Page 33 of Strictly Forbidden

I watched for a full minute as he turned page after page, impressed at his reading skills. I didn’t need to say anything. He lifted his head, his eyes piercing mine. Sadly, they were expressionless. Given the rather graphic nature of my books, I had more male readers than female, although I’d had both at a few of my signings say they admired my work, but they didn’t want to have nightmares.

Maybe I should take my own advice.

“I paid attention to the news. It seems the ice is worse than we thought. So, you’re stuck with me for a little while. I hope you can survive.” I laughed nervously but he continued to act solemn, his face unyielding to any emotion. He was just searching.

“This is you?” he asked by way of answer.

“Yeah. I wasn’t going to use a pseudonym but there are some crazies out there.” Some more than others.

“You’re an excellent writer,” he said far too quietly. Why did he seem so surprised?

“Then why are you frowning?”

“I’m not. Am I?”

I walked closer, examining the one he’d grabbed from the bookshelf. “She has to die,” I murmured the title. At least it said what to expect inside the book, although the name was completely different than what I’d wanted. “You were. Perhaps because I don’t write frothy romance novels, which had been called utter trash over the years. I’m vehemently opposed to trashing any author for what they write by the way. I just prefer blood and gore to romantic walks on the beach. Sue me.”

He seemed taken aback by my boldness. “As I said, you’re a very good writer and I’m certain you could do so in any genre, but this seems to be what you prefer writing. You have a good handle on police procedurals and an uncanny ability to slide into the mind of your protagonist, but be careful you don’t lose yourself in the darkness.”

“I’m not. It’s all about my imagination, you know?” I was even pointing at my head. How clever, sugar britches.

“Understood but most authors share some part of themselves or their lives inside every book they write. I would hate to think anything like this happened to you.”

“It’s all about having a good imagination and watching a lot of crime reels.” I laughed, but a single bead of perspiration had managed to trickle down one side of my face.

“Would it be possible if I borrowed this one?”

There was absolutely no reason for a chill to be slithering down my spine. He hadn’t said anything wrong. I could tell his words were heartfelt, but he didn’t know the book I’d just written was my attempt at scouring my mind of the horrible memories. Now I was uncertain what I’d written was the right thing to do.

His words were so different from the night before, as if he’d decided to shut down any feelings for me. Maybe that was for the best. “Absolutely. It’s the least I can do for you bringing me back safely and keeping the fire going, not to mention making such amazing steaks. Just please don’t critique me too harshly. That was my first bestseller, which shocked the hell out of me in truth. I have an excellent agent and publisher.”

Another awkward moment. “The most astute professionals can only boost your natural talent. Nothing more. Is your hand okay?”

He’d been stoic the night before, but he was so serious this morning I was thrown by every word coming from his mouth.

“It’s fine. Perfectly fine. Thank you for caring.” I flexed it for him to show there was no permanent damage.

Tick. Tock.

Maybe we were both trying too hard.

I had cotton in my mouth, which I always had when trying too hard.

“Anyway, I made some breakfast. I didn’t know what you liked so I prepared a bit of everything.” I laughed more nervously than I had around him before. When I brushed my hand through my hair, he narrowed his eyes. What was he hoping to find in me? “I never know how much to make so there’s a lot of food. I just don’t get many visitors.”

Now I was telling him I was a loner? Great. It was a classic no-no for the heroines in my books, none of whom were classically stupid like those in so many horror movies. I should spend more time reading my own work. Maybe I could grab some pointers on how not to attract serial killers.

Jesus.

I’d truly fallen down some insane rabbit hole.

“That sounds wonderful. I can’t remember the last time I had a home-cooked breakfast. The slop I’m used to shouldn’t be fed to a dog. No offense, buddy.”

Woof!

He reached down, scratching behind Max’s ears.

“You’re good with him.”

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