Chapter 6 #2
I cross my arms, mock impatient. “Then what? You’ve got to give me something, because I’m two seconds from calling HGTV and telling them you’re my new favorite mystery millionaire.”
He grins and walks toward a built-in cabinet that stretches the length of one wall. With a flick of the latch, he opens the doors to reveal shelves filled top to bottom with books.
Dozens of them.
I step closer, curiosity buzzing in my chest. The spines gleam under the light and I pull one down at random. The glossy cover has a black background with bleached tree branches angled across the front, blooming with purple flowers and the title, The Shadow Princess, by S. P. Rochelle.
I frown, turning it over. “Wait. Rochelle?”
When I look up, understanding slams into place.
“You wrote these.” I breathe.
Sam’s grin widens. “Yup.”
I stare at him, then at the book, then back again. “You’re an… author?”
“Yup.”
I flip the book over, read the back cover aloud.
“Thalia Clairmont was born heir to the throne of Vyronas—a legacy she didn’t even know she carried after Bastien Dunne, the man she loved, erased her memories and sent her through the veil into another world.
He insists it was to keep her safe after her parents’ murder and the fall of their kingdom, but Thalia can only see betrayal where he sees devotion.
“Now, as fragments of her past return, so do the truths Bastien tried to bury. Torn between love and fury, trust and vengeance, Thalia must face the kingdom that once claimed her—and the man who took everything from her in the name of protection.”
I glance up and I know my mouth is sagging open. “Is this a romance?”
“Fantasy romance, to be precise,” he replies with a straight face. “And pretty spicy at that.”
My eyebrows shoot so high, I’m afraid they might launch into the atmosphere. “You… Sam-Pete Rochelle… write romance books?”
“Kind of hard to believe, right?”
I look at the cover. “New York Times best-selling author?” I’m sure the surprise is written all over my face. “You made the New York Times bestseller list?”
“A few times,” he replies with a shrug.
“Holy shit, Sam,” I murmur in awe. “This is huge.” I stare at the book, confused, then back up to him. “I mean… but how? When?”
“Been writing since my second year of college,” he says simply.
My brain scrambles to keep up. “But there are”—I look at the shelves again—“at least twenty books here. And all this—” I gesture around the house. “This is from writing?”
“Yeah.”
I shake my head, dumbfounded. “So that’s why you dropped out of UNC.”
“Yup.”
I let out a stunned laugh, pacing in a small circle, and spread my arms wide to indicate the house. “You’re obviously doing very well.”
He scratches the back of his neck. “Guess so.”
“But no one knows?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?” I put the book back. “I mean… this is incredible. You’re really talented and… why are you still bartending?”
He leans against the doorway, expression thoughtful.
“You know how it is here. Conservative town. Church on every corner. I write spicy romance, Penny—some of it’s pretty hot.
Folks around here wouldn’t exactly label that a wholesome calling.
And as for the bartending, it’s a cover.
I have to show my family that I’m at least employed. ”
“So you just… hide it?” I ask softly. “All of this success.”
“Easier that way. Keeps things simple. Keeps people from talking.”
I glance around again, trying to reconcile the quiet bartender I’ve known with the man who secretly builds worlds for a living. “But this place—how do you plan to keep this a secret? It’s incredible.”
He shrugs, a rueful half smile crossing his face.
He pushes off the doorjamb and moves to stare out the window over the backyard, glowing with landscape lighting.
“Guess that’s why I haven’t fully moved in yet.
Why I haven’t given up my duplex apartment.
I’m not sure how to transition into this new life. ”
I step closer, the disbelief giving way to something warmer. “You could start by being proud of it.”
He turns to me, raises a brow with surprise clouding his eyes.
“I mean it,” I say. “This is amazing. You didn’t just build a house—you built a life. You should be shouting this from the rooftops, not pretending you’re just some guy pouring beer at Chesty’s.”
He laughs under his breath. “I am that guy.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head, smiling because I can’t help it. “You’re an artist, Sam. An entrepreneur. A businessman. You create something that makes people feel—that’s not small. And screw anyone who thinks it’s wrong.”
For a moment, neither of us moves. The only sound is the quiet tick of the thermostat and the faint hum of the refrigerator down the hall.
He exhales, long and slow, and the corners of his mouth curve. “Come on,” he says, voice gentler now. “Let’s grab a beer. I’ll tell you the whole story.”
He leads me toward the kitchen, where light spills over the pristine cabinetry. He hands me a bottle from the fridge, pops the top off his own, and we sit side by side at the island.
The place feels alive now—two people and a secret breathing in the same space.
The beer is cold, smooth, and exactly what I need to stop my brain from short-circuiting.
I take a sip, watching Sam lean his elbows on the marble island.
The overhead lights halo off the brass pendants, catching in his hair and outlining the kind of quiet confidence that sneaks up on you.
“So,” I say, tapping my bottle against the counter. “Tell me how a bartender from Whynot ends up with a secret identity and a mansion.”
He grins. “You make it sound dramatic.”
“It is dramatic,” I shoot back. “Start from the beginning.”
He hums thoughtfully, staring into the distance.
“I always liked reading. Used to stay up half the night with whatever I could find—Dean Koontz, Patricia Cornwell, John Grisham—anything really that made the world bigger. Second year of college, I got it in my head that maybe I could write something myself. I tried a thriller first, since those were my favorite reads.” His eyes twinkle. “It was terrible.”
I smile into my drink. “You’re telling me S. P. Rochelle got his start writing bad crime novels?”
“Oh, the worst,” he says with a laugh. “Plots that made no sense, dialogue straight off bad TV. Then one night, I read an article about how the romance genre outsells everything else combined. I figured, ‘How hard can it be?’”
I arch a brow. “Famous last words.”
“Exactly. Turns out, it’s hard. I must’ve read a hundred books trying to figure it out.
Took craft classes online. Joined writing groups under fake names.
” He smirks. “And somewhere in all that, I fell in love with it. The storytelling, the emotion, the way you can make someone’s whole day better just by giving them a happy ending. ”
“That’s… kind of wonderful,” I admit, soft enough that I’m not sure he’s meant to hear it.
“I self-published my first one,” he continues.
“Didn’t think anyone would read it. But then it took off—viral on social media, top ten.
So, I wrote another, and by the third one, I was hitting all the bestseller lists.
Then came an agent, a big deal, foreign rights, movie options.
One day I looked up and realized I was paying more in taxes than I could ever hope to earn with a degree.
I dropped out, came back to Whynot, and made it my career. ”
I let out a low whistle. “That’s wild.”
“Yeah,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “Still doesn’t feel real sometimes.”
“And no one knows? Not even your family?”
He meets my gaze. “You’re the only one.”
My heart does a little stutter. I cover it with a sip of beer. “You can’t keep this hidden forever, Sam. It’s too wonderful not to share.”
He looks down at the condensation ring under his bottle. “Whynot’s a good place, but it’s also… small. People talk. Folks here have strong opinions about what’s decent. I don’t want to spend every grocery trip defending book covers.”
“Or sex scenes.” I grin.
“Exactly. Last thing I need is a bunch of scandalized church ladies telling me I’m going to hell every time I run into one.”
“I think you have to suffer that.” I sweep my hand toward the gleaming kitchen, the wide windows, the life he’s quietly built. “You should be proud of this—it’s amazing. You worked for it, you earned it. You can’t let someone else’s judgment make you shrink.”
He studies me for a long beat. “You always this fiery?”
“Only when thoroughly compromised by admiration. Seriously, Sam… this is all kinds of amazing and should be shared with all your friends and family.”
That earns a slow grin, the kind that hooks in the pit of my stomach. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
I rest my chin in my hand, watching him. “Fuck anyone who thinks it’s wrong.”
Sam’s eyes flare wide at my vulgarity, but he chuckles. “You really think that?”
“I know that.” I tilt my head, smiling. “Besides, if Whynot can handle Pap dating Sissy Givens, and Floyd supporting Morri’s drag shows, they can survive finding out Sam Rochelle writes steamy bestsellers.”
That gets a real laugh, bright and full, and he leans back against the counter, looking at me like I just rewrote his gravity. “You’ve got a way of making the world sound simple.”
“Not simple,” I say. “Just fair.”
He stares at me. “It feels good to share this with someone. The success, that is.”
Something soft twists inside me. “I’m honored,” I say, and mean it.
He nods once, looking down at the bottle in his hands, and for a heartbeat, the world feels suspended—just the two of us and all the unsaid things hovering in the air.