“I’m…good,” she says, hesitating slightly.

“That doesn’t sound too convincing.” She’s never been a good liar, mostly because she doesn’t like to lie.

“I’ve been really busy, that’s all.”

“Is that why you came back here?” I ask, hoping I sound casual. She hasn’t come back to Silver Ridge in years, according to my sister, that is. “To take a break from everything?”

“Pretty much. My publicist is pushing for me to finish my next book a whole month sooner than planned so she can line up some promo for the book and the show. I’m officially behind now that I have a new timeline, so I thought it would be inspiring to come back to the place that started it all.”

“You based your Nightfall series off of Silver Ridge?” What else—or who else—made it into the book? I was never able to bring myself to read them, though Rory and at least half the people I know love the series.

“I did,” she answers with a smile. “You haven’t read them then, I’m guessing?”

“I’ve, uh, intended to but haven’t found the time.”

She laughs. “They’re not really your cup of tea, and I’m fine with that. Not everyone likes paranormal romance, though the books have a ton of action in them—sorry. If you get me started talking about Kellie and Marcus, I won’t shut up.”

“You’re passionate, and that’s not a bad thing.”

“It’s the one time my obsessive personality comes in handy.” She casts her eyes down, and I hear echoes of the taunting in my mind…of Chloe being teased for being “weird” though I never saw a damn thing weird or wrong about her. Shame creeps over me like an itchy wool sweater, choking me and making me desperately want to claw my own skin off.

We were young.

I was lost.

And Chloe always knew exactly who she was.

Taking a seat on a bench of a picnic table, I’m just a few feet from Chloe right now. She picks a stick from the little pile of firewood and pokes at the flames, trying to get the second log to ignite. It takes a few minutes—and a lot of smoke wafting in both our faces—but she gets it.

“That feels better,” she says quietly, twisting and pulling the hem of her top away from her body, doing her best to get it to dry. She inhales deeply, and I can’t help but watch her breasts rise and fall as she breathes. Chloe has always been beautiful with her dark red hair and striking green eyes. She’s thin but fit, and I remember a video Rory shared on social media—that I watched against my better judgment—of Chloe and Charles demonstrating their workout routine, which they did together.

I watch her for a moment, and all the words I should have said way back then bubble up in my throat, wanting to spill out at a dizzying rate. I swallow them down, eyes wandering over Chloe’s body.

“The storm’s dying down,” she notes, voice soft, after a few more minutes pass. She gives the fire a final poke and gets up, reaching for her backpack.

“It’s still raining.”

“My clothes didn’t dry at all.” She motions to her body and, dammit, I’m staring at her breasts again. “It doesn’t really matter. And I like walking in the rain, though it is a little cold and I have a long walk back to the lake house.”

“I’m parked in that lot.” I point to the parking lot right behind the shelter. It’ll take only a minute or two for us to walk to the car. “I can drive you to your dad’s house.”

“I don’t want to get your seats all wet.”

“They’re leather, so it would be fine, and if you’re really worried about it, I do have a blanket you can put on the seat.”

“Why do you have a blanket in your car?”

“Sometimes I take a nap in my car in between surgeries. It sounds weird, I know, but it’s easier to relax in my car in the parking garage than the break rooms.”

“It doesn’t sound weird. I’d probably prefer to sleep in my car too than somewhere with other people.” She bites her lip, no idea how fucking sexy that looks on her, and turns her attention to the fire. “Should we put it out before we go?”

“Probably,” I reply and look around for something to use to extinguish the fire. We don’t have any water, so instead, I dash out near the edge of the woods, retrieving a small broken tree branch with a thick cluster of wet leaves. I put it on the fire, strangling out the flames.

“Smart,” Chloe says, eyeing me. She looks uncomfortable now, like the thought of getting in the car with me is unnerving. I wish I knew what she was thinking, or that we were still close enough I could just come out and ask her.

The clouds are just spitting out a drizzle of rain now. Thunder and lightning still rage on around us. The storm isn’t over just yet, but we caught a break in the rain.

“Which side of the lake is the house?” I ask, pretending like Rory didn’t point out her house like a stalker this morning.

“The quiet side. Dad’s been there for a few years already. We bought and restored that house I liked as a kid. The one my mom liked too.”

“I remember that house,” I say softly, noticing the sadness that instantly comes to Chloe’s pretty eyes at the mention of her mother. “Have you been out on the lake yet?”

She shakes her head. “No, just down to the dock. My dad and his girlfriend are leaving tomorrow for a romantic getaway, so I probably won’t get out there this trip.”

“They’re leaving when you just got here?” We start walking down the stone path to the parking lot.

“They had the trip planned, and me coming here wasn’t preplanned or anything. Though it works out, because as much as I love my father, he’s a talker, and I don’t get much work done when he’s around.”

“Yeah, I could see that. Having a lake house to yourself while writing a book is exactly what a movie about a writer would do.”

She chuckles. “It is a little cliché, but it will be really nice and quiet. They’re taking the dog too, so I’ll literally have no one but myself to take care of. Though when I’m deep in the writing cave—not a literal cave, but a mental one, I guess?” She shakes her head. “It’s just something us writers say. But when I’m in the writing cave, I can go like all day without eating and only drinking coffee and wine. And then it might be a few days before I shower, and I don’t know why I’m admitting this to you, though I also admitted it on TV last year so…”

“That’s also what I think of when I think of writers,” I joke and playfully nudge her. The second my skin touches hers, a shock runs through me. I look out at the woods, having to talk down my cock—and my heart.

“Write drunk, edit sober,” she says with a wink. “It’s a Hemmingway quote and isn’t that terrible advice.”

“I can’t imagine having a drink while working.”

She laughs, and I love the way that little dimple on her right cheek is still there when she smiles. “Yeah, I don’t think that would go too well.”

We get to my car, which is the only one left in the parking lot. I open the passenger side door for Chloe and reach into the back, grabbing the fleece blanket. I really don’t care if she sits in the car all wet from the rain, but I know Chloe doesn’t like to inconvenience anyone in the smallest way.