Page 17 of Until the Storm Breaks (The Midnight Men #1)

“Adrian is renting the Petersons’ place for the remainder of the summer,” Calvin says, his voice flat as week-old beer.

“Working on my fourth collection,” Adrian announces, rocking on his heels like he’s giving a lecture to an invisible audience.

“Well, third and a half, really. This summer’s been about reconnecting with real America.

Getting out of the academic bubble, you know?

Sometimes you have to leave the ivory tower to find authentic voices. ”

Real America. Like we’re some kind of field study. Like our lives are material for his next book of pretentious verse about the working class he’ll never actually belong to, judging by the Rolex on his wrist.

“That sounds... ambitious,” I say, taking a step back toward my door.

Adrian doesn’t take the hint, still standing on my porch like he belongs there. He leans against the railing, making himself comfortable.

“It’s necessary work,” Adrian continues, gesturing vaguely at the trees, my cabin, everything.

“The untapped narratives of rural spaces. The poetry of everyday people living everyday lives. There’s such richness here.

” He looks at me again, that measuring gaze.

“I bet you have stories. Bar owners always do. The intersection of alcohol and honesty, it’s fascinating from a literary perspective. ”

I glance at Calvin. He’s studying Adrian with an expression I can’t quite read, but his jaw is tight and his hands are shoved deep in his pockets like he’s restraining himself.

“I’ll be sure to tell my regulars they’re actually performance art,” I say, voice dripping with fake sweetness. “Eddie will be thrilled to know his Tuesday night rants about his ex-wife are actually poetry.”

I catch Calvin’s mouth twitch at my comment, just the slightest upturn at the corner before he catches himself, and I hate how much satisfaction that tiny smile gives me. Like I’ve won just by amusing him for half a second.

Adrian laughs, loud and sharp. “Touché.” He seems delighted that I can volley with him, like I’m a clever pet who’s learned a trick.

“Though I’m just saying there’s material everywhere if you know how to look.

The stories that emerge from places like this, the raw humanity of it all.

” He glances at Calvin. “You know what I mean, don’t you, Cal?

You wrote your best work from lived experience. ”

Calvin doesn’t answer. The silence stretches uncomfortably.

“We should do a reading together when you’re back home in Seattle,” Adrian says to Calvin, apparently unbothered by the tension. “Could be good exposure. Remind people you still exist in the literary world.”

Back home in Seattle. Like Calvin’s just passing through. Which he is, but hearing it stated so plainly, so casually, makes my heart twist.

“I’ll think about it,” Calvin says, his tone making it clear he won’t.

Adrian steps down the porch stairs slowly, like he’s reluctant to leave.

He pauses next to Calvin and claps him on the shoulder in that way men do when they’re pretending to be friends.

“Don’t think too long. Summer’s short. And these small-town interludes, they’re just intermissions, aren’t they?

Real life’s waiting back in the city. Tenure committees don’t care about your summer vacation stories. ”

He turns back to me with that too-bright smile, eyes doing another quick inventory like he’s cataloging details for later.

“Lovely meeting you, Maren. I’m sure we’ll see each other around.

The Black Lantern, you said? I’ll have to stop by.

Sample the local culture. Maybe I’ll bring my notebook, capture some authentic dialogue. ”

The way he says ‘local culture’ makes me want to throw my coffee mug at his perfectly styled head. But I just smile tightly, the customer service smile that means ‘please leave immediately,’ and watch him walk away, already pulling out his phone.

Calvin stays at the bottom of my steps, looking like he wants to apologize for Adrian’s entire existence, for poetry, for the concept of summer rentals.

Adrian gets into his car, a pristine white Audi that looks absolutely ridiculous parked on our gravel drive, like a swan in a parking lot. He gives us a little wave before driving off, probably already composing verses about his authentic rural encounter with the quaint local bar owner.

Calvin and I look at each other, suddenly very alone.

“He seems...” I search for words that aren’t profane.

“Like an ass.” Calvin says, his tone matter-of-fact.

The bluntness surprises a laugh out of me. “I was going to be nicer about it.”

“Why? He’s exhausting. I’m gonna kill whatever busybody told him I was home.

And where to find me.” Calvin runs a hand through his dark hair as he watches Adrian drive away, and it falls in perfect disarray.

Between that, his worn sweatshirt, and the stubble across his sharp jaw, it’s ridiculous how attractive he is without even trying.

The silence stretches. Last night pulses between us like a living thing. I can feel myself being pulled toward him like he’s gravity and I’m running out of resistance.

“I should go,” I blurt out, the words tumbling awkwardly. “Payroll day.”

“Maren, about last night—”

“Thanks for the help with the bar yesterday. Really.” I cut him off. I can’t let him finish that sentence.

He looks at me for a long moment, and I can see him deciding whether to push or let it go. There’s heat in his gaze, frustration too. He looks at me like he’s thinking about finishing what we almost started last night, right here on my porch in broad daylight where anyone could see.

“Yeah,” he says finally, voice rougher than it was a minute ago. “No problem.”

I throb between my legs. He’s not even touching me and my traitorous body is already desperate for him.

I escape inside before my body wins this fight, lean against the door breathing hard.

This is getting out of hand.