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)
If only I could have both forever. Alternate between the chaotic thrill of Saint and the chaotic normalcy of my family.
But no one can truly have it all without eventually losing it all.
“Where are you?” Nora asks, leaning in, her voice low. “Thinking about the hot cop?”
My gaze snaps guiltily in her direction. She’s grinning.
“What? No.” I respond like she literally meant Saint, but I know she’s only asking if I’m thinking about my book. Guilty much, Petra?
“Wait a second,” Nora says. “I know this look. Petra, did you delete everything? I swear to God, if you changed any of what you sent, I’m going to steal your laptop, recover it, and publish it myself.”
“I didn’t!” I say defensively. “I haven’t deleted anything, I swear.”
She sighs. “Okay. Good. It’s just that every time I’ve tried to talk to you about what you sent, you change the subject. I thought maybe you didn’t want to admit that you trashed it.”
“No, I’m just in wife-and-mom mode this weekend. Not thinking about the book at all.”
“That’s fair,” Nora says. “No work talk at the party.” She holds up her red SOLO cup for a cheers, so I hold mine up too. “To a weekend of not working,” she says.
“And to getting to see you in person for the first time this year,” I add. We click our cups together, and her attention soon drifts back to the conversation she was having with Esther.
I take a sip of my iced tea, watching Andi chase a rogue balloon with a shriek of delight. “Mommy, look!” she yells, her tiny hand outstretched. I’m smiling, about to call out a reply, when my gaze drifts, almost idly, toward something that’s caught my eye at the end of the street.
I almost overlook the vehicle at first. It blends in for the most part. But when my eyes lock in on it, I realize it’s almost camouflaged by the dense shade of the old oak trees lining the curb. It looks like it’s been swallowed by the shadows, deliberately.
My breath hitches, catching painfully in my throat.
My iced tea glass slips from my damp hand. I immediately try to recover it, but watch helplessly as it falls quietly onto the grass with a thud, going unnoticed by everyone around me.
No. It can’t be. He would not drive this far.
But the sheer, undeniable presence of that car, even from this distance, screams his name.
A knot of icy anxiety tightens in my stomach, quickly followed by a hot, furious surge of anger that makes my hands clench into fists.
The nerve.
He was so mad when I dared to follow him, when I stepped even a toe into his real life. And now he’s here, a silent, dark sentinel, watching me in mine? The sheer hypocrisy of it burns, a searing flame in my chest. I want to march down that street, to confront him, to demand, “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?!” My jaw clenches, the joyful symphony of the party suddenly feeling discordant and tainted.
I try to ignore it, but it’s hard to pretend I’m not being watched in the very element I keep so hidden from the rest of the world. My eyes keep flicking, almost involuntarily, to the end of the street, to that dark, menacing shape lurking beneath the oak trees. It’s like a predator observing its prey.
I refuse to feel like prey in my own home.
When everyone’s attention is diverted by a particularly boisterous game between the men, I seize my chance. I steal away from the group but make it look like I’m heading inside to use the restroom. I slip around to the side of the house and then pass through Esther’s backyard. When I’m sure I’ve gone far enough for no one to see me, I merge onto the sidewalk. My steps are purposeful, aimed straight for his car. Each stride is deliberate, like marching into the lion’s den. I keep glancing back to make sure no one is watching me, but everyone is paying attention to everything else.
I go around the back of the car so that I don’t risk being seen. I can hear the click of the locks on the doors, which further solidifies it’s Saint.
I open the passenger door and can see his arm, his hand gripping the steering wheel, his thigh. The air inside the car is cool, a stark contrast to the muggy summer afternoon. I slide into the passenger seat. My hands grip my thighs, my knuckles white. My voice, when it comes, is a strained whisper that barely hides the roar beneath.
“I thought homes were off limits,” I demand, my gaze fixed on his profile. He’s looking straight ahead, at my house, at my family, a silent, very unwelcome observer in my domestic world. His stillness is infuriating.