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)
A storm is coming.
Chapter Twenty
A storm has arrived.
Her name is Mari.
Her umbrella made it inside before she did, but now the wind has picked up her orange curls, and they’re flying in a circle above her head as we both go to push the door shut. The wind is coming directly against the front of the cabin, making the storm seem worse than it is.
It has been howling and thundering on and off for two days now, but I absolutely love this weather. Nothing puts me in a better writing mood than a good thunderstorm.
“Phew, it’s windy!” Mari shakes some of the rain off her. “This one’s a doozy,” she says, sliding out of her boots.
“No one says that anymore.” I grab a spoon out of the drawer so that I can eat the yogurt I just opened.
“Says what?” she asks, plopping down at the table.
“This one’s a doozy,” I mimic.
“Oh, shut up. I’m sixty.”
“The new thirty.”
“Then what does that make you, a toddler?” she asks.
I laugh, just as my phone vibrates with an incoming call. I stick the spoon in my mouth and pick up my phone, and I answer it as soon as I see that Saint is calling. I take the spoon out of my mouth.
“Hi,” I say, my voice cheerful.
“I’m coming over tonight,” he says, his voice instantly familiar and commanding. No question, no polite inquiry, just a statement of intent.
“When?” A rush of heat floods my cheeks.
“I get off at six.”
“Do you want me to cook something?” I can see the curiosity eating at Mari as she listens in to the one side of the conversation she can hear.
“Up to you,” he replies. I sense a subtle test in his words. As if he’s thinking, Who are we going to be tonight?
“What’s your favorite food?” I ask, hoping it’s something I can cook well.
A beat of silence, then a low chuckle. “Whatever you love to cook, Reya.” The name that used to bring me a thrill when I heard it suddenly makes me frown. It’s an affirmation of the fantasy, a subtle invitation to step deeper into our game, but I was really hoping he was just coming over as Saint tonight. But whatever gets him here.
“I’ll have something ready, Cam,” I say teasingly, forgetting that Mari is listening.
Good God, now she thinks I’m screwing three men.
“You think I can stay the night?” he asks.
“I think we can arrange that.”
“Good.” Before he ends the call, just as I’m about to say goodbye, he says, “Hey, Reya?”
My breath catches at the low whisper of his voice. “Yes, Cam?” I respond, the character name slipping from my lips automatically, an echo to his.
“I love you.” The words are soft, convincing, and even though he’s just pretending to be a character, playing the role I created for him, it feels like he’s just said it to me. A raw, illogical piece of me believes it, hungers for it.
A warm, undeniable blush spreads from my neck to my hairline. “I love you too,” I whisper back, quickly, the lie feeling more real than any truth I’ve spoken in days. The call ends abruptly, and I can’t even look Mari in the eye.
I simply set my phone down on the table and take a bite of my yogurt. I can feel her staring.
“Someone coming over?” she asks.
I nod. “Saint.”
“Honey, you do realize you called him by the wrong name, right? Twice.”
“It’s a nickname. You of all people should know how those work.”
“I thought Saint was his nickname. You can’t have two nicknames.”
“He can do whatever he wants.”
“You’re feisty today,” she says, snatching the yogurt from my hand. She grabs the spoon from me, too, and then proceeds to take a bite.
I scrunch my nose. “Eww.”
“Trust me. I’ve had much worse,” she says, and takes a second bite. “What are you going to cook for the man?”
I momentarily forgot. “Shit. I don’t know. I need to go to the grocery store.”
“I have a chicken recipe he’ll love. It’s a real doozy, Petra. A doozy. You hear that? A fucking doozy.”
I laugh. “Send it to me.”
I think I might miss Mari after I leave too.
I pass a gas station on the drive to the grocery store. A small worn-down place with faded signs and a single pump. The kind of place you wouldn’t think twice about passing on the road, but today it catches my attention. I’ve been wanting a local newspaper. Something to ground me in this strange, isolated town. I should probably fill up on gas before my drive back to Sacramento in a few days too.
I pull in to the gas station and park, step out of the car, and feel the sting of the return of raindrops hitting my skin. I run into the store before getting gas, the bell above the door jingling as I step into the dimly lit interior. The smell of stale coffee hits me as I take a few steps toward the counter, scanning the shelves for any sign of a local paper. I wonder if they even sell newspapers here. This town is so small, I wouldn’t be surprised if they don’t.