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)
I hit send before I can second-guess myself. The text is straightforward, professional, but also casual enough that it won’t seem out of place if he responds.
I’m not sure what I’m expecting. Maybe a delayed response, or a formal reply from one of his colleagues from a different phone number. But to my surprise, my phone vibrates almost immediately. His response comes back faster than I anticipated, and there’s something about that speed that makes my heart skip a beat.
We’ve been short-handed today. Sorry about that. If it’s not too late, I can swing by on my way home.
I reread his text, my stomach swirling at the thought of seeing him again. There’s something casual yet considerate in his tone, like he’s apologizing for being late to an unscheduled appointment, while also offering to make it up to me. And though it’s all business on the surface, I can’t help but feel a surge of excitement roll through me at the thought of him stopping by, even if it’s just to take my statement.
Sounds good. If you have a few minutes while you’re here, I have questions about some scenes I’m writing. I could really benefit from picking the brain of a police officer.
I send the message quickly before I can overthink it. It’s true—I do need some insight for my book, and having an actual detective to talk to is an opportunity I can’t pass up. But if I’m honest with myself, it’s more than that. There’s a part of me that just wants to see him again, to spend a little more time in his presence, to feel that strange mix of curiosity and attraction that he sparked the first time he showed up at my door.
I’m all yours. Be there in an hour.
His response comes almost immediately, and it’s that first sentence that makes my breath catch. I’m all yours. It’s a simple phrase, probably meant as a professional gesture, but it hits me in a way I didn’t expect. Excitement rolls through me, warm and electric, as I read it again.
I don’t even hesitate. I immediately rush to my bedroom to change clothes. I glance at myself in the mirror, realizing with a bit of embarrassment that I’ve already changed three times today, each outfit picked with the possibility in mind that he might come back. It’s ridiculous, I know. I don’t normally bring many cute clothing items when I hole up in a cabin to write. My usual wardrobe consists of sweatpants, old T-shirts, and a few hoodies I rotate depending on the weather. I’ll pack maybe one or two jeans and shirts that I use in case I get a wild hair and go to the grocery store. The most flattering thing I have with me that doesn’t scream trying too hard is a sundress that could easily pass as something I’d lounge around in on a lazy afternoon.
I slip it on, smooth it down, and decide to go barefoot to keep the look casual. I pull my hair up in a messy bun, just loose enough to look effortless, and put on the slightest touch of makeup. Just enough to give my skin a subtle glow, to make it look like I haven’t tried at all. It’s a delicate balance, one I don’t often concern myself with, but tonight feels different.
I sit at the kitchen table, trying to focus on the questions I want to ask him about my book while I wait for his arrival. I jot down a few actual procedural questions I have, but then write a few fake questions I don’t actually have, framing them in a way that makes it seem like I’m being productive, like this is purely for research purposes. But it’s for entirely selfish reasons.
Last night, after he left and I wrote several chapters, I was filled with a euphoria I haven’t felt in years. There’s something about putting a real-life face to my fictional character that made the story flow effortlessly. I’ve always imagined Cam in a vague, abstract way, but now that he’s based on someone who actually exists—someone I’ve met—it feels like the words are coming to life in a way they haven’t before.
The knowledge that Cam is now inspired by Detective Nathaniel Saint has done wonders for my confidence in this story. It helps minimize the nagging fear I always have that readers will call my work unrealistic. How could it be unrealistic if I’m writing Reya’s reactions to Cam based on my own reactions to Detective Saint? I’ve never felt more in tune with my character, and it’s all because of him.
When the knock finally comes, my heart leaps into my throat. But instead of rushing to answer, I force myself to pause. I stand on the other side of the door, my hand hovering over the handle, and I count to thirty. I want it to seem like I’m preoccupied, like I haven’t been waiting all day for this moment.