“How long are you here for?” he asks. “I’ll make sure an officer drives by a couple times a night.”
“I’m here for a couple of weeks.”
He stares at me for a moment, his eyes searching mine for more of an explanation as to why a woman my age would be holed up in a cabin alone for that long.
“I’m a writer,” I say. “I stay here a couple times a year. Usually in the month leading up to a deadline.”
He raises an eyebrow, impressed. “A writer,” he says. “What kind of books do you write?”
“Romantic suspense.”
“What’s your name?”
I want to tell him my name is Reya. The urge is so strong to pretend I’m my character right now, but I give him my actual name instead. “Megan Andrews.”
I can see the twitch of his lip when he smiles. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow, Megan Andrews.”
I watch him walk down the length of my driveway until he’s swallowed up by the bright patrol lights.
I close the door and lock it, then lean against it. I look down at the business card in my hand. Nathaniel Saint. Even his name is sexy.
He could definitely be Cam.
Despite the time, I go straight to my laptop and open my document. I recall everything about Detective Nathaniel Saint that I can.
I end up writing for two solid hours.
THREE
I WOKE UP today wondering about Detective Nathaniel Saint.
Does he go by a nickname or do people call him Nathaniel?
Do they call him Nathan?
Nate?
Detective?
Whatever they call him, I’ve been anxiously waiting on him all day, hoping he would show back up to get my statement. But it’s almost six o’clock in the evening and I haven’t heard from him or any other officer he works with.
Maybe they decided against asking the residents for a statement. Maybe they realized it was a waste of time when the case seemed to be open and shut.
That thought disappoints me because I have several research questions I’d like to ask him. I figured if I was going to have a cop to myself for a few minutes, I might as well utilize that and get first-hand answers to some of the questions my book has posed since last night.
Maybe I should text him—see if someone is still planning to come by.
I pull out the business card and shoot a text to his cell.
Hi. It’s Megan. Do you guys still need a statement from me?
He texts back immediately.
Sorry about that. We’ve been short-handed today. If it’s not too late, I can swing by on my way home.
Sounds good. If you have a few minutes while you’re here, I have a few questions about some scenes in the book I’m writing. I could really benefit from picking the brain of a police officer.
I’m all yours. Be there in an hour.
Excitement rolls through me when I read that last text. I’m all yours.
I immediately rush to my bedroom to change clothes. I’m ashamed to admit I’ve changed clothes three times today already in anticipation that he might come back. I don’t usually bring anything cute when I hole up in a cabin. The only thing I have that doesn’t scream TRYING TO BE CUTE is a sundress that could pass as something I would lounge around in.
I slip it on and choose to go barefoot. I pull my hair up in a messy bun and put on just enough makeup to give me a shine, but not enough to make it look like I’ve put on makeup. I spend the rest of the hour at the kitchen table, forming questions I can ask him so it doesn’t look like I made up an excuse to get him back here.
But in all honesty, I’d give anything to see him again, simply for selfish reasons. I wrote several chapters last night after he left. I had no idea that putting a real-life face to a character could be so motivating.
The knowledge that Cam is now based on someone who actually exists helps minimize my fear that people will call this book unrealistic. It can’t be unrealistic if I’m writing Reya’s reactions to Cam based on my reactions to Detective Nathaniel Saint.
When he finally knocks on the door, I stand on the other side of it and count to thirty. I want it to seem like I’m preoccupied.
I try to keep a straight face when I open the door, but I’m shocked to see him out of uniform. I do exactly what I told myself