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)
“Oh, you know,” he says. “The, um . . . academy. The cop academy.”
I laugh way too hard at that. “Where did Saint go to cop school?”
“LAPD, baby.”
“Maybe that’s where Cam should go, then. I don’t think I’ve written much of his history yet.” Right before I take a bite of another french fry, I say, “Tell me something interesting.”
“Interesting?” he asks. “Have I been boring you so far?”
“Of course not,” I say, laughing. “Just . . . tell me something real. And unique.”
Saint takes a sip of his water. He insisted we both order waters to go so we’d be sobered up before heading back to our respective places for the night.
He clears his throat and sets his drink back in the cup holder. “I have a brother,” he starts, his voice slipping into something lighter, almost playful. “He’s got one arm.”
I raise an eyebrow, intrigued but cautious. “Oh?”
“Yep,” he continues, “lost it in the army five years ago. He was standing guard next to an armored car, and boom—gone.”
I blink, unsure whether to laugh or gasp. He watches me, a smirk tugging at his lips, like he knows exactly the effect this story is having. “It’s true,” he says. “It was awful at the time, but he’s got a great sense of humor about it now,” he says, his eyes glinting with mischief. “He likes to tell people that his lack of armor cost him an arm in the army.”
I can’t help it. I laugh, the absurdity of it washing over me. But then doubt creeps in. Is he messing with me? Is this an actual thing that happened to Saint’s brother, or is he making this up? I squint at him, trying to read his expression. “Wait, is that even true?”
Saint’s face remains perfectly neutral. “It’s absolutely true.”
“So that’s not something I can write into the book?”
“Please don’t,” Saint says immediately. “That would be way too close to home.” He wipes his mouth and closes his to-go box. “Now look who keeps forgetting to be in character,” he says. “I’m telling you stories from my real life. Not very helpful to the writer who needs content she can use.”
I love that he’s slipping out of character. “It’s harder than it seems to be someone else,” I say.
Saint watches me closely. “You do make it difficult not to be myself.”
That sentence makes my mouth run dry. I take a sip of water and help him start bagging up all the trash. Once we’ve cleaned up our space in the car, he exits and walks over to a trash can and dumps it all in. But when he walks back toward the car, he walks to the driver’s side, where I’m seated. He opens the car door with that quiet confidence of his, extending a hand toward me. As I stand, he doesn’t let go.
Instead, with a slow, deliberate motion, he guides me closer to the back of the car, adjusting us so that my back presses gently against the closed door.
And then his mouth connects with mine. The kiss is soft, almost reverent, like he’s taking his time to savor every second, as if each touch, each breath, means something more. There’s no rush, no game. It truly feels like it’s just him and me right now—no roles, no walls.
It’s the kind of kiss that makes a person feel seen.
But then, as if a switch flips, I feel him stiffen. The softness of his kiss begins to withdraw, replaced by something more restrained. His hands, which have been holding me so gently, suddenly freeze in place. I pull back slightly and see it—the way his gaze flicks around, scanning the street like he’s just remembered we’re not alone. We’re out here, in public, exposed. It’s as if the mask he let slip for just a second is quickly being put back in place.
He takes a step back, his posture rigid now, his hand falling from my waist. The warmth that was there just moments ago cools, leaving behind the sharpness of reality. His eyes flick back to mine, a brief apology hidden somewhere in the tension of his expression.
“I should go,” he says, his voice quieter now, more controlled. He steps away, giving me space. “I’ll be in touch, Reya,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, like he’s forcing himself to say it before he walks away.
I want to stop him, to ask him for more, entreat him to stay with me just a little while longer, but the words get stuck in my throat. I just watch him retreat, slipping back into the Saint I’m used to. The man who always seems to be running from something, even when he’s standing still.
I pull out my phone after having that thought and jot it down as a note for my book. The man who always seems to be running from something, even when he’s standing still.