One More Step

by Colleen Hoover

  “Sorry to disturb you, ma’am. I’m officer Nathaniel Saint.”

  I stare at his badge long enough to read his name. I bring my hand up to my throat as he puts his badge away. I can feel my heart thumping against my palm. I don’t know if it’s the scratchy baritone of his voice that made my heart rate pick up even more, or if it’s the realization that this isn’t a dream. There is actually a cop at my door in the middle of the night, which can only mean something bad has happened.

  My thoughts immediately go to my family. Did something happen to someone? Is he here to bring me bad news?

  As if he can sense my unease, the edges of his voice smooth over when he says, “There’s nothing to worry about. There was an incident that occurred up the street about an hour ago. I just have a couple of questions if you don’t mind. Protocol.”

  I blow out a breath of relief knowing everyone is safe. I nod and unlatch the lock on my front door.

  I realize after opening the door and being met with a cool breeze that I am, in fact, underdressed. I wrap my arms over myself and nod toward the kitchen, inviting the officer inside. He stands at least five inches taller than me.

  “What kind of incident?” I ask. I stand a few feet from the door. He takes a step into the house but remains near the doorway. I can’t help but wonder how old he is. I’m twenty-nine and I look all of twenty-nine, give or take a couple of years. But it’s hard to tell with him. He could be younger than me. He could be ten years older. He has the gentleness in his eyes of someone who hasn’t been exposed to too much harshness, but that could also be a trained expression for someone in his profession.

  I take a few mental notes because I am definitely using him as inspiration for Cam. It’s like the heavens opened up and dropped this cop on my front porch.

  I haven’t felt like writing in two days, but seeing this guy in the flesh makes me want to get this interaction over with so I can go straight to my laptop.

  The officer’s eyes scan the room for a moment before they land back on me. “Do you know a man by the name of Don William Puttman?”

  I shake my head. The name doesn’t ring a bell.

  He looks a bit relieved when I say that. His posture relaxes and he leans against the frame of my door. “There was a police pursuit that ended about fifty yards from your driveway.” He nudges his head toward the road. “We’ve secured the scene, but we’re going to have officers nearby—possibly on your property—for the next hour or so. I just wanted to come by and let you know there’s nothing to be concerned about. And of course to see if there’s a reason the victim was heading in this direction. But since you don’t know him—”

  “Victim?” I ask.

  The officer nods. “Yes, ma’am. It was self-inflicted.”

  I wrap my hand around my stomach and blow out a breath.

  Someone just killed themselves fifty yards from my driveway?

  “I may need a statement,” he says. “But we don’t have to get that tonight. I can send an officer by to retrieve that tomorrow if you don’t mind. It’s protocol—we’re asking all three occupants on this road for the same information.”

  “Yeah,” I say, nodding. “That’s fine. I’ll be here all day.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” The officer tips his hat and begins to turn. But then he pauses and looks back at me. “Are you here alone?”

  I hate that question.

  There’s no good way to answer it. He may be a cop, but he’s also a man. A complete stranger.

  I would lie and say I have a husband in the bedroom, but I’m not sure lying to a cop when there’s a dead body fifty feet from my front door is very smart. But admitting I’m alone to a complete stranger isn’t smart, either.

  He must see the concern on my face because he speaks up before I can answer. “Not that I’m assuming you can’t take care of yourself. But…just be cautious. If you have conversations with people in the town, make sure to give the impression you aren’t out here alone. Wear a wedding ring when you’re out and about.”

  This town has always seemed so inviting to me. The way this guy is talking, it’s anything but.

  “Should I be worried? Is this a bad area?”

  He looks out into the yard—at the flashing lights—then back at me. “No area is perfect.” He tips his hat again. “Sorry to interrupt your night. We’ll be in touch tomorrow.” He heads for the stairs, but I find myself rushing after him.

  “Wait,” I say.

  He turns around when he reaches the bottom step and looks back at me. I don’t know why I rushed after him. I just feel…scared. This man shows up to tell me a guy killed himself, and now he’s leaving, and I’m supposed to just go back to sleep?

  “There’s not much else I can do here,” he says. “I’m needed back at the scene. I’ll make sure there are extra eyes on your place tonight. You’ll be fine.”

  A slow gust of wind circles me. I wrap my arms even tighter around myself to hide the chill. I don’t like the feeling building in my stomach. I’ve always felt safe here, but the last several minutes have left me scared to be alone.

  “Okay,” I whisper with a nod. It’s completely unconvincing. The cop can see right through my concern.

  He walks back up the stairs and pulls something out of his pocket. He hands me his business card. It says Detective Nathaniel Saint at the top, and it has an email address and two phone numbers at the bottom.

  “I didn’t mean to worry you. The top number is my cell. If you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to call me.”

  “Thank you,” I say, clutching the card to my chest.

  “How long are you here for?” he asks. “I’ll make sure an officer drives by a couple times a night.”

  “I’m here for a couple of weeks.”

  He stares at me for a moment, his eyes searching mine for more of an explanation as to why a woman my age would be holed up in a cabin alone for that long.

  “I’m a writer,” I say. “I stay here a couple times a year. Usually in the month leading up to a deadline.”

  He raises an eyebrow, impressed. “A writer,” he says. “What kind of books do you write?”

  “Romantic suspense.”

  “What’s your name?”

  I want to tell him my name is Reya. The urge is so strong to pretend I’m my character right now, but I give him my actual name instead. “Megan Andrews.”

  I can see the twitch of his lip when he smiles. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow, Megan Andrews.”

  I watch him walk down the length of my driveway until he’s swallowed up by the bright patrol lights.

  I close the door and lock it, then lean against it. I look down at the business card in my hand. Nathaniel Saint. Even his name is sexy.

  He could definitely be Cam.

  Despite the time, I go straight to my laptop and open my document. I recall everything about Detective Nathaniel Saint that I can.

  I end up writing for two solid hours.

  THREE

  I WOKE UP today wondering about Detective Nathaniel Saint.

  Does he go by a nickname or do people call him Nathaniel?

  Do they call him Nathan?

  Nate?

  Detective?

  Whatever they call him, I’ve been anxiously waiting on him all day, hoping he would show back up to get my statement. But it’s almost six o’clock in the evening and I haven’t heard from him or any other officer he works with.

  Maybe they decided against asking the residents for a statement. Maybe they realized it was a waste of time when the case seemed to be open and shut.

  That thought disappoints me because I have several research questions I’d like to ask him. I figured if I was going to have a cop to myself for a few minutes, I might as well utilize that and get first-hand answers to some of the questions my book has posed since last night.

  Maybe I should text him—see if someone is still planning to come by.

  I pull out the business card and shoot a text to his cel
l.

  Hi. It’s Megan. Do you guys still need a statement from me?

  He texts back immediately.

  Sorry about that. We’ve been short-handed today. If it’s not too late, I can swing by on my way home.

  Sounds good. If you have a few minutes while you’re here, I have a few questions about some scenes in the book I’m writing. I could really benefit from picking the brain of a police officer.

  I’m all yours. Be there in an hour.

  Excitement rolls through me when I read that last text. I’m all yours.

  I immediately rush to my bedroom to change clothes. I’m ashamed to admit I’ve changed clothes three times today already in anticipation that he might come back. I don’t usually bring anything cute when I hole up in a cabin. The only thing I have that doesn’t scream TRYING TO BE CUTE is a sundress that could pass as something I would lounge around in.

  I slip it on and choose to go barefoot. I pull my hair up in a messy bun and put on just enough makeup to give me a shine, but not enough to make it look like I’ve put on makeup. I spend the rest of the hour at the kitchen table, forming questions I can ask him so it doesn’t look like I made up an excuse to get him back here.

  But in all honesty, I’d give anything to see him again, simply for selfish reasons. I wrote several chapters last night after he left. I had no idea that putting a real-life face to a character could be so motivating.

  The knowledge that Cam is now based on someone who actually exists helps minimize my fear that people will call this book unrealistic. It can’t be unrealistic if I’m writing Reya’s reactions to Cam based on my reactions to Detective Nathaniel Saint.

  When he finally knocks on the door, I stand on the other side of it and count to thirty. I want it to seem like I’m preoccupied.

  I try to keep a straight face when I open the door, but I’m shocked to see him out of uniform. I do exactly what I told myself I wouldn’t do.

  I check him out.

  My eyes scan him from head to toe and then back up again. Surprisingly, he looks even better out of uniform. He’s wearing faded jeans with a few paint splatters on them, and a t-shirt that has a fist up in the air and the word Gonzo printed across it.

  A Hunter S. Thompson t-shirt. I wonder if that was deliberate.

  “Nice shirt,” I say, holding the door open.

  He grins but doesn’t reveal if the literary shirt was intentional.

  His age is easier to pin down in the daytime than it was last night. He’s definitely older than me, but not by much. Maybe four or five years, which would put him in his early thirties.

  “Did you get any sleep after I left?” he asks, walking into the cabin.

  “Not much, but I’m okay. You?”

  “Not any, but I’m okay,” he says.

  I don’t know if the smile he speaks with is intentional, but it seems seductive. I don’t know what to do with that. Normally, I can hold my own when it comes to flirtation, but this man is wearing a wedding ring. I don’t flirt with other women’s men.

  But my character would. Reya.

  That’s how her affair with Cam begins in the book. She latches on to every flirtatious smile he gives her.

  Part of me wonders how much writing I could get done tonight if I would just step out of my own skin for a little while and try to become Reya. If I allowed myself to become my character, I might become inspired and meet my deadline.

  Detective Nathaniel Saint is making a slow spin in the kitchen, admiring the high ceilings of the cabin. “I’ve always wondered what the inside of this place looks like,” he says. “It’s the nicest cabin on this whole lake.”

  “That’s why I stay here,” I say. “It has the best views.”

  “Is it not two-story? It looks multi-level from the outside.”

  “Nope. Just the one. All the rooms have ceilings this high.”

  He brings his eyes back to mine. “It’s nice.”

  I nod.

  Neither of us speaks for a moment. The silence between us becomes thick. “What name do you go by?” I ask him. “Nathaniel? Nate?”

  “Saint, actually.”

  “Saint,” I say in a whisper. That would make a better character name than Cam. I would change the name in my book, but that might be too weird. Cam is already turning out to look just like this guy. I can’t make his name the same, too.

  “So,” I say. “You need a statement from me?”

  Saint stares at me quietly for a moment. “Not anymore. They closed the case already. It’s all on camera—nothing to dispute.” He leans against my kitchen island and crosses his legs at the ankles. He’s so effortlessly breathtaking, I feel out of my element.

  But would Reya feel out of her element?

  “If you don’t need a statement, why are you here?” I ask him.

  “You said you needed to pick my brain.”

  Oh, yeah. I did say that.

  I nod and swallow the thick lump in my throat. I can’t remember a single question I wanted to ask him now that he’s standing right in front of me, and I don’t want to look at my list like an amateur.

  I make up a question, just so I don’t seem so pathetic.

  “Why do you wear a uniform if you’re a detective?”

  “It’s a small town. I only do detective work when it’s needed of me. Most of the time I patrol and have to be in uniform.”

  I nod but have no other questions to follow that up with. I chew on my lip for an uncomfortable moment as I try to think of another.

  “I have a confession,” he says.

  “You do?”

  He nods. “I didn’t sleep last night, but it had nothing to do with my job.”

  I have no idea where he’s going with this. “Why couldn’t you sleep?”

  “I Googled you,” he says, matter-of-fact. “Watched a lot of your live videos.”

  I cover my face with my hand. “Oh, God. Not those.”

  He laughs. “You and your friend…what’s her name…”

  “Candice.”

  “Yeah. Very entertaining.”

  I bring my hand to my flushed chest. “Did you see the one from a few nights ago?”

  He nods slowly. “Yep. You said you’re writing a book about a cop.”

  “Yep.”

  “A hot cop if I remember correctly.”

  I can feel the heat climb up my neck and to my cheeks. “Yep,” I say. “But to be fair, that video was recorded two nights before I even met you.”

  He grins, and I can feel that smile slide right into my stomach. “Do you really think experience would make you a better writer?”

  I can’t believe he saw that video. I’m mortified. But also…a little intrigued that he’s here asking me about it. “Maybe,” I say. “It makes sense. I’m sure the more experience you have as a cop, it eventually molds you into a better cop.”

  “True.”

  “I don’t know why writing would be any different,” I say. “If I actually lived through something, I could probably make it more realistic when I put it into words on paper.”

  Saint breaks our stare and looks down at his arms that are folded across his chest. He’s staring at his left hand. At his wedding ring, specifically. He begins to twirl it with his thumb.

  I wonder if that’s an absentminded move or if he’s thinking about what Candice and I talked about in the live video. About how maybe I should sleep with a married cop to make my writing more realistic.

  Maybe that’s why he’s here…

  “This book you’re working on,” he says, bringing his eyes back to mine. “You said the main characters’ names were Cam and Reya?”

  I love that he paid that much attention to the video. “Yes.”

  “What things happen to Reya in the book that you’ve never experienced?”

  Holy shit. This conversation is really going there.

  I need a drink.

  I walk around him and take a glass out of the cabinet. “I need wine for this conversation
,” I say. I turn and face him. “Want some?”

  He shrugs. “I’ll take a glass.”

  I grab an open bottle of wine from the refrigerator and pour us both half a glass. I turn and hand him his. We’re closer now—facing each other. I’m leaning against the sink and he’s still leaning against the kitchen island, but our feet are just inches apart now. He sips from his glass of wine, keeping his gaze locked on mine the whole time.

  I don’t sip as delicately from mine. I take a huge gulp and then set the glass on the counter next to me. I stare at the glass rather than at Saint. “Reya is young,” I say. “Twenty-three. She’s inexperienced. Cam is a cop, as you know.” I finally bring my eyes back to his. “When Reya and Cam meet—the attraction between them is intense. But he’s married.”

  Saint nods slowly. He sips from his wine again, then brings the glass against his chest. “How does that make Reya feel?”

  “Jealous,” I say immediately. “Disappointed.”

  “Do they know each other very well?” he asks.

  “Not at all.”

  “So this attraction…it’s just physical?”

  “At this point…yes.”

  I have no idea what’s happening here.

  Are we talking about us? Or is he genuinely interested in the story?

  Now that I’ve been picturing Cam as Saint in my head, it’s hard to separate the two. As a writer, that’s a strange feeling. To be standing so close to a real-life version of your character.

  I take another drink. I’m breathing so hard, I can hear it. I’m sure Saint can hear it, too.

  “How does their affair begin?” he asks.

  I swallow noticeably this time. “A kiss,” I say. “The attraction is too much for Cam. He loves his wife, but he’s never felt such a strong physical attraction to anyone like he does to Reya. So one night…when he’s at Reya’s house on business…he kisses her. But in the middle of the kiss, he feels guilty, so he pulls away from her and storms out of the house.”

  “He storms out?”

  I nod. “Cam is a tortured soul.”

  Saint nods in thought. “And that’s never happened to you? You’ve never been kissed by a married man?”