Page 65 of The Story Between Us

“It came from you.” Her voice was gentle. “Because you’re a storyteller, Nate. Not just a wordsmith. You always were.”

The words landed somewhere deep. Took root.

Maybe, he thought. Maybe she’s right.

Maybe the creativity didn’t die with Emma.

Maybe it was just waiting.

He looked at her across the candlelit table—her freckled face, her warm eyes, her lips slightly parted—and he knew.

What it had been waiting for was…Livvie.

Eleven

Livvie was in trouble.

She’d known it the moment Nate had picked her up at Lila’s cottage—known it when he’d stepped out of that ridiculous vintage Porsche in a charcoal Henley that fit him like it had been tailored specifically to ruin her life. The fabric stretched across his shoulders, hinted at the chest underneath, and she’d had to look away before her brain short-circuited entirely.

This was not the plan.

The plan had been simple—help the grumpy hermit author finish his book, save her job, go back to New York. Nowhere in that plan had she accounted for the grumpy hermit author cleaning up like this—freshly shaved jaw, although the five-o’clock shadow definitely worked for him, dark, curly hair still damp from the shower, those intense hazel-brown eyes watching her with something that looked dangerously like interest.

She’d spent a week trying hard—and frankly, winning—at keeping a professional distance and appropriate boundaries and definitely not thinking about his hands or his voice or the way his shoulders moved when he reached for something.

And especially not thinking about what it might be like to kiss him, the taste of him, that old what-if still alive inside her.

Oh boy.

She’d thought she was doing a good job.

She was not doing a good job.

Because now she was sitting across from him, candlelight playing across his features, and every carefully constructed wall was crumbling like wet sand.

She needed the grump back, the surly hermit who wouldn’t look at her, the man in the ratty sweater who barely spoke in complete sentences. This version was going to destroy her.

And now he was looking at her, and the weight of his attention made her breath catch. Those eyes. Dark and deep and focused entirely on her, like she was the only person in the room. Like she was the only person in the world.

Stop. He’s a client. He’s grieving. He’s⁠—

He was leaning forward slightly, the sleeves of the Henley pushed up over strong forearms as he rested them on the table.

She grabbed her wineglass and took a drink that was probably too large to be polite.

Stop. It.

“Oh my goodness, are you Ian Rivers?”

Livvie had never been so grateful for an interruption in her life.

Clearly, his appearance in town was making a splash.

“I was sure it had to be you,” said the woman, holding hands with her date. The young couple was sweet—enthusiastic and gushing, clearly genuine fans. Nate posed for a photo with them, ducking his head in that sheepish way he had, his shoulders tensing with discomfort even as he smiled.

He was bad at this. At being seen. At accepting admiration.

She found it unbearably endearing.