One More Step

by Colleen Hoover

  “You pretended to be someone you’re not.”

  “So did you,” he says flatly.

  “Stop saying that! It’s different!”

  “Is it?”

  “I never lied to you, Saint! You knew who I was before you showed up here.”

  He grips the back of his neck as if he’s frustrated. “You’re fucking married!” he yells, walking over to me. I scoot to the other side of the bed. “You’re a wife and a mother and none of your readers know that. You pretend to be someone you’re not every day of your life!”

  I slide off the bed and put my feet on the floor. We’re on opposite sides of the bed now. “Can you blame me for trying to keep my life private? Look what happened with what little information I did put out there!”

  He begins to walk around the bed, and I realize I have nowhere to go. The only thing behind me is a wall. I back all the way up to it until he’s directly in front of me. My heart is pounding so hard. My mouth is dry. He’s already proved I’m no match for him physically.

  “We’re no different, Megan,” he says, his voice quieter now. He’s towering over me, making me feel completely helpless. “You needed inspiration. I gave that to you in more ways than you could have possibly contrived inside that head of yours.” He leans forward, bringing his mouth to my ear. “And you loved it. You’re welcome.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. I can tell he hasn’t backed up because I can feel his breath against my cheek. A tear falls out of my eye and slowly trickles down to my jawline. I flinch when he wipes it away with his finger.

  I’m not convinced I’m safe, but I’m also not convinced he has plans to hurt me in any way. At least physically. But knowing he’s not actually married puts an entirely different spin on our situation. He has nothing to lose if our affair were to come to light.

  I have everything to lose.

  I swallow, and then lift my eyes to his. “Are you going to tell my husband?”

  He looks offended when I ask that. “Do you really think I’d do that to you?”

  “I have no idea what you’re capable of.”

  He’s quiet for a moment—standing inches from me—his eyes scrolling my face. He focuses on my mouth and leans forward a little. He brings a hand up and touches my trembling bottom lip with his fingers, as if he’s longing to kiss me again. “I’m capable of a lot of things. But hurting you isn’t one of them.”

  I’m trying to maintain control of my reactions. I don’t want him to see how scared I am... but I also don’t want him to see that a small sick part of me is devastated it’s over.

  “Do me a favor, Megan,” he says, his voice low. “When you finish this book, dedicate it to Saint, because he fucked that story out of you.”

  I gasp when he says that, but not because I’m scared. I gasp because I shouldn’t be feeling what I’m feeling right now. I shouldn’t want him to touch me, to kiss me, to fuck me.

  “I want to leave,” I whisper.

  He’s still staring at my mouth, grazing my lips with his finger. His eyes lock with mine, and he completely ignores my request by closing the small gap between us and kissing me. His tongue dives into my mouth and sweeps across mine, blending the heat of our mouths together. I don’t want to kiss him back, but I’m afraid my mouth might betray me if I don’t push him away from me.

  As soon as I press my hands against his chest, he pulls away from me and takes a huge deliberate step back, leaving a gap between me and the bedroom door.

  For a split second, I see something in his eyes I haven’t seen before. It’s like a flash of honest vulnerability—like he doesn’t want me to leave. He’s hoping I change my mind and stay.

  He’s fucking insane.

  I don’t waste a single second.

  I immediately push off the wall, grabbing my phone, my suitcase, and then my laptop. I don’t look behind me to see if he’s about to stop me. I take everything straight out the front door and to my car. I toss the suitcase and the laptop in the backseat.

  I open the front door, and after I climb inside my car, I lock all the doors. I start the car. I put it in reverse.

  Only then do I dare look up.

  Saint is leaning against the front door of the cabin, watching me leave. I keep my eyes locked on him as I back down the driveway. I want to make sure he isn’t coming after me.

  Right before I turn the wheel to back onto the road, he lifts a hand and waves, as if our parting is just a casual goodbye and I’m not running for my life.

  I slam on the gas and get the fuck away from that cabin as fast as I can. The farther I drive, the harder I cry.

  I can’t wrap my mind around what happened.

  I don’t even try to. I just think about Michael and my girls and about how much they mean to me and how my selfish actions could have put them in danger.

  I’m not even sure they’re safe from Saint, but I can only hope his twisted game is over. I can only pray he won’t take it further in the future.

  I scream when a shrieking sound tears me out of my thoughts.

  It’s just my phone.

  It’s just my phone.

  I blow out a calming breath and look in the passenger seat. Michael’s name is flashing across the screen.

  I grab the phone and answer it, trying to keep the tears in my voice at bay. “Hey,” I say, my voice choking between what feels like a whisper and a scream.

  “You okay?” Michael asks.

  “Yes. Yeah. I just—I’m not feeling well so I’m on my way home early.”

  “Oh. Okay, I’ll tell the girls. They’ll be happy, but I’m sorry you’re sick. Want me to make you some soup?”

  Another tear spills out of my eye when he asks that. How could I have done something so terrible to a man who is so good to me?

  “Yeah. Soup would be nice. I’ll be home in a couple hours.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Okay. I love you, Michael.”

  “I love you, too.”

  I hang up. When I come to a stop sign, I look behind me to check for cars. There are none, so I unlock my phone screen, pull up Saint’s contact and block his number.

  I hope to hell that will be the end of him.

  EPILOGUE

  “FINISHED,” MICHAEL SAYS, closing the book.

  We’re both on the bed. I’ve been focusing on my laptop, pretending not to care how many pages he had left, but it’s all I’ve been able to think about.

  Michael used to read my books before I even turned them in to the publisher, but after the fifth or sixth one, he realized he enjoyed reading them on release day even more. The first draft and the final product are always vastly different.

  “And?” I ask nervously. If there’s one thing about Michael I admire, it’s his honesty. I’ve grown to appreciate it even more since leaving Saint standing in the doorway of that cabin all those months ago.

  “It was…” Michael faces me, pausing his words as he tries to come up with the right ones. “It was fucking brilliant, Megan. By far your best book yet.”

  I feel that compliment all the way to my soul. “Really?”

  He leans forward and closes my laptop, then puts it on the table behind him. Then he’s moving toward me on the bed. He climbs on top of me and leans onto his elbow while he uses his other hand to push hair from my face. He kisses my forehead. “I don’t know what made this one different, but it felt…I don’t know. I can’t put it into words without insulting your other books. But it felt authentic.” He kisses me. “Kinda turned me on, honestly,” he says with a grin. Michael’s lips meet the spot just below my ear. He kisses me there, then whispers, “Who is Saint?”

  I can feel my heart rate as it instantly goes from a gentle thump to a threatening pound. “Who?” I ask, the word barely sliding up my throat.

  He lifts his head and looks down at me. I study his eyes for signs of betrayal or anger, but there’s only curiosity in them. “You dedicated the book to someone named Saint.”

  I close my eye
s, having momentarily forgotten about that. It’s been six months since I turned in the book and even longer since I wrote the dedication.

  I only followed through with Saint’s final request because I was afraid of what he might do if I didn’t. I didn’t want to risk making him angry. Or worse…giving him a reason to show up here. I have no idea if he knows my actual address, but based on what little I know about him, I wouldn’t put it past him.

  “I don’t know who Saint is,” I say, hoping I sound convincing. “I held a contest for my readers. I chose someone at random to dedicate the book to.”

  I’m squeezing my eyes shut as I spit out yet another lie to Michael. He buys it, because he laughs and says, “That’s cool. I bet it made that person’s year.”

  I bet it did.

  Michael’s hand moves to my breast, so I part my thighs to give him what I know he wants. Within seconds, he’s inside of me.

  We have more sex now than we did before Saint came into my life. I think part of it has to do with the fact that I feel like I’ve betrayed Michael in so many ways, that making love to him is my Hail Mary. If I give Michael his favorite thing, maybe it’ll erase some of the terrible things I’ve done.

  But I also make love to Michael more often now because when he’s inside me, I like to close my eyes and pretend I’m being fucked by Saint.

  No matter how hard I try not to…I’m always thinking about Saint.

  • • •

  An hour later, Michael is next to me in bed, snoring lightly.

  I’ve pulled my laptop back out and am going through all the reviews that were left today. I don’t normally do this on release day, but this book is different. I need to read every review written about it because so much of this book was written from experience. Something I’ve never had before.

  I can’t help but wonder if Saint bought a copy when it hit shelves today. Has he read it yet? Would he even leave a review?

  Would he leave a hint in his review so that I would know it’s him?

  Just when I’m about to close my laptop and call it a night, I get an email notification. I click on it and as soon as I read the subject line, I feel that familiar heat sliding down my chest and into my stomach.

  The email isn’t from Saint. It’s from the rental company I use to book the cabin. The cabin I swore I’d never return to.

  The subject line reads Reservation Confirmation.

  I’m confused, because I absolutely did not and would not make a reservation at that cabin again. I open the email, and it’s their standard confirmation email. The cabin has been reserved in my name for fourteen days, starting next Friday.

  It’s marked as prepaid.

  I’m staring at my screen in shock when another email comes through from an address I don’t recognize.

  I immediately open it, but the email is short. All it says is, “Time to start writing your next book, Megan.”

  THE END

  ABOUT COLLEEN HOOVER

  Colleen Hoover is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of over twenty novels and novellas. To read more of her work, visit her website at colleenhoover.com.