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)
She leans in, elbows on the shelf. “Why, where did you hear he was putting out romance?”
I shrug, noncommittal. “Just around. A lot of big authors do, these days. They release everything, from gay hockey smut to regency type stuff. I figured maybe Mr. McKnight jumped in too.”
“Possible,” Renee muses. “But I’d put money on him sticking to what sells. That man knows his market, trust me. If you’re looking for romance writers, though, we have a bunch. Like, half this store is smut at this point.”
She gestures to the next aisle over, where a sign reads “Spicy Romance (18+ only!).” The endcap is covered in books with cartoonish covers—pastels, flowers, people in various states of undress.
I laugh, but my stomach twists. “I’ll stick with McKnight for now. Can I put this on a tab?”
“For you? Anything, sweetheart.”
I thank her, tuck the book under my arm, and make for the door. Before I leave, I glance back to see Renee watching me with a knowing smile.
“If you ever want to talk,” she says, voice softening, “about anything—just come by. Even if it’s just to get out of the cold.”
“Thanks,” I say, and I mean it. Does she know me as the girl living at Talon’s cabin? Oh god, who knows at this point? The town is small and likely everyone talks.
Nonetheless, I slip out into the alley, book hugged to my chest, and walk the perimeter of the parking lot. The Tacoma is still there, engine idling, Talon hunched over his phone, thumb scrolling with intent. He doesn’t notice me skulking along the edges of the lot.
I duck into the general store, pay for my basket, and pocket the receipt. My hands are trembling, just a little. I take a breath, steady myself, and walk back to the truck.
“Get everything you need?” Talon says, taking the bags and tossing them behind the seat. He doesn’t ask why I took so long. He just puts the truck in gear and heads back up the road.
“Yep!” I chirp back. “The general store is so cute, and they had everything.”
He nods, and we drive in silence. I look out the window, the woods rushing by, my mind a blender of facts and feelings. It’s possible I’m overreacting. It’s possible there’s an innocent reason for everything. But I can’t shake the way Renee laughed, the way the contract read, or the way Talon’s voice changed when he talked to “J.E.”
Halfway up the mountain, Talon reaches over and squeezes my thigh. “You good, Kitten?”
I nod, heart pounding. “Just tired,” I say, and lean my head against the cold window.
But I’m not tired. I’m wide awake. And every second, I’m more sure there’s a story here—one I’m not supposed to find.
When we get back to the house, Talon carries in the groceries like we’re a married couple, holding the door open for me before pressing a kiss to my shoulder. He leaves the bags on the counter, then strips off his jacket and shirt in one practiced motion, stretching until his shoulders crack. His body is made for hard work and harder living—every muscle roped and tensed, as if he’s expecting a fight at any moment.
“I’ll chop wood,” he says, grabbing the ax from the mudroom. “It’s supposed to snow again tonight.”
I watch him through the kitchen window, forehead pressed to the cool glass, the groceries untouched at my elbow. The air outside is pale and dry. Talon sets up in the clearing, logs stacked on a stump, ax glinting in the afternoon sun. Every swing is precise. He splits the logs cleanly, no wasted motion, and for a second I wish I could be like that—just do the thing, without thinking myself to death in the process.
He doesn’t look at me once.
I leave the window, cross the kitchen, and pause in the hallway. My heart is a jackhammer. I listen for the rhythm of the ax: one, two, three, pause, repeat. I wait until I’m sure he’s lost in the rhythm before padding down the hall, my steps featherlight on the floor. I push open the door to his office and close it behind me, so soft the latch barely clicks.
Inside, it’s a different world—warmer, denser, full of Talon’s scent: coffee, cedar, some spice I can’t name. The desk is a behemoth of dark wood, its surface orderly. Talon must have straightened up sometime between last night and today. On the wall above, there’s a framed first edition of one of his own books. The computer monitor is dark, but a stack of folders sits beside it, neat as a religious offering. I pull the chair out, sit down, and exhale a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
First, I look for the obvious: thumb drive, USB stick, any sign of a manuscript. Nothing. The file folders are all labeled in Talon’s blocky handwriting—Receipts, Banking, Cabin Taxes. One is marked “Personal,” which is almost too on the nose. I flip it open and scan the contents.