Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
“I mean it,” I say. “This is amazing. You didn’t just build a house—you built a life. You should be shouting this from the rooftops, not pretending you’re just some guy pouring beer at Chesty’s.”
He laughs under his breath. “I am that guy.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head, smiling because I can’t help it. “You’re an artist, Sam. An entrepreneur. A businessman. You create something that makes people feel—that’s not small. And screw anyone who thinks it’s wrong.”
For a moment, neither of us moves. The only sound is the quiet tick of the thermostat and the faint hum of the refrigerator down the hall.
He exhales, long and slow, and the corners of his mouth curve. “Come on,” he says, voice gentler now. “Let’s grab a beer. I’ll tell you the whole story.”
He leads me toward the kitchen, where light spills over the pristine cabinetry. He hands me a bottle from the fridge, pops the top off his own, and we sit side by side at the island.
The place feels alive now—two people and a secret breathing in the same space. The beer is cold, smooth, and exactly what I need to stop my brain from short-circuiting. I take a sip, watching Sam lean his elbows on the marble island. The overhead lights halo off the brass pendants, catching in his hair and outlining the kind of quiet confidence that sneaks up on you.
“So,” I say, tapping my bottle against the counter. “Tell me how a bartender from Whynot ends up with a secret identity and a mansion.”
He grins. “You make it sound dramatic.”
“It is dramatic,” I shoot back. “Start from the beginning.”
He hums thoughtfully, staring into the distance. “I always liked reading. Used to stay up half the night with whatever I could find—Dean Koontz, Patricia Cornwell, John Grisham—anything really that made the world bigger. Second year of college, I got it in my head that maybe I could write something myself. I tried a thriller first, since those were my favorite reads.” His eyes twinkle. “It was terrible.”
I smile into my drink. “You’re telling me S. P. Rochelle got his start writing bad crime novels?”
“Oh, the worst,” he says with a laugh. “Plots that made no sense, dialogue straight off bad TV. Then one night, I read an article about how the romance genre outsells everything else combined. I figured, ‘How hard can it be?’”
I arch a brow. “Famous last words.”
“Exactly. Turns out, it’s hard. I must’ve read a hundred books trying to figure it out. Took craft classes online. Joined writing groups under fake names.” He smirks. “And somewhere in all that, I fell in love with it. The storytelling, the emotion, the way you can make someone’s whole day better just by giving them a happy ending.”
“That’s… kind of wonderful,” I admit, soft enough that I’m not sure he’s meant to hear it.
“I self-published my first one,” he continues. “Didn’t think anyone would read it. But then it took off—viral on social media, Amazon top ten. So, I wrote another, and by the third one, I was hitting all the bestseller lists. Then came an agent, a big deal, foreign rights, movie options. One day I looked up and realized I was paying more in taxes than I could ever hope to earn with a degree. I dropped out, came back to Whynot, and made it my career.”
I let out a low whistle. “That’s wild.”
“Yeah,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “Still doesn’t feel real sometimes.”
“And no one knows? Not even your family?”
He meets my gaze. “You’re the only one.”
My heart does a little stutter. I cover it with a sip of beer. “You can’t keep this hidden forever, Sam. It’s too wonderful not to share.”
He looks down at the condensation ring under his bottle. “Whynot’s a good place, but it’s also… small. People talk. Folks here have strong opinions about what’s decent. I don’t want to spend every grocery trip defending book covers.”
“Or sex scenes.” I grin.
“Exactly. Last thing I need is a bunch of scandalized church ladies telling me I’m going to hell every time I run into one.”
“I think you have to suffer that.” I sweep my hand toward the gleaming kitchen, the wide windows, the life he’s quietly built. “You should be proud of this—it’s amazing. You worked for it, you earned it. You can’t let someone else’s judgment make you shrink.”
He studies me for a long beat. “You always this fiery?”
“Only when thoroughly compromised by admiration. Seriously, Sam… this is all kinds of amazing and should be shared with all your friends and family.”
That earns a slow grin, the kind that hooks in the pit of my stomach. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
I rest my chin in my hand, watching him. “Fuck anyone who thinks it’s wrong.”
Sam’s eyes flare wide at my vulgarity, but he chuckles. “You really think that?”