“That right there? That’s what Luke needs to do to Sophie. That is what women like. What you claimed to have wanted.” He winks as I stand there, trying to make sure I heard him properly for the second time in as many minutes. “I need to get back to work.”

“You read the work on my screen.” The words come out in a flustered stutter.

“I did. I liked it. I just wanted to make sure you knew where I thought their story needed to go . . . being an avid romance reader and all.”

“Where my story needs to go?”

How can we be talking about Luke and Sophie when all I can think about is how I want him to kiss me again?

“Yes. From what I read, you’ve created the tension . . . now the two of them need a little release.” He takes a step back toward me and lowers his voice. “He needs to kiss her like I just did you. You don’t state it, but the readers know he misses her like crazy. They know he’s the good guy in the story because he’s not holding her back from chasing her dreams. Now he needs to give in to that desperation he feels every time he looks at her and kiss her senseless . . . just like I did you.”

I must look like a guppy as I stare at him, gobsmacked by his comment. “I don’t . . .” know what to say or how you inferred all that by the small portion you could have read in the limited time you were able to read.

“You can say it now,” he says as he runs a hand over his jaw and fights his smirk.

“Say what?”

“Yes. You’re right, Saint.”

I glare at him, but it’s hard to be truly angry when everything he said is one hundred percent true. Yes, it’s that time in my story where Luke and Sophie need to kiss and have angry makeup sex. Yes, I will picture him when I write it.

Yes, I want him to kiss me again.

“What was that?” he asks, holding a hand to his ear and drawing more glances from his patrons. “It’s okay, it’s hard for me to admit I’m wrong too, but I’ll take that kiss of yours as evidence that I’m right.”

He flashes one more grin and then heads toward the bar without another word. Another round of applause sounds off as he takes a mock bow once he’s behind the bar, but his eyes find mine one last time, and they’re definitely not mocking me.

They’re laden with desire and hint that he wants more too.

I force myself to look away and sit back down at my laptop, my story that suddenly has legs to it, and my mind fixated on what just happened.

And on Saint.

How can it not be?