Chapter 7
seven
ZACH
I run my thumb over the embossed title on the book cover, thinking about the scene I just read. Jesus Christ, this story is filthy. I’m only halfway through and I swear I’ve had a hard-on since I stole the damn thing.
The worst part? She’s annotated it. In pencil. And reading her thoughts fascinates me.
Her comments are sharp and curious. Sometimes funny. I’ve just reached one where she’s written two words in the margin, all caps.
YES PLEASE.
Fuck my life. I’m never going to look at her the same way again. Especially after seeing her run the other morning. After touching her wrist and watching the way her pulse jumped. Knowing why.
A better man would feel guilty for taking her book without asking. For knowing something she doesn’t. For thinking what I’m thinking, imagining hunting her down like Red, hearing the rapid beat of her heart. Smelling the fear, knowing it’s all wrapped up in desire.
The problem is, I’ve never been a better man. And it’s distracting me from all the things I should be thinking about. Maybe that’s a good thing.
My phone buzzes, cutting through the heat. I put the book down on the desk in the corner of the apartment, and pick up my phone.
“Hey Larry,” I say. “How’s it going?”
“Good.” He sounds upbeat, and that makes me happy. “A letter came for you. It looks official. Want me to open it?”
I blink. “Official how?” Most of the business mail goes directly to my accountant.
“It’s from a university.” He pauses. “A Medical Center I think.”
I swallow hard. Fuck, I forgot to change my address. “No,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “Don’t open it. Just forward it to me here.”
“You sure?” he asks, sounding surprised at my sharp tone.
“Yeah. All good.” I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. “Everything else okay?”
“Yep. Sold a piece yesterday,” he says, sounding proud. “And I sent some emails about the insurance case.”
“Great.” I nod. “Thank you. For keeping everything going.”
There’s another pause. Like he’s surprised at my thanks. Am I really that much of an asshole?
Apparently.
“Anytime.”
“Seriously, I couldn’t keep the gallery open without you. You’re doing a great job. I appreciate all you do.”
For a second Larry doesn’t say a word. He really isn’t used to getting praise. And I make an internal note to be a nicer boss to him.
“Yeah, well you’re a pretty cool boss.” He sounds stupidly happy. “I should go, there are a few customers looking around.”
“Sure. We’ll talk soon.”
Once he’s hung up, I stare at the phone for a minute, the thought of that letter making me feel restless. It’ll be for the appointment. For more tests at the university research center on the mainland.
Where I’ll most certainly get more answers than I’ll ever want to deal with.
Christ, this is melancholy. I stand up and shake my head, thankful that at least today there are no floaters impacting my vision. I need to get out of this room, to find something else to focus on.
Other than getting hard over imaginary chases and real women who quite rightly hate me.
My car is in the parking lot right outside the hotel, and I have my own private entrance that leads out to the gravel path along the edge of the building. I pull my sunglasses on, not wanting to take the risk with the bright sun, and press my car fob, the sensors on my BMW chirping as it unlocks.
It takes five minutes to drive to Main Street, and I spend most of it telling myself the only reason I’m driving there is because Autumn will kill me if I don’t actually do some work on this Art Trail.
And it isn’t because I’m fucking drawn to Sadie. Or that every time I read that book I think of her being turned on. Of her soft skin flushing, of her breath getting shorter as she gets even more excited.
Of how fucking hot she is.
I find a space a few doors down from the bookshop and pull in, cutting the engine and climbing out of the car. There’s a new art display in the gallery window. I scan my eyes over it. More seascapes. I guess that’s what sells.
And I’m reminded of how much a dick I was about her taste.
When I push the bookshop door open, there’s no sign of Sadie. Romy’s at the counter though, and when she sees me, she grins widely.
“Oh hello,” she says. “Zach, right? We meet in the flesh.”
So she recognizes me from the Bro’s Book Club video meeting then. “Hey.” I give her a big smile, because anybody who makes my brothers talk about their emotions deserves respect. “Is Sadie here? I need to talk to her about the art trail.”
Romy doesn’t blink, like she already knows I’m on the committee. Not exactly a shock – there aren’t many secrets on an island like this.
Except the ones I keep close to my chest.
“She’s in the back. Want me to let her know you’re here?” she asks.
I shake my head. “It’s fine. I’ll knock.”
She leans forward, putting her hand on her chin. “Have you started Jane Eyre yet?” she asks, like she can see into my fucking soul or something.
“Not yet. But there’s plenty of time, right?”
“A month. And it’s a big book.”
I lift a brow. “I think I can manage it.”
“We have the abridged version if you’d prefer,” she says. “Or you could try the audiobook.”
“It’s fine. I’ve got it.” I shake my head, trying not to smile, because maybe she can read my damn mind. Right now, reading that book is the last thing on it .
“Okay, Mr. Rochester.” She wiggles her brows at me.
“Is that the name of the guy in the book, or do you have some kind of memory problem?” I ask her.
She laughs softly. “The guy. I think you’ll like him. He’s… very repressed.”
“Who isn’t?” I shrug, then walk over to the door that leads into the backroom. The same one I walked through at book club and made Sadie jump.
Not wanting to repeat that particular incident, I rap my knuckles against the door. Romy goes back to her phone, scrolling through what looks like a gallery of her own TikToks.
“Come in,” Sadie shouts, her soft voice echoing through the door.
And as I push at the handle, the memory of that book rushes into my mind. Her annotations, the almost breathless sound of them.
The way she was certainly as turned on as I was reading it.
A smile pulls at my lips.
SADIE
As soon as the door opens I know it’s Zach. Little prickles run up the back of my neck, making my skin tingle and my hair feel static. I swallow hard, closing the laptop and look at him. He’s standing in the doorway, his eyes trained on my face.
“What an unexpected pleasure,” I murmur to him, my voice making it clear it’s not a pleasure at all.
Without me even inviting him, he steps inside, closing the door behind him. Then he leans against the wall, looking at me.
God, I can feel myself flushing already. I have no idea why he has this effect on me. All I know is that I hate it.
Even if it makes me feel more alive than I’ve felt in years.
“What can I do for you?” I ask him. “I’m busy.”
He walks forward, in that confident way only rich, good-looking men can. Or smug men. Same thing, I guess.
“I thought we could talk about the art trail,” he says. “You didn’t reply to my message. And we need to plan the art placement before Autumn whips my ass.”
I force my voice into the same even tone I use with customers who want discounts. “I told you I’ve got everything handled. You can consider yourself officially un-involved.” It’s what I need. This man far, far away. So I can sleep again without dreaming of stupid hunters and violet eyes.
But he doesn’t get the hint. Instead, he keeps walking until he’s close enough that I can smell his aftershave, clean and sharp with something darker underneath. His smile is lazy. “I don’t back out of things halfway through. Not if I value my life. My sister will kill me.”
“She’ll be fine if I tell her I’ve already started drafting up a plan.” I pick up the list I just printed out. “I have twenty pieces being donated. And I’ve already started listing where they should go, taking in the artist’s suggestions about lighting and location.”
He takes the page from me, his eyes flicking over it.
“Maya Laurent. She rarely lends her art to anybody. That’s impressive.” His tone is unreadable, which is irritating.
I cross my arms. “Thank you. So as you can see, there’s no need for you to do anything.” I’m very aware of his presence in my small office. He looms too big, takes up too much physical and head space. My breath catches at how close he is.
His nearness sends my pulse into a wild dance.
“I’m sure I can help somewhere,” he says, like he’s doing me a favor. “I could double check the lighting. Or make sure the pieces will be delivered on time. Just say the word.”
I swallow hard, because he’s even closer now. Enough for me to feel tiny next to him. I take the paper back.
And he smiles.
“Are you that bored?” I ask him. “Because there’s a great pool table at the Salty Dog. You could always amuse yourself over there.”
“You really want me off this committee, don’t you?” he murmurs. “Why do you think that is?”
I swallow, because he’s right. “Because having two people vying for control never works,” I point out. “Have you read Julius Caesar?”
“I believe there were a lot more than two people involved in his death.” His smile doesn’t waver. “I’ll tell you what, if you want me off this thing so badly, let’s bet on it.”
A frown pulls at my brow. “Bet? Like flip a coin? Or play cards?” And then I remember Autumn telling me he plays poker like a professional. “Because I’m definitely not playing cards against you. I won’t let you shark me.”
He looks stupidly amused at that.
“Relax,” he says, that low, teasing note curling around every syllable. “No cards. No tricks.”
“Then what kind of bet are we talking about?” And why am I even entertaining this? Maybe because I really want him gone.
Or maybe because the way he’s looking at me is stupidly hot.
He takes a slow step forward, close enough that I have to tilt my head to maintain eye contact. “We race for it. Winner decides if I’m on or off the committee.”
My laugh sounds sharp, even to me. “We race? What are we, ten?” I shake my head. “God, I’m an idiot, for a second I thought you were serious.” Of course he wasn’t. Haunting me night and day seems to be his favorite pastime.
He lifts a brow. “I am. Deadly serious. You win and I’ll back off.”
“I’m not running against you.” I shake my head. “It wouldn’t be a fair race. You’re a man, you’ll win.”
His gaze drops, tracing my face, my throat, before meeting my eyes again. “I’ll give you a head start,” he says softly.
My stomach contracts. It’s so close to the TikToks I’ve been watching and I have no idea what to do with that.
“How?” I ask, hating that my voice is a whisper.
“You start, and I’ll count to ten.”
Something in his tone makes my stomach twist. The way he’s speaking is too knowing, too deliberate. And that’s when it hits me.
Oh. My. God.
He knows.
Somehow he knows about my fantasies. About the chase, the capture. That it turns me on.
What is he? A mind reader? I shift in my chair, hating how turned on I am. How it mixes with anger.
“I…” My voice trails off. My cheeks are flooding with heat.
And then I remember. Fuck. The book that I still haven’t found despite a thorough search. He was in my office before Bro’s Book Club.
And then our pseudo race the other morning. The way he murmured, “I thought so.”
I stand, the chair scraping across the floor with a harsh sound that makes him pause. “You took my book.” My voice shakes with fury and something far more dangerous. I think it might be righteousness, because this man is an asshole.
He doesn’t deny it. Of course he doesn’t. His expression stays maddeningly calm, that faint smile still curving his lips. “You left it where anyone could find it.”
I can’t believe the gall of this man. “I put it in the damn drawer. Do you steal whatever you want? Could you be any more self centered?” My heart is racing. I feel violated. Angry tears sting at my eyes but I blink them away.
My words land like a slap. The smile slips from his mouth. “I just… I was…” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”
“No,” I say, my voice loud enough to echo around my office.
“I don’t accept it. You can’t do that to people.
You can’t steal their…” I trail off. Fantasies.
That’s what I want to say. You can’t steal their fantasies, not even when you’re part of them.
And I know I’m overreacting. I should just tell him he’s a dick and kick him out.
But I feel exposed in a way I haven’t felt since I left my ex and my old life. I can tell by the way his expression changes that he knows. That he’s overstepped the line.
That I feel like a cornered animal.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, his expression morphing into something I don’t quite understand. Is it sympathy? Guilt? I’m not sure. But I hate it.
“Get out.” I’m seeing red. I want to curl up and cry. But I can’t let him see me break down like that.
“I really didn’t mean to hurt you.” He turns before I can say anything, heading for the door. His long fingers curl around the handle, but he hesitates for a moment.
Then he looks back. Sees me shaking. I hope he thinks it’s from anger. It half is.
The other half. It’s helplessness. It’s a throwback to when I had no control and no way out.
“Fuck,” he murmurs. For a heartbeat he stays there, hand still on the door, like he wants to take it back. Like he wants to fix it. But he doesn’t know how.
I cross my arms, even though they’re trembling. “Please leave,” I manage, my throat raw.
He nods once, a muscle ticking in his jaw.
Then he opens the door and walks out, the sound of it closing behind him slicing through the air like a knife.
The silence that follows is heavy. Too still.
I press a hand to my chest, trying to slow the thud of my heart, but it won’t calm.
I tell myself it’s anger, humiliation, adrenaline. Anything but what it actually is.
Because under all that fury is something else. The memory of his voice, low and rough, counting to ten in my head.
And the thought of it makes every muscle in my body tight.