Page 6 of One Sizzling Summer (Texas Summer #4)

Chapter six

Emma

“ B en?” I reach behind me, searching for the man I spent the last few hours making love to, only to find the sheets cold and Ben nowhere to be found.

Deciding to search the house for him, I leave the bed and grab one of his shirts from the closet. The soft cotton of his T-shirt slides across my body, and even though the shirt is clean, it still carries a faint scent of leather and cloves that reminds me of a classic novel and Ben.

I walk barefoot through the dark house with ease since I spent most of my summers going between this house and the main house. I find Ben feverishly typing on his laptop like a madman possessed.

He’s so focused on his work that he doesn’t notice me approaching. I smile to myself, imagining a future where I sit and read while he writes the next best-selling thriller in our cozy home office, with our kids napping in the nursery.

Curious about what he’s writing, I move closer to his desk, sneak a quick glance over his shoulder at his laptop, and read along as he types.

I’m impressed by the details and storyline of his book, so much so that I stay rooted behind him, just as engrossed in his writing as he is, until the story unfolds and I realize he just described me as the serial killer.

The scene I just finished reading vividly described the night we spent together, including the diamond and sapphire engagement ring. I glance at my left hand, staring at the ring, wondering if it is his grandmother’s ring or just some prop he uses on women when he has writer’s block.

I shake my head to clear my thoughts and quietly step back from Ben, leaving him to his writing, realizing I don’t really know him at all.

Sure, he was my teacher for four years, and we talked during class and sometimes after class.

But never about anything important. I didn’t even know he was a famous author.

My head is spinning with so many thoughts that I forget where I’m stepping, and I trip over the coffee table, ending up on the hardwood floor after stubbing my big toe. “Shit!” I curse, grabbing my foot in pain as I scramble to stand.

“Emma, what are you doing awake? I thought you’d still be in bed at this hour.” His tone is full of love, and I curse myself for ever doubting him, but I have to know the truth.

“I-I couldn’t sleep. I noticed you weren’t in bed, so I decided to look for you.”

“Sorry for leaving you alone in bed. But when inspiration hits, I have to write.” His smile is sweet, a stark contrast to the man who only moments ago typed a story about me being a serial killer.

“So, is that what you think of me, or did you use me for inspiration for your book?” I nod at his laptop. “That I’m serial killer material.”

A look of understanding replaces the confusion on his face as he walks to the bookshelf and pulls out three books.

“You’ve been the inspiration for all of my books.

In this one, you were the detective who fell in love with the serial killer—you held his heart and his fate in your hands.

” He sets the book on the coffee table. “In this book, you were the wife of the serial killer who helped cover his tracks.” He sets that book down on top of the first book.

“And in this one, you were the spunky sidekick who was the one who actually solved the murders.” He sets the last book on top of the other two.

“What about that one?” I point to his laptop, stunned at learning I’ve been his muse all these years.

“In my latest thriller, you're a college student madly in love with her professor. But he harbors darkness inside him, and you are his bright spot until he discovers you're just as dark as he is.”

“Wait, so in the book we’re both serial killers? Cool. Not that I would ever kill anyone,” I add quickly, because I can’t even kill anything, let alone a person. I might talk a good game about fishing, but I’m more of a catch-and-release kind of fisherman.

“Well, yes. Are you okay with that? And for the record, I’ve never killed anyone or even wanted to, for that matter.”

“That’s good.” I giggle, realizing this whole conversation is off the wall. “I’m sorry I doubted you. I’m just not good with relationships.”

“We’ll figure it out together.” He kisses my ring finger, then swoops me into his arms again and carries me back to bed with the promise of a future full of love and happiness.