Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
But I can’t.
My eyes lock onto his, and my breath catches in my throat at the sight of Saint. Cam. Eric. Whatever he’s calling himself now. It doesn’t matter, because in this moment, he’s all of them, and he’s none of them. He’s simply the man who repaired me and then shattered me.
What is he doing here? My thoughts race, a thousand questions flooding my mind, but none of them matter as fear creeps up my spine, cold and unrelenting. I grip the armrest of my chair tighter as I fight to maintain my composure. But inside, I’m crumbling when he begins to speak.
“I just have one question,” he says, his voice causing that familiar wave of turmoil beneath my skin. “Where do you get your inspiration?”
His voice cuts through the haze of my panic, smooth and unbothered, as if he isn’t feeling the same havoc he’s wreaking inside me. Or maybe he is. We both know he’s the much better actor.
The question—innocuous to anyone else in the room—feels like a dagger aimed straight at my chest. Where do you get your inspiration? It’s a simple question, one I’ve answered a hundred times before, but coming from him, it feels like a challenge, like he’s daring me to reveal the truth.
I feel the anger rising, hot and fierce, bubbling just beneath the surface. How dare he? After everything, he has the audacity to stand here, in front of me, in front of everyone, and pretend like this is some game we’re still playing?
Like he isn’t the reason I’m scared of my own shadow?
I clench my jaw, forcing myself to stay calm, to give the answer the audience expects. But the heat in my chest only grows, threatening to spill over.
“Inspiration comes from everywhere,” I say, the words feeling hollow in my mouth. “Life, people, experiences.” The words are automatic, rehearsed, but I stop short of saying you. My voice wavers ever so slightly, and I wonder if the audience can sense the tension simmering beneath the surface. If they can feel how close I am to snapping. “Next question?” I say, tearing my eyes from his smile, looking desperately for someone who can take the microphone from him.
“I have one more,” he says.
I swallow.
“Well, it’s not a question, really. More of a comment. But . . . I just want you to know I couldn’t put this book down. I hung on to every single word. It’s almost as if I were there, in the room with you, experiencing the things these characters experienced. That takes true talent, Petra. You are very, very good at what you do.”
A few people clap, but his comment was spoken so slowly, and with such intensity, I see a few people squirm or stiffen from the discomfort of it. The smirk on his face proves he doesn’t give a shit what anyone else in this room thinks. He hands the microphone off to the next person, and I’m stuck, paralyzed under the spotlight.
My vision blurs, the edges of my anger creeping into my periphery, but I swallow it down, forcing myself to stay composed. I can do this. I’ll be damned if I let him ruin this like I ruined my own Q&A during my last event.
That was before I truly knew what anger was, though. My anger is what gets me through the next hour, despite it being one of the hardest hours of my life.
As soon as the Q&A portion ends, I head straight to the greenroom to compose myself before the signing begins. Nora isn’t in here, but I’m thankful. She would be able to see the feelings I’m having trouble reining in right now. I take several minutes to compose myself, drink water, reapply makeup since I look like I’ve seen a ghost.
When I finally work up the courage to walk back out, I clock Saint standing toward the middle of the line to get the book signed that he’s clutching in his hand. He’s already looking at me before I make eye contact, as if he was staring straight at the door, waiting to see if I’d actually walk out and finish the job despite his presence here.
I wonder if he really finished reading the book. Did he stay up until midnight last night, waiting to download the ebook? The one that holds parts of him in every chapter, every line, every word? Did he stay up all night reading the story that wouldn’t exist without him, without what he did to me, without the tangled mess of our history in that cabin?
My pulse quickens, and I force myself to move, to walk to my signing table like I’m not about to fall apart. The pen feels heavy in my hand as I greet the first reader in line.
I move through each person with patience, trying to forestall the inevitable moment he reaches my table. No matter how hard I try not to look, my eyes keep drifting to his spot. He’s waiting, patient, just like everyone else, but his presence is suffocating. I can feel his eyes on me the entire time, burning into my skin.