I can see his vulnerability now. Something is different.

The offer somehow isn't exactly how it sounded.

That's the thing about language. It's malleable. We all use it and we agree to certain definitions of words, but they are not always aligned with how we feel on the inside. Sometimes, we don't always express ourselves well.

A cold gust of wind rushes past us and I wrap my hands around my shoulders. Los Angeles never gets very cold but standing here barefoot in a thin blouse, I am chilled to the bone.

Seeing me shivering, Liam takes off his jacket and wraps it around me.

At first, I resist, but then I squeeze my hands through the armholes and wrap it tightly around my body. He adjusts the collar to make sure that it's covering my neck and then pulls me closer.

We stand here for a few moments in each other's arms, not daring to move an inch.

I feel him watching me.

I feel his gaze on my face, on my mouth, on my cheeks.

My eyes meet his.

Slowly, he reaches down and finds my mouth with his lips.

When our lips first touch, a spark ignites something deep inside of me. I feel a desire, a want that I haven't felt in a long time.

His lips are luscious and soft but firm at the same time. They are delicate, almost asking for permission.

When I kiss him back, he presses himself firmly against me. His hands make their way back to the nape of my neck, sending a chill of exhilaration down my spine.

When I pull away from him for a moment, our eyes meet and I hold my breath.

Liam's fingers run up my neck and toward my chin along my jawline.

Slowly, tipping my chin up, he directs my mouth toward his and I kiss him again.

I bury my fingers in his hair. His soft, thick, and luxurious hair.

I wrap my hands around his broad, defined shoulders. In his thin T-shirt, I feel every muscle and indentation.

With each breath and with each kiss, his muscles flex and relax. His body is warm and inviting, giving off both heat and fire.

While we kiss under the streetlights, the rest of my body warms up in his confident hands, but my feet get colder and colder.

Finally, I can't stand it any longer.

I pull away from him and tuck one foot behind the knee of the other.

“I'm so sorry,” I whispered. “My toes are freezing.”

10

Liam

When I first saw the article that she’d published about me, I couldn't believe my eyes. I skimmed it on my laptop and then pulled it up on my phone to read it more thoroughly.

I told her that everything that I was saying was off the record and I'm pretty sure that I had mentioned it more than a few times.

Yet, the article I read is the truth about what happened that weekend.

I am so pissed off. I’m not sure what to do. So, I grab my running shoes and do the only thing I can think of.

I head up the trail behind the property into the sand dunes. About a mile into it, the trail disappears and I am just surrounded by uneven desert hills spotted with creosote bushes, cacti, uneven ground, and the occasional lizard.

I push myself as hard as I can and my lungs quickly start to burn. Then I run even harder until my legs burn.

I have always enjoyed running and, outside of writing, it's my main way of relieving stress. I usually run five miles in the mornings, five days a week.

I've slacked off for the last couple of days and haven't run an inch.

My body reminds me of that fact.

My lungs stretch for air and I even get a stitch in my side.

I slow down to a jog and curse myself for getting so out of shape.

When I get on top of one of the many hills framing my property, I put my hands on my waist and breathe hard, watching a large raven circle overhead.

His movements are elegant and effortless, so unlike my own.

When I catch my breath a little bit, I push myself harder along the ridge, running down with such intensity that my shins hurt and my quads tighten.

Today, I'm not running for exercise.

Today, I'm not going on a casual little jog to clear my head or to make my writing sessions more productive.

No, today I'm running to make the pain go away.

Emma doesn't know this, but my identity has to be a secret.

I'm not someone who can have the luxury of becoming even somewhat well-known.

I need my books to sell because I need to pay my bills and because, frankly, for me, writing is my life.

Writers rely on pseudonyms for a variety of reasons.

Some want to keep their private lives and professional lives separate.

Some have difficult to pronounce names, so they go with something more generic or even gender neutral.

Others want to write steamy, romantic scenes and not necessarily publicize that fact to all their family and friends.

The majority of us?

We start out with the pseudonym because writing is something we have always wanted to do, but we have no idea how it's going to go when it comes to publishing.

Not everyone is successful.

In fact, the vast majority are not.

The last thing you want is to bleed out onto the page and have those closest to you, your friends and acquaintances, read and possibly criticize your work.

Those are all the reasons that I chose to write under D. B. Carter, but there is one other factor as well. The truth is that it’s dangerous for me to reveal who I am. Dangerous to myself, my family, and those closest to me.

Emma doesn't know this.

She thinks I'm just a reclusive author who doesn't like people.

That's true, but by publishing this article she has also placed me and those I hold dear in grave danger.

I have no idea how I’m going to get out of it.

Running this morning makes some of my anger subside, but it doesn't do much to clear my head. I still have no idea how to deal with this.

I have no idea who has read this article or whether it has had enough reach to actually put me in danger.

Still, I have to prepare myself for the worst and take certain precautions.

In the meantime, I need to talk to her.

Back home, I take a shower and then try to focus on my writing. I sit down at the computer and set the timer like I usually do.

Just write something. I have fifteen minutes. Anything is better than nothing.

I stare at the page. I have part of an outline worked out and I know what’s going to happen for the next couple of chapters.

I read the paragraph that's going to expand into the next chapter a few times.

I start the timer, but when it goes off, I have still written nothing.

This hasn't happened to me in a long time. I wouldn’t call this writer's block, not yet, but my thoughts are muddled and out-of-control. There's only one thing to do.

I throw my laptop, phone, and a sandwich into my bag and climb into my car.

I text Alex and ask him for Emma's address.

When I pull onto the freeway, he texts it back.

It's the middle of the day and the traffic is minimal. I get there in about 2 1/2 hours, by mid-afternoon, but she's not home.

I sit in the car for a long time thinking about what to do and decide that I'll just wait.

Luckily, I brought my laptop and charger. I go to a spot right across the street from her apartment building.

I read over the next chapter of notes that I have for my novel, open the dictation app on my phone, and set the timer. This time the words come easily.