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 only have one hour before he gets here. One hour to shower, dry my hair, brush my teeth, make my bed, and clean up two days’ worth of complete chaos. I move through my routine in a blur, my mind spinning with a thousand different thoughts, each one louder than the last.
I spend the better part of the next hour worrying more about how I look than about the state of the cabin. My reflection in the mirror becomes a battlefield of indecision. Hair up or down? Light makeup or bare faced? Casual or a bit more put together? It’s ridiculous how much thought I’m putting into it, as if the way I present myself could somehow control the course of the evening. But I can’t help it. Every detail feels like it matters in a way it hasn’t before, like how I appear might influence the direction of my career.
My heart is racing as I change my outfit for the third time, settling on something that toes the line between casual and deliberately chosen. A fitted sweater that hugs my curves but not too much, jeans that look good but aren’t trying too hard, and just a touch of mascara to make my eyes pop. It’s all calculated to look effortless. Why are women so pathetic sometimes? Men don’t have to do a damn thing other than show up.
By the time I finish getting the dishes cleaned and put away, I hear the familiar sound of gravel crunching beneath tires. He’s here. A surge of nerves mixed with anticipation floods through me, and I quickly finish the last sip of the wine I’ve been nursing for the past hour. It doesn’t help calm me down as much as I’d hoped, but it gives me something to focus on other than the fact that he’ll be at my door in seconds.
When the knock finally comes, I take a deep breath, trying to compose myself. I pause for a moment before heading to the door, wanting to seem as calm and collected as possible. When I open it, Saint stands there in full uniform, but there’s something about the way he’s looking at me that makes the moment feel anything but professional. He’s holding a change of clothes in his hands, and I catch myself staring at them before I look up to meet his eyes.
“I didn’t have time to run back to the station to change,” he says, his voice carrying a casual familiarity. “Mind if I do it here?”
I shake my head, pointing behind me toward the hallway. “Bathroom is through that door.”
He doesn’t wait for further invitation. He steps inside with that same devilish grin I’ve come to associate with him, a grin that sends a spark of heat through me. Without missing a beat, he steps closer, his hand slipping around my neck, and before I can even process what’s happening, his lips are on mine. The kiss is sudden, consuming, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I respond instinctively, my body moving toward him, meeting him halfway as if this kind of greeting is completely familiar to us now. The feeling of his mouth on mine pulls me into a daze, a moment where nothing else exists but the heat of the kiss and the weight of his hands on me.
He backs me up two steps, his mouth never leaving mine, and kicks the door shut behind him with an easy motion. “I can only stay an hour,” he murmurs against my lips, his breath warm on my skin. “I wish I could stay all night.”
I blink, pulling back slightly, my mind trying to catch up to what’s happening. Is he in character right now? The way he’s kissing me, the way he’s speaking—it’s as if he’s channeling Cam. But I don’t know if that’s intentional or if I’m projecting. The line between Saint and Cam is becoming increasingly muddled, and I’m starting to wonder if he’s doing it on purpose. This kiss—this greeting—feels like something Cam would do at this point in the story. But would Saint? Under normal circumstances, I doubt it. But in this moment, nothing feels normal.
Saint sets his clothes on the counter and heads straight for the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of wine with an ease that suggests he’s done this before. He grabs the glass I was drinking from earlier, refills it, and slides it across the island toward me. Then, he pulls another glass from the cabinet and fills it for himself.
The whole scene feels surreal, like we’ve slipped into an alternate reality where this is just what we do. Share wine, exchange kisses, play out a story that might not even be ours.
“How was your day, Reya?” he asks, the name of my character slipping from his lips as if it’s always belonged there. The shift in tone, in context, makes me realize with certainty that he’s completely in character right now. I have to bite back my smile at the realization.