Chapter 7
Sam
Sunlight leaks through the bare windows, sneaking in through my eyelids until they’re forced to flutter open. I’m briefly disoriented.
The ceiling’s too high and the air smells of new paint. There’s no clatter from my duplex neighbor, and hell… even the mattress feels too comfortable.
And then I remember.
I’m in my new home.
My home.
I stayed here last night, for the very first time.
I let my gaze drift to the crown molding, a design I picked out myself. Just as I picked out every color of paint, every piece of furniture, and will eventually pick out future artwork.
I slept in my house, and it has been almost a year in the making—from the purchase of the property to construction to the final stages of filling it with all the things to make it livable.
I’ve long told myself I wasn’t ready to move in—that I liked the simplicity of my small place in town, but the truth is, I knew that living here meant I needed to embrace my full life.
I had to accept the new Sam Rochelle.
I reach over to the nightstand, grab my phone, and thumb the screen awake. A handful of missed messages glare back—most from Derek, my agent, who’s been relentless for days.
You can’t hide forever, Sam. This book’s too big.
We have to confirm the press tour. Decide.
Call me. Seriously.
And my favorite. My commission is definitely not big enough to deal with this shit.
Which we both know isn’t true. My upcoming release earned a seven-figure advance from the publisher, and my prior nineteen books have made it possible for Derek to buy a dream vacation home in the Hamptons.
I toss the phone aside and rub my palms over my face. I went out on a limb last night… bringing Penny in on my secret.
The memory of her voice drifts back, bright and sure, as if she’s still sitting across from me at the island, beer bottle in hand, and that soft pink shine on her lips.
“You can’t keep this hidden forever,” she’d said with such earnestness. I believed it. “It’s too wonderful not to share.”
Wonderful.
I never imagined anyone saying that about what I do. At best, I figured people would think it’s indulgent. At worst, they’d call it shameful. But Penny looked right at me—unflinching—and said it like fact. “I’m just really proud of you, Sam. I think you’re extraordinary.”
We talked until nearly midnight. Two beers apiece, laughter that came too easily, and this charged current that never quite broke the surface. We didn’t touch, but I could feel the mutual attraction between us. I didn’t act on it. Instead, I soaked in the friendship she was offering.
When I finally drove her home, neither of us wanted the night to end. We sat in my truck outside Muriel’s house for half an hour, windows fogged, just talking about nothing and everything.
She’d called me extraordinary.
The word still knocks the breath out of me. Not talented. Not successful. Extraordinary.
Penny Pritchard has no idea what that did to me.
I swing my legs off the bed and rub the back of my neck, staring out at the yard through the big picture window. The sun is coming up full now, brushing the tops of the oaks with light. This whole property feels like someone else’s life—a life I’ve been borrowing instead of living.
I pad barefoot into the kitchen and start a pot of coffee. The machine sputters to life, filling the air with the rich, bitter scent that most people—myself included—can’t seem to live without. My thoughts, though, are anything but calm.
Derek’s been right about one thing… my next book launch is going to be massive.
The preorder numbers are on track, so I’ve got a shot at hitting that coveted number one slot on the New York Times bestseller list. The publisher wants interviews, TV appearances, book signings, which is pretty much all the stuff I’ve avoided for years.
Until now, I’ve hidden behind an androgynous pen name and a logo—no headshot, no public readings, no hint of gender. Most fans assume S. P. Rochelle is a woman, and I’ve let them. It was easier that way.
Safe.
But Penny’s voice cuts through the doubt again. “You’re not hiding—you’re shrinking.”
And I can’t help wondering what would happen if I stopped.
If I stepped into the light.
What would my parents think? My mom would pray about it. My dad would probably say something about “real work” and “family values.” My friends would rib me mercilessly. The people in town… hell, they’d either laugh or whisper.
But then there’s Penny—leaning forward in my passenger seat last night, telling me she thought it was extraordinary.
Do I really care what everyone else thinks when she thinks it’s cool?
I take my mug to the window and look out at the dew sparkling on the grass. The truth hits quiet and deep… I’ve been living half a life. Pretending this world I built—the books, the success—wasn’t real just because I was afraid of what it might change.
Maybe staying here last night was me finally accepting it.
Maybe it’s time to stop hiding.
I nurse the last of my coffee while the idea rolls around in my head, scraping against every excuse I’ve made over the last six years.
And I ask myself just one question: Is this the way I want to live for the rest of my life?
Because if the answer is no, then there’s no time like the present to change things up.
I grab my phone from the counter again and stare at Derek’s last text. “Guess you’re really earning that commission,” I mutter and dial his number.
The phone rings twice before his voice bursts through the speaker, sharp and eager. “Please tell me you’re calling to say yes.”
“Good morning to you too,” I drawl. As much as Derek can be irritating, he’s truly been a friend over the last few years. I wouldn’t be where I am now if it weren’t for him.
“Don’t stall me, Rochelle. I’ve been living off espresso and anxiety for a week. The tour’s a goldmine—late-night TV, the BookTok summit, two major podcasts—everybody wants you. This is your chance, and while these appearances aren’t happening until next month, we have to confirm now.”
I lean against the counter, tracing the rim of my mug with my thumb. “You think so, huh?”
“I know so,” he says. “You’re about to break out and become a household name. You’ve built a fandom without ever showing your face, which is miraculous, but it’s time to step into the spotlight. So, yes or no?”
For a second, I see Penny again, chin propped on her hand across the marble island, eyes bright with conviction.
You didn’t just build a house—you built a life. You should be proud of it.
“Yes,” I say finally.
There’s a beat of silence, then Derek explodes. “Holy shit—you mean it? You’re actually saying yes?”
“I’m saying yes.”
He lets out something halfway between a laugh and a yell. “Finally! Sam, do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear those words? We’re going to do this right—new author photos, interviews, morning shows. The fans are going to lose their minds when they find out you’re—”
“A dude?” I finish for him.
“Exactly!” he says, gleeful. “It’s going to blow up. A male author writing romantasy under a gender-neutral pen name—brilliant. Unexpected. We can spin the hell out of that.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Yeah, that’s… exactly what I was afraid of.”
“Relax,” he says. “You’ll look great on camera. Maybe shave the facial scruff, get a good haircut. I’ll need you to come here to start planning—”
“I’m not flying to New York,” I interrupt.
That shuts him up. “What do you mean, you’re not flying to New York? You have to come here so we can plan the rollout.”
“I’m too busy,” I say, even as I know deep in my gut, my decision not to leave has to do with Penny. “No,” I say evenly. “You come here.”
“Here? Where’s ‘here’? Whynot, North Carolina?”
“That’s the one.”
“But… you don’t have decent bagels there.”
“We have biscuits,” I say resolutely, knowing that his first Whynot meal will be at Central Café. “They’re better.”
“Fine,” he whines. “Tell me you at least have a decent hotel nearby.”
“Even better. We’ve got a great bed-and-breakfast here in town.”
“Oh, hell no. I’m not sharing a bathroom with anyone.”
“Do you even hear yourself?” I ask with a laugh. “You’re a goddamn diva, but I assure you, each suite has its own bathroom.”
Another beat of silence, then a resigned sigh. “Fine. You win. I’ll book a flight and come down in a couple of days. But I swear, if I end up in a Hallmark movie, I’m billing you for therapy.”
“Deal,” I say, and hang up before he can talk himself out of it.
The phone feels heavy in my hand, like the weight of everything I just agreed to is catching up. I set it down, the screen going black, and stare out the kitchen window.
The morning’s gone quiet again. Outside, sunlight filters through the oaks, dappling the lawn. A pair of wrens dart across the porch rail, and that ordinary little movement hits me harder than it should.
Because this is it. This is me, saying yes to the thing I’ve been running from.
A press tour means stepping out of the shadows. It means the world knowing S. P. Rochelle isn’t some mysterious woman but a bartender from Whynot who’s been writing about love and sex and supernatural creatures in secret for years.
It means my parents will find out. My friends. Pap. The entire town.
But it also means finally being seen—for all of it.
I glance down at my phone again, half expecting it to light up with Penny’s name. She doesn’t know what I just did, but it feels like she’s the reason I could do it at all.
I grab my coffee and walk through the house barefoot, my steps echoing faintly on the hardwood. In my office, I sit down behind my desk. I’ve never written here, but I expect that will change as well. I start to make a mental list of what I need to do to move in completely.
People will eventually find out about this place. I’ll have to tell my parents, and while they might be boggled about it, I can almost hear my mama telling her church friends, “That house was built on sin.”