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)
The alpha male snorts, tilts his head so he can look down at me. “You think I’m any good at romance?”
“Honestly?” I grin. “I thought you’d be terrible.”
He gives a low, genuine laugh. “I am terrible. That’s why I’m paying you to help.”
“Yeah, but why even bother?” I ask. “You could just keep doing what you’re good at.”
The alpha male sighs, and for a second I see the mask slip. “Money. Simple as that. Romance is the biggest market with billions of readers. Did you know that? Bridgerton, that gay hockey romance stuff, and don’t get me started on Fifty Shades. Even James Patterson—the most successful author on Earth, and even he’s releasing romance now. Of course, his manuscripts are written by a stable of ghost writers, but it doesn’t seem to matter. People will buy his stuff.”
I whistle. “Wow. You just crushed like, every fairy-tale I’ve ever had.”
Talon shrugs, but there’s a softness at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t get me wrong. I like the work. But if you want to make a living, you go where the demand is. That’s just business.”
I prop myself up on an elbow, holding the blanket across my chest with my free hand. “Did you ever, like, get invested in any of it though? The love stories, I mean. Or is it all just…”
He looks at me, blue eyes catching the firelight. “This is my first romance novel, and I wasn’t going to be invested. But that’s before I met you,” he says. “You’ve changed things for me, Kitty Kat.”
I go absolutely still. The blanket slips, baring one breast to the cold air, but I barely notice. For a moment, I’m stuck, gears grinding as the meaning of his words click into place. My face must looked shocked.
Talon notices, smirks, then leans in and kisses my shoulder. “You’re easy to fluster, you know that?”
I bury my face in the blanket, but not before I catch him looking at me—really looking, with the kind of soft hunger that makes my heart forget how to beat in sequence.
I have to change the subject or I’ll combust, so I reach for a stack of crossword books Talon keeps on the table, a habit I only discovered last week. I pull the biggest one, yank a pen from the table, and flop back down beside him.
“Here,” I say, shoving the puzzle at him. “Prove you’re not a robot. Solve this with me.”
He scoots close, blanket around both our shoulders, thigh to thigh, and takes the pen. “You want Across or Down?”
“Across,” I say, “unless it’s over twelve letters, then it’s all yours.”
We fall into a rhythm: reading clues, arguing about cryptic hints, trading the pen back and forth when one of us thinks we have the answer. Sometimes our hands brush. Sometimes, when I pass the pen, Talon catches my fingers in his and squeezes. It’s ridiculous how much I like that.
The banter is constant, a low buzz of innuendo and nerdy one-upmanship. When he stumps me with “HALE,” I call him a show-off. When I get “OCTOTHORPE” on my first try, he accuses me of being a genius.
With every shared answer, every laugh, I can feel something building—an intimate, close sense of belonging that’s scarier than the most taboo roleplay Talon could throw at me. I’m not just a “research subject.” I’m a partner, a collaborator, a co-conspirator in whatever romantic narrative we’re writing together.
Halfway through the grid, he sets the pen down and just looks at me, hand on my knee.
“You’re not afraid of anything, are you?” he says.
“Are you kidding?” I laugh. “I’m afraid of literally everything.”
He traces my kneecap with his thumb. “Doesn’t show.”
I shrug. “It’s just easier to pretend.”
“Smart girl,” he says, and the way he says it, soft and proud, makes my chest ache.
We finish the crossword with a flurry of kisses. When the final box is filled, we lean back against the couch, spent and happy, the world outside shrunk to the size of a blanket and a cooling fire.
“I’m falling for you, you know,” I say, just loud enough for him to hear.
Talon grins. “I was counting on it.”
We stay like that for a long time, listening to the rain and each other’s breathing, until the need for more blankets, or maybe just another round, pulls us back to life.
But the crossword—the story—is done for now. And for the first time, I’m excited to see what we’ll write next.
Late afternoon, and the storm’s worn itself out. The air outside is clear and bright, the ground shining wet, the woods humming with a new kind of hush. I’m in a loose cotton dress, barefoot and wild-haired, drifting through the house while nibbling on snacks. I can hear Talon in the backyard, the steady THWACK of his axe against wood echoing through the clearing like a heartbeat for giants. Every blow is perfectly timed, not angry, just necessary—a man beating back entropy, one log at a time.