Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
I squeeze her hand. “You jealous?”
She grins, all teeth. “Not even. I’d win any custody battle.”
We walk across campus, the wind blowing the last leaves into little whirlpools at our feet. There’s a sense of thaw in the air, like the world’s about to wake up. I want to say something meaningful, but I can’t find the words.
So I settle for the simple stuff. “You hungry?”
She shrugs, but her eyes are soft. “Always.”
We wind up in a coffee shop near the library, the kind with battered armchairs and a bathroom graffiti wall that’s become a running campus joke. Kat orders a chai, I get the darkest roast on the menu, and we squeeze into a two-top by the window. It’s warm and loud and alive, and for the first time in months I don’t feel like a ghost in my own life.
She pulls out her notebook, flips to a page scrawled with doodles and lists. “I’ve been thinking,” she says, almost shy. “About the cabin. About going back.”
I try not to let my hope show. “You want to?”
She nods, tracing circles on the paper. “Yes, but on my terms. No secrets. No weird power games. Just us.”
I reach across the table, cover her hand with mine. “I’d like that.”
She smiles, but there’s still something holding her back.
“What is it?” I ask.
She looks away, out the window, where a girl in a pink hoodie is feeding bread to a flock of pigeons. “Simone thinks I’m crazy,” she begins. “She thinks I’m setting myself up to get hurt again.”
I nod, letting the silence speak for itself.
She turns back, and there’s a fierceness in her gaze. “But I think we both need a do-over. Not just to rewrite the story, but to live it for real.”
I squeeze her hand. “Deal.”
She holds it, then adds, “If you mess up again, I’ll let Simone run you over with her car.”
“Fair.”
We sit like that, hands tangled, the world roaring around us. For a second, I imagine the future: holidays in the woods, inside jokes, the two of us against the universe. I’ve never wanted anything more.
Later, as we leave, Kat pulls me close, her voice a whisper in my ear.
“You know,” she says, “I never told you the real reason I answered your ad.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Why?”
She smiles, a little shy, a little wicked. “I wanted to see if a man could actually live up to my fantasies. Imagine: a hulking, brawny woodsman who was also a wizard when it comes to the written word.”
I laugh, holding her tight. “Did I?”
She shrugs, pressing her face into my neck. “Ask me after the sequel.”
We walk home together, the campus lights flickering on, the air crisp and bright. For the first time, I feel like I’m exactly where I belong.
And when we reach the front steps of her building, I pause, look up at the stars, and say a silent thank you—to the muse, to the pain, to the weird luck that brought me here.
Because the best stories aren’t the ones you write.
They’re the ones you get to live.
20
CHAPTER TWENTY – THE BILLIONAIRE AND HIS SEXY SECRETARY
KAT
It’s a year later, and the woods around the cabin still have their secrets, but none of them belong to me anymore. The air is clean and wet with the memory of rain, and every step up the gravel drive brings a new jolt of fresh wood scent. They say you can’t go home again, but nobody tells you what it’s like when home is still there, waiting, but it’s been rebuilt while you weren’t looking.
Talon’s waiting at the end of the drive, hair damp from exertion, a smile like he’s about to throw me over his shoulder and drag me inside. It’s the same cabin, but not really—the roofline’s been re-done, the porch doesn’t sag, and the window glass is so clear it reflects the sky back at you like a dare. I make it three steps before he scoops me up, spins me once, and sets me down with a hard, noisy kiss.
“Welcome home, Kitten,” he says, and the old, sweet ache surges up my spine. God, I love this man.
I giggle and kiss him back. “You have sawdust on your neck,” I tell him, even as I’m busy licking it off. He laughs, and I can feel the new muscle under his shirt, the result of six months’ worth of DIY renovation and a slow, private war against time. There’s an energy here—an “us” energy, not just his.
“I’ve missed you,” he growls against my neck. “God, I missed you.”
I giggle again.
“It’s only been a few days, Talon,” I coo. “You were just in the city. But I’m here now.”
We step inside, and the place is transformed. The entryway’s been sanded and sealed, the kitchen gleams with copper pots and an honest-to-god espresso machine, but it’s the office that stops me cold. Two desks, side by side: one his battered old oak, and the other a sleek, curvy thing with a glass top and a typewriter with blue finish that matches my laptop. There’s a mug of new pens in the middle, and an empty shelf for “Works in Progress.” The touch is so obviously Talon’s I want to cry.