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My fingertips gently trace the digital contour of Fiona's face on the screen, lingering over the area of her lips, a gesture that blurs the lines. The late-night indulgence in the minibar's offerings, or perhaps a newfound appreciation born from necessity, has cast her in a different light—a softer light. Regardless of the reason, my curiosity about her has deepened, transforming into a genuine interest. As I contemplate our impending meeting, I'm filled with hope. This is a chance to truly meet her, to share space and conversation. We work in the same industry and there’s a fair chance we have much more in common.
I’m beginning to think a day or two in Magnolia Point may not be long enough.
CHAPTER 4
When I choose to feature a crime on my podcast, my approach is meticulous and thorough. I embark on an exhaustive investigation, delving deep into the case's origins. This involves scrutinizing case files, examining the backgrounds of both the victim and the perpetrator, and poring over statements from law enforcement officials and attorneys. I review trial records, engage in heartfelt interviews with family members, and tirelessly search for the latest developments. Providing listeners with comprehensive updates is not just about keeping them informed—it's about facilitating a sense of closure. I share this need for resolution. It's a fundamental part of my process.
Now that I’ve completed my latest episode and prepared the groundwork for the subsequent two recording sessions, I've embarked on the research phase for next month’s shows. With Gisela taking a well-deserved break, I rise early, eager to start the day. I indulge in a moment of relaxation, savoring a cup of freshly brewed coffee as I open a new notebook. I have a cherished collection of adorable notebooks, each acquired over the years, and at the start of every new episode, I select one to dedicate entirely to its creation.
As I jot down thoughts on my detailed twelve-point outline, my gaze drifts to the window, captivated by the serene waves gently caressing the shore. The transformation of the old Magnolia Point lighthouse into my private haven took sixteen months of careful renovation, during which I handpicked every element of décor, prioritizing coziness over perfection. Now, I bask in the comfort of my home, a sanctuary where I can immerse myself in research against an awe-inspiring view. The labor of research is demanding, but the beauty that surrounds me makes every moment worthwhile.
While I work, I disconnect from the digital world, silencing my phone and steering clear of social media's magnetic pull. The allure of distractions is ever-present, transforming even the most mundane interruptions into compelling reasons to veer off course. The slightest flutter of a seagull's wings outside my window or the affectionate nudge of my senior cat, Belinda, as she settles into my lap, can disrupt my focus, tempting me away from my creative trance.
Currently, my parents are soaking up the sunshine on a vacation in California, leaving Gisela as my primary point of contact. She can use her key to check on me if the need arises. Although I cherish the company of friends in town, they understand the sanctity of my workspace, and an impromptu visit is unlikely, given the distance.
At least, I assumed it should be.
Just before noon, an unexpected knock shatters my focus. Doubting my senses, I temporarily stop writing, laying my pen to the side. I tilt my head, straining to listen closely, as the sound reverberates up the spiral staircase, winding its way to me. The door echoes once more, and there is no mistaking the sound this time. As knuckles rap against the cedar door, a testament to my father's craftsmanship, I cringe at the realization that someone is here.
I amble softly across the floorboards towards the staircase. Leaning cautiously over the railing, I arrive just in time for the third series of knocks, each tap sending a pulse of intrigue and trepidation through the air. Who could be here unannounced? With a mixture of haste and hesitation, I descend the stairs, glancing through the blinds, only to be met with a sight that sends a shiver of dread coursing through me. My heart skips as I hastily retreat, praying my peering eyes hadn't been caught in the act of spying. The realization hits me like a cold wave—how on earth did he find me?
"Fiona? Fiona Flores? That was you, wasn't it?" The voice, unmistakable and piercingly clear, cuts through the silence, followed by another insistent knock. "It's Adam Kelly. I've reached out through emails and calls recently but got no response." The words hang in the air, a mix of confusion and alarm settling over the moment as I stand frozen, contemplating my next move.
"Wait just a moment," I call down, my voice a blend of caution and haste as I dash upstairs to shed my pajamas. After all, I hardly need to dress up when I work from home. Rummaging through my closet, I pull on a pair of leggings, fasten my bra, and perform a quick sniff test through a heap of worn t-shirts to find one mildly presentable.
There’s no way I’ll allow him into my home. Our acquaintance is superficial at best, and due to the secluded nature of my house, no one would hear me scream. I always warn women about this situation, and my resolve won't crumble—not even for someone as undeniably attractive as Adam, with his light hair, deep-blue eyes, and disarmingly charming smile.
I find myself momentarily still at the staircase's peak, my gaze fixed on the heavy door that separates me from Adam Kelly. Despite my unavoidable attraction toward that devastatingly handsome man, I need to remind myself how much I hate him. My heart can dream all it wants, but my brain makes the decisions.
"May I help you?" I ask, peeking through a slight opening in the door—just enough to meet his gaze, all while feigning indifference to the striking silhouette his physique casts, accentuated by the snug fit of his gray t-shirt.
Oddly, Adam appears caught off guard, clearing his throat before clasping his hands and glancing over his shoulder. His eyes briefly betray his composure, widening as they shift down to me from the impressive stature. "Fiona?" His voice carries a mix of surprise and recognition.
I nod, my expression deliberately skeptical, gesturing for him to explain why he’s stalking me. I try not to stare, but my eyes are instantly drawn to the thin sheen of sweat evident on his sinewy forearms. Before I’m discovered, my mind quickly snaps back, and I remind myself to focus on the reason for this intrusion.
“Fiona.” He repeats my name but says nothing else, as if he’s waiting for me to welcome him inside.
"Given that you've managed to track me down to my doorstep, you clearly know who I am. So, would you care to enlighten me as to the purpose of your visit?" My words are tinged with both intrigue and a firm demand for answers.
Adam's response is to edge closer, diminishing the space between us to the point where I'm compelled to retreat, the door swinging wider behind me. My pulse quickens, a blend of alarm and anticipation surging as his proximity allows the scent of his cologne to envelop me, a sensation so vivid it sends a shiver down my spine.
"Please, excuse the intrusion. I was hoping we could have a conversation," Adam says, his smile tentative, as if to soften the imposition.
I exhale with a mix of frustration and resignation. Engaging in any form of collaboration with a competitor is far from appealing. “I’m sorry you came all this way, but we have nothing to discuss. While I respect your work, I'm not interested in cross-promotion or guest appearances. Perhaps we’ll speak at another convention," I reply, my words cloaked in polite refusal, yet internally, I'm eager to conclude this unwelcome exchange.
Adam's persistence, however, is undeterred. "I get it. Trust isn't freely given. But I've traveled quite a distance, hoping to learn from you. Could I perhaps interest you in a coffee? Just as a gesture of goodwill." His offer hangs in the air, a bridge challenging my resolve to maintain professional distance.
“Meet me at a place called Deja Brew in forty-five minutes. I’ll give you an hour.”
CHAPTER 5
“This is a charming little town. Have you lived here all your life?” My words come out awkwardly, betraying my nervousness, as Fiona's warm, brown gaze turns toward me. There's an effortless beauty about her that I hadn't fully appreciated before. It’s a shame that her social media photos have failed to capture the depth of her appeal.
Fiona gracefully arranges her napkin across her lap. "Actually, I'm originally from Texas. My family relocated to Charleston for work when I was a kid. I stumbled on Magnolia Point five years ago and instantly knew I had to make it my home. And you? Where do you live?" She wraps her fingers around her teacup, bringing it to her lips. The simple act, coupled with the slight flutter of her lashes as she meets my gaze again, feels like a direct glimpse into my very being, leaving an indelible mark on the moment.
"I was born and raised in Boston, but I've made New York my home since college. There's something about it that resonates more deeply with me, feels more like home," I manage to articulate, focusing on maintaining a composed tone to mask the undercurrents of my true intentions. As agreeable as it feels, this meeting isn't a social call. The idea of forging a friendship with Fiona appeals to me, but my primary motive hinges on her expertise and the potential collaboration she might offer. I didn’t drive to South Carolina hoping for personal entanglements. I'm here for her knowledge and insight, not to blur the lines with romantic aspirations.
And yet, the idea of “more” unintentionally intrudes my thoughts, startling my mind with visions of an old country church and Fiona wearing a long white dress. Where the hell did that come from? The thought jolts me slightly, a vivid reminder of the fine line I'm treading between professional pursuits and private desires. I better get my head together and steer my heart back on course.
