’m not okay. Because Owen knows. Owen read my book, and he knows.
“How did the book club go?” Mateo’s crossing the space between us, his presence solid and grounding.
“They read Wildfire Summer. And loved it.“ The words come out shaky.
“That’s the book that’s everywhere?”
I nod, unable to meet his eyes. “I wrote it, Mateo. I’m Sienna Saguaro. I didn’t want anyone to know. It’s a thing. I can’t… they can’t find out, but they’re going to. And they spent an hour talking about how much the town in the book sounds like Sierra Rose.”
His jaw tightens with understanding. He doesn’t look surprised. Not the way someone should look when they find out their friend is a secret bestselling author.
“Did anyone say anything about you yet?”
“No. Not yet.” I sink onto the stool behind the counter. “But Owen figured it out. He read the whole book. He knows it’s me.”
Mateo’s hand settles on my arm, warm and steady. “What did he say?”
“Some vague insinuation I’ll be needing him. That it’s only a matter of time before everyone else figures it out too.” I look up at him. “What if he’s right?”
“Then we deal with it.” Mateo’s other hand comes up to my other shoulder, turning me to face him fully. “You’re not alone in this, Sadie. Whatever happens.”
We.
He said we.
The panic doesn’t disappear, but it shifts. Makes room for something else. Something that feels like solid ground.
“Are you done closing shop?” He asks quietly. I nod. “Let me walk you home.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
He waits while I grab my keys and bag, checking that everything’s locked up.
Then we step out into the November night, crisp with only the subtlest hint of warmth from earlier.
He walks beside me to the stairs that lead to my apartment above the shop, close enough that our arms brush with every few steps.
I don’t move away to create space like I used to with Owen. With Owen, I was always making myself smaller, taking up less room. Being less.
With Mateo, I can just be.
“You doing okay, tesoro?“ he asks quietly.
I nod, even though we both know it’s only partially true. We climb the stairs, I unlock the door, and he follows me inside, closing it behind him with a quiet click.
My apartment is small—just a living room that flows into a kitchen, a bedroom, and a bathroom. But it’s mine. The first place that’s ever felt truly mine.
I set my bag on the counter and fill two glasses of water, my hands shaking. When I turn, Mateo’s leaning against the counter, watching me with that steady gaze that always makes me feel seen in a way that’s both comforting and terrifying.
“How long have you been writing?” he asks quietly.
“Since I was a kid.” I hand him a glass. “But seriously? Publishing? About five years.”
“Around the time you moved here.”
It’s not a question, but I nod anyway. “Yeah. My family... they found some of my writing. They didn’t react well.”
“What did they say?”
I take a sip of water, buying myself time. “My mother called it pornography. Said I should be ashamed to put my name on something so degrading. That I was embarrassing the family. That no respectable woman writes that kind of filth.”
The words taste bitter even now.
Mateo’s jaw tightens. “That’s bullshit.”
“Is it?” I set my glass down harder than I mean to.
“Because that’s what Owen just implied, too.
That when people find out, they’re going to judge me.
And he’s probably right. You didn’t hear what they were saying at book club—all that detail, all those similarities.
When they figure out it’s me, they’re going to look at me the way my mother did.
The way Owen just did. Like I should be ashamed of what I wrote.
Like writing about love and sex makes me less than. ”
“Is that what you believe?” he asks quietly. “That you should be ashamed?”
“No.” The word comes out fierce. Surprising, even to me. “I’m proud of that book. I’m proud of every word. But being proud of something doesn’t protect you from other people’s judgment. It just means it hurts more when they use it against you.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then: “You wrote a book about falling in love in a place that feels like home. There’s nothing shameful in that, Sadie. Not one word of it.”
“I wrote a love letter to this place. To the community that gave me a home when I needed one. I changed names and details and made it fiction. But the heart of it? Yeah, that’s real. This town made me feel like I could breathe again.”
“Then that’s what you tell people if they ask.” He moves closer, and I can smell the forge on him still—smoke and metal and heat.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” I whisper. “The judgment. The way people look at you when they find out you write romance, like you’re somehow less than. Especially when it’s steamy. When there’s sex on the page.”
“You’re right. I don’t know.” His voice is gentle. “But I know you. I know you pour your heart into everything you do. The shop. The book club. The community. This book, too, I’m guessing.”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“Anyone who judges you for that isn’t worth your time.” He reaches out, his hand hovering near mine on the counter. Not quite touching, but close enough to feel the warmth. “You left your family because they tried to make you small. Don’t let Owen—or anyone else—do the same thing.”
“What if the whole town turns on me?”
“Then they’re idiots.” His mouth quirks in a half-smile. “But I don’t think they will. You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because they love this place as much as you do. And if your book is a love letter to Sierra Rose Ridge?” He shrugs. “That’s not disgusting or shameful.”
Something in my chest eases slightly. “When did you get so wise?”
“I have my moments.” He finally lets his hand settle over mine, his calloused palm warm and solid against my skin. “You’re not alone in this, Sadie. I mean that.”
“Why?” The question slips out before I can stop it. “Why do you care so much?”
His eyes hold mine, and there’s something in them I can’t quite read. Something that makes my breath catch, my heart pound, and every nerve ending light up, like I’m standing too close to a live wire.
We’re in my tiny kitchen, barely a foot between us. I can see the exact moment he realizes how close we are. The way his gaze drops to my mouth. Lingers there.
My pulse pounds in my ears.
He takes a step closer—just one—and suddenly the air feels thick. Charged.
I should step back, laugh this off. I should do anything except stand here staring at his lips and wondering what they’d feel like against mine.
But I don’t move.
And neither does he.
“Sadie.” My name comes out rough, saturated with want.
“Yeah?” I barely recognize my own voice.
He leans in—just barely. Enough that I know I’m not imagining this. If I wanted to close the distance, I could.
Do I want to?
God, yes.
This is a terrible idea. I just got out of a relationship. Mateo is my friend. Maybe my best friend in this town. I can’t afford to lose him if I’m reading this wrong. If this is just me projecting because I’m vulnerable and he’s being kind and—
He must see the panic flood my face because he stops. He doesn’t move closer, but he doesn’t move back either. We’re still close enough to touch, and he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.
“Because you’re my friend,” he says finally. “And friends show up for each other.”
Friends. Right. That’s what we are.
Friends.
So why does that word feel like a disappointment?
“Thank you,” I whisper. “For coming by. For getting rid of Owen. For... this.”
“Anytime.” He squeezes my hand once before letting go, and I immediately miss the contact. “Try to get some sleep. Tomorrow might be better than you think.”
Or it might be worse.
He heads for the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “Hey, Sadie?”
“Yeah?”
“For what it’s worth? I’m proud of you. Writing a book that’s hitting number three on ? That’s incredible.”
The sincerity in his voice makes my throat tight. “Thanks, Mateo.”
He nods once and slips out, closing the door softly behind him.
I stand there in my quiet apartment, his words echoing in my head.
You’re not alone in this.
I’m proud of you.
Friends show up for each other.
I want to believe him. I want to believe that tomorrow won’t be the disaster I’m imagining. That people will see the love in my book instead of judging the similarities. That Owen’s wrong about what’s coming.
But as I get ready for bed, my phone keeps dinging with notifications about Wildfire Summer, I can’t shake the feeling that everything’s about to change.
And I have no idea if I’m ready for it.
My phone buzzes.
Owen: Just so we’re clear—I’m not going to tell anyone. I don’t think I need to because it’s obvious. People will know. You should start thinking about damage control. This is going to get messy.
I block the number with shaking hands.
But the damage is already done.
Owen knows. And if Owen knows, it’s only a matter of time before everyone else does, too.