Chapter 12
chapter
twelve
Thorne
The text from Ford lights up my phone while I’m still reviewing a contract, and for one stupid second, I think it’s just another sarcastic meme.
It isn’t.
Ford: Why the fuck is the social media director we just hired quitting???
Ford: What the hell, Thorne? Fix this now.
My stomach drops.
Addison.
I don’t even think—I just grab my keys, jacket, and laptop. Within five minutes, I’ve pulled up her address from HR, and I’m in my car. It’s reckless and probably unethical, but I don’t care.
She’s not answering her phone.
The drive to her little bungalow feels endless. I keep replaying every conversation, every glance. When I pull into her driveway, I see her car parked crookedly, like she got home in a hurry.
I knock. Nothing. Then, quieter, “Addison, it’s me. Please open the door.”
It takes a moment, but the door finally swings open.
She’s there—barefoot, eyes red, hair pulled up in a messy knot. Still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, voice raw.
“You quit.”
“Oh wow. A lawyer, a writer, and a detective. How swell for you.”
I flinch. “Ford texted. I just—Addison, please. Can we talk?”
Her arms fold over her chest. “Talk? About what? About how I was your little research project? Your creative muse? How you were using me?”
“Is that what you think?”
Her eyes flash. “I heard Ford call you Rosie, Thorne. I put it together. I read the synopsis of your next book. Virgin heroine? Powerful man? Sound familiar?”
I take a slow breath, every word she’s saying slicing cleanly into me. “It’s not what you think.”
“Really? Because from where I’m standing, it looks exactly like that.”
I take a step closer, desperate. “Addison, I’d love to say that I’d started that book before you.
That it’s not about you. But that would be a lie.
I was already writing a different book. And then I ran into you on the way to the conference room, and all of a sudden a new story demanded to be written.
Because you made me feel. Feel in a way I’ve only ever felt within the words of my books. And the hearts of my characters.”
She shakes her head. “You don’t get to make this sound romantic.”
“Maybe not. But it is the truth.”
She swallows hard, tears shining in her eyes. “You lied to me.”
“I didn’t mean to. It was supposed to stay separate—the job, the writing, us. But you—” My voice breaks, and I press a hand to the back of my neck. “You’re the only thing that’s ever made me want to stop hiding behind fiction.”
Her lip trembles, and for a moment, she doesn’t say anything. So I do what I should’ve done all along: I tell her everything.
“I write love stories because I didn’t think I could live one.
I thought people like me were too jaded, too afraid.
And then you walked into the office with your bright eyes and your messy courage, and I was done for.
I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth. I’m sorry I made you doubt yourself.
But I swear to you, Addison, what we have—it’s not research.
It’s real. It’s the best bloody thing that’s ever happened to me. ”
Silence.
Then, quietly: “You really mean that?”
I nod, stepping closer. “Every word.”
She studies me for a long moment. “You’re still a jerk.”
I huff out a laugh. “I can live with that.”
And then—finally—she lets out a shaky sigh, grabs the front of my shirt, and pulls me down to her.
When our lips meet, it’s not tentative this time. It’s home.
After a long moment, I rest my forehead against hers. “No more pretending. No more research. Just us.”
She smiles, soft and sure. “Just us.”
And for the first time in a very long time, I believe in happy endings.
“I love you, Addison,” I say. “I’ve never said those words to a woman before, but I know this is real. Regardless of how fast it happened.”
“I love you too. But then I suspect I’ve been falling in love with your heart for years. One Rosie Thorne book at a time.”