Page 22 of The Story Between Us

“You can do this,” she told her reflection.

Her reflection looked skeptical.

“You are a competent professional. You have read every book he’s ever written. You know this material better than anyone at the agency.”

Her reflection seemed to ask why, if she qualified as such a competent professional, she sat giving herself a pep talk on the side of a rural Minnesota road instead of actually doing the job.

Fair point.

She flipped the visor up, put the car in Drive, and didn’t let herself stop again.

His lake house looked like a held breath.

Same bones she remembered: the green shake siding, the big windows facing the water, the stone path from the driveway to the porch. Same dock extending into the lake, same boathouse, same firepit area around the side where blue camp chairs circled a ring of stones.

But tired now. Paint peeling on the shutters. Gutters that needed cleaning. The garden Emma used to tend had gone wild in that particular way of things once loved and then abandoned—not dead, just waiting for someone to care again.

A single kayak leaned against the dock. There used to be two.

The porch swing had vanished. Just empty hooks where the chains used to hang.

And on the porch itself: a stack of packages, some still in shipping plastic, others weathered by rain.

He didn’t even bring in his mail.

Livvie turned off the engine and sat there, hands still on the wheel, heart doing something arrhythmic and unhelpful in her chest.

This moment. Right here. She would get out of this car, walk up those steps, knock on that door, and then⁠—

Two dogs exploded off the porch.

They came at her like furry missiles—medium-sized, brown and white, tails wagging so hard their entire back ends swung with the motion. By the time she got her door open, they were already crowding around her, sniffing her shoes, her hands, her messenger bag, apparently determining whether she qualified as friend or threat and landing firmly on friend.

“Oh. Hello.” She crouched down, letting them investigate. One of them, the slightly larger one, immediately tried to lick her face. The other circled behind her and stuck his nose directly into her bag. “That’s—those are submissions, buddy. They’re not very tasty⁠—”

“Huck. Finn. Down.”

Livvie’s head snapped up.

And there he stood, in the doorway.

Nate Rivers. Twenty-nine years old. Bestselling fantasy author.

He stood taller than the author photo suggested—or maybe she’d just forgotten. Dark curly hair, longer than in the picture, falling across his forehead in a way that said I have not thought about a haircut in months and I do not intend to start now. The kind of stubble that said shaving wasn’t a priority either. A gray Henley with a hole near the hem that he probably didn’t know existed.

His eyes, though. Yes, his eyes remained exactly the same. Hazel in this light, heavy and probing, watching her like he was trying to decide whether to be annoyed or just tired.

The dogs ignored his command completely. The face licker redoubled his efforts while the bag sniffer succeeded in extracting a granola bar wrapper from an outside pocket.

“They’re not usually this friendly with strangers,” Nate said.

“I have that effect on dogs.” Livvie stood, brushing dog hair off her blazer. Deep breath. Professional smile. “Hey, Nate.”

“Livvie.”

Aw, just her name on his lips, in his low and rumbly voice, sent tremors right through her, to her heart, her core.

“I…I texted. And left a few voice messages.”