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)
He stops three feet away, doesn’t sit, doesn’t even move closer until I nod. “Hey, Kitten.”
I point to the far end of the bench. “You can sit, but if you try anything, I’ll scream and get us both banned for life.”
He grins, but it’s small and uncertain. He lowers his massive form, meeting my eyes.
For a minute, it’s just us and the sound of water and small children throwing breadcrumbs. I try to compose myself, but my hands won’t stop fidgeting. I realize he’s waiting for me to start, and the power shift makes me feel unexpectedly strong.
“So,” I say. “You’re here.”
He shrugs, slow. “I’m here. Ask me anything.”
My mouth is dry, but I force myself to look him in the eye. “Fine. I know some of this is going to be repeat, but I want to hear it again. When did you start using Sweet Lies? And how many women before me?”
He doesn’t even blink. “I can’t remember exactly, but I started using Sweet Lies maybe seven or eight years ago. I had really bad writer’s block, and was drunk off my ass most of the time. As for women, maybe a dozen? It could be more or less. I stopped counting because, honestly, it didn’t matter. I didn’t want relationships. I didn’t want any mess. Sweet Lies kept it neat and professional. Or that’s what I told myself.”
I nod, jaw tight. “But you made them act out all the scenarios. The roleplays. Why?”
He hesitates, and for the first time I see him wrestle with the answer. “Again, it gave structure to our interactions, and like Jonah suggested, saying that the roleplay was part of my “research” legitimized it a little. Maybe it helped me get a higher-caliber girl. But the truth is, I didn’t know how to be with someone unless I was pretending.”
I take that in, let it sting. “And with me? Was it different, or did I just play the role better?”
He’s silent, but his hands are flat on his knees, open, not clenched. “It was different. You didn’t just play along, Kat. You… I don’t know. You broke the fourth wall. You called me on my shit.”
“And yet you lied the whole time,” I say, trying not to sound like I care. “You let me think you were genuinely writing a romance.”
He looks at the pond, then back at me. “I know. There’s no excuse. It was cowardly. I thought I could keep it compartmentalized, like everything else. But when you left, it wrecked me.”
The phrase hits a nerve. I want to hit him. Instead, I lean forward. “I read the book again. Cover to cover. Is any of it true?”
“All of it,” he says, and his voice isn’t dramatic, just tired. “It’s the only honest thing I’ve ever written, to be frank.”
We sit in silence, the tension simmering in the air between us. The koi flash gold and white in the sun, oblivious.
I press on. “So what happens now? If I don’t forgive you, will you just move on to the next girl?”
Talon runs a hand through his hair, and I see the frustration. “Kat, it doesn’t work like that anymore. I don’t want someone else. I don’t want to order off a menu, so I canceled my Sweet Lies account. I’m in therapy. I’m trying to fix the part of me that thinks women are just sexy playmates and nothing else.”
I almost laugh, but it comes out as a sigh. “You think I’m supposed to be impressed by that?”
“No,” he says. “I don’t expect anything. I just wanted to tell you what steps I’m taking. So you’d know it’s not a scene, not a performance. I’m being genuine about this.”
I study him, looking for the old tells: the half-smile, the deflection, the ego. But they’re not there. Talon’s posture is looser. His eyes don’t dart away when I push. It feels real, and it scares me almost as much as it comforts me.
I lean back. “So, what now? You want me to forgive you? Or just write a better ending?”
He shakes his head. “Forgiveness would be nice, but I don’t deserve it. And you should write the ending, Kat. Whatever you want it to be.”
My hands stop shaking. I didn’t expect this. I expected some hail-mary attempt, another contract, a promise of riches or fame. But this—just talking, just being here, letting me lead—is somehow more disarming than anything else Talon could have done.
I stand, brushing crumbs from my jeans. “I’ll think about it. But you don’t get to decide if you’re the hero or not. That’s my call.”
He nods, standing too. For a second we’re close, close enough I could touch him if I wanted. I let my hand hover, then, almost on impulse, let my fingers graze his arm.
“Thank you,” I say, and mean it. “For being honest. Even if it’s late.”