She throws her head back and laughs dramatically as she stuffs her apron into the dirty clothes bin we have in the back. “Sure. Yeah. That was nothing. But don’t worry, I’m leaving now so that you’re free to move about her cabin any way you see fit.”

I roll my eyes. “Go to sleep, Vix.”

“Go home, Saint.”

Go home.

Question is, which door of the property that I own am I going to walk through?

Hers or mine?

9

Harley

“Stop looking at the door.”

It’s been the same comment that’s been on my lips for the past hour. Well after I finished the scene that I never thought I’d get through. The same scene that has stumped me for months. The one that is now completed, promise all but fulfilled to myself . . .

The promise that said sex was on the menu for me.

And of course, how can I stop thinking about that sex when the man I have fantasized having it with—over the past few hours, vicariously through my characters, standing here staring at the wall—is just outside that door?

Maybe it’s because I’m going crazy. Maybe it’s because I’ve already played out exactly how it would happen, as if it were a scene between Sophie and Luke.

There would be no sweet talk, no tender words. Just his needs and my wants and a whole lot of skin in between.

So yes, it’s well past three in the morning, and like any sane person, I need to stop looking at the door as I sit in my matching pajama set with thoughts running wild about a man I’ll probably never see again.

And that’s probably for the better, seeing as I've most likely done what I’m accused of doing in my novels—make things too good to be true so I ruin reality.

Typical me . . . waiting for something that never comes.

Drowsy and yawning, I rise from the couch and make my way to the bedroom. I startle in surprise when there’s a knock on the door. So much so that I stare at the slab of wood as I blink my eyes and wonder if I’m dreaming or if this is real.

Does it really matter?

I open the door as if I already know it’s going to be him . . . and I’m not wrong. An icy blast of air hits me, but I’m already heating up at the sight of him.

His hair is wet as if he just took a shower and that black V-neck is now a blue one and those snug jeans have been replaced by a darker pair.

But no jacket.

No anything to cover up his broad shoulders and honed muscles. No scarf to hide that rough cut jaw or gorgeous mouth.

“Hi.”