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Cecilia’s soft, round face breaks into a wide smile. “Oh, thank you! I’ll have to try that. I’m making dinner for my daughter tonight.”
I mirror her smile. “I believe I actually know your daughter. Briar Shea, right?”
Her brows rise. “That’s right. You know Briar?”
I hold out a hand to her. “I’m Saint. I’m friends with your daughter. She told me you’d be in town, and you two just look so similar.”
“Oh my goodness! I’m so happy to meet one of Briar’s friends. Do you have plans for tonight? I’m making pot roast!”
“That sounds delicious, but I couldn’t impose.”
Cecilia waves her hand dismissively. “You can’t impose if you’re invited. I’d love to get to know one of Briar’s friends. The only one she ever talks about is Mack.”
“They’re inseparable,” I confirm. Most nights when I find myself outside Briar’s window, Mack’s car is in the driveway. Other than Mack’s blonde hair and an obvious height difference—Mack at five-foot-six and Briar at a generous five feet—they have few physical differences. The shapes of their faces and shades of their eyes such a close match, you’d almost think they were sisters.
“How did you and Briar meet?” Cecilia leads the way to the beef.
I take the basket from her arm and she beams at me. “We met at the Auburn Institute, actually. Technically, I’m her student.”
“Oh really? She’s so secretive sometimes. Getting her to tell me about her life is like pulling teeth. How has that professor been behaving?” Her lips purse. “I know she was having some trouble with him at the beginning of the semester.”
My spine stiffens at the mention of Professor Molester, but I keep a smile fixed to my face for her mother’s benefit. “His behavior toward her seems a little too...familiar at times. But I keep an eye out for her.”
Briar’s mother grabs a roast and places it inside the basket before she takes my hand and pats it. “I’m so happy to hear she has such a good friend looking out for her.”
“To be honest,” I admit as we head for the register, “I have a bit of a crush on her. Maybe you can put in a good word.”
She laughs at my teasing tone, but she brightens. “That’s wonderful news! Briar needs a good man in her life. She’s a tough nut to crack, but once you do, you won’t find anyone with a bigger heart.”
Her mother reminds me so much of my own. Briar is her pride and joy, the same as I was for my mother. I can tell just by her eyes how much she loves her daughter. I couldn’t ask for a better future mother-in-law.
I could tell her what a great son-in-law I’ll be, but sometimes, actions speak louder than words. By the end of the evening, she’ll be the one saying that to me.
Cecilia puts the items from the basket on the conveyor belt. “Oh honey, did you forget to pick up what you came for?”
I glance around and grab a pack of mint-flavored gum. “This was all I needed.”
“Well, if you don’t have any plans tonight, I insist you come to dinner. I know a mother isn’t supposed to intervene, butjust between you and me”—Her eyes glint with mischief—“I’ll be playing matchmaker.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
BRIAR
Saint de Haasmay or may not be my favorite author, S.T. Nicholson.
I’ve always thought the day I met S.T. Nicholson would be life-changing. But I never thought it would play out anything like this.
Maybe he’s not. Maybe it’s purely coincidental that their names are similar. In fact, it’s actually a huge fucking leap. I’m finding clues where there are none. Saint de Haas and S.T. Nicholson are two completely separate people. S.T. Nicholson is a sophisticated, talented bestselling author who writes books that speak to my soul, and Saint de Haas is an MFA student with a tragic past, a chip on his shoulder, and a stalking kink.
He was wearing a mask the first time he watched me through my window, and S.T. Nicholson wears a mask to hide his identity, but plenty of people wear masks and S.T. Nicholson has distinct markings on his that signify his hidden identity to his audience. Saint was probably wearing some five-dollar ski mask he got from the dollar store.
No. They’re definitely not the same person.
“Briar!” my mother calls.
I rush to the door and swing it open. “Sorry! I didn’t hear you pull up.” Too distracted by thoughts of my stalker student who may or may not be an anonymous bestselling author.
Mom hurries past me with the plastic bags in her hands and drops them on the kitchen counter. My kitchen is about a tenth of the size of hers, but she hardly seems to notice as she moves around to cook the roast. At least she got a decent alimony payment from my father in the divorce. That’s the least the bastard could do.
