Katrina had taken the note, and I hoped it had given her some sort of solace. It haunted me daily, knowing she was down the road with Mason and June, but even more, it drove me to work. I wrote through the demarcation of day and night, night and day, only breaking to work out in the gym, walk and play with Buster, and take an hour or two to sleep when I was truly exhausted. Then I’d wake and go at it again. When I asked about Katrina’s future, Sarah warned me it depended on my getting them the book.

She suspected something had gone down between Katrina and me, and it was a typical bitch move to dangle her future prospects in front of me as a carrot. Or was it the stick? Whatever, I’d made up my mind to write the fucking book because I owed it to Katrina not to fuck up her life any more than I had.

Part of me wanted to sabotage that. Did Katrina honestly want to work at CJM? Sarah was an excellent agent, the exact person you wanted on your side when it came to negotiations, and I never regretted a single dollar of the percentage she took, but she’d eat Katrina alive.

Katrina deserved better than that.

I emailed her the completed manuscript. Asking her not to read it was like suggesting somebody not think of a purple elephant. The minute you say it, you know the big creature’s there, ridiculously colored and dominating their mind.

In the fridge was a bottle of Cristal I’d intended to crack with Katrina when my work was finished. I poured myself a whiskey instead, downed it, then called Buster. I could walk for the first time in weeks without having to take two characters out with me, listen to their conversations, and examine their feelings or slap them around the head when they were behaving like dicks.

I shoved two tennis balls in my pockets, and Buster and I headed for the river. Half an hour later, we’d worked our way slowly along the bank until I stood where I could see Katrina’s cottage. For a moment, she moved in front of the window, and I willed her to look my way. I don’t know how long I stood there, but I never saw her again.

With the delivery of the manuscript, I presumed she’d head back to NYC and I’d get control of my social media. In a few months, I’d have the book edits back and the flurry would begin again—leaked snippets, teasers, the cover reveal—hopefully, this time, without anything contentious taking place.

I walked Buster back to the house and went online to book a holiday. I needed a tropical island and the company of others drifting in a similar holiday mindset, there to forget about their normal lives and have a good time.

Fiji looked good. So did Samoa and Rarotonga. Places I’d never been, and hopefully, populated with people who’d never heard of Stone Logan.

The next morning kicked off with a professional and impersonal email from Katrina. She congratulated me on finishing the book and said she’d forwarded it on to Sarah. There was no mention of her having read it, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. She also said she was returning home and that she had some things to drop off, which she’d do around four on her way to the station, if that suited me.

I closed the email, experiencing a rush I hadn’t felt for some time. Finishing the book had left me unexpectedly flat, but the idea of seeing Katrina one more time felt dangerous.

I paced, thinking about letting Katrina in the house, offering her a glass of champagne, and fucking her bent over the kitchen counter. Not cool. I thought about Fiji, reimagining the isolated tropical beach I’d seen on the travel booking website so that it was covered in naked, well-tanned beauties. That didn’t work. I emptied the beach and left just Katrina there, lying on a lounger and wearing a tiny bikini.

Wham, instant arousal.

This wasn’t working. My ideas were entirely self-centered. My cock told me to get her into the house, talk her out of her clothes, have crazy goodbye-sex and deliver her to the next train back to NYC. I wasn’t that asshole anymore. If Katrina had any sense, she’d slap me down for even suggesting it. If she went with the idea, I’d have led her on to expect a future together.

I had to make myself as unappealing to her as possible, but I had to do that without hurting her any more than I had, so arranging to have some half-clothed girl here when she arrived didn’t cut it for a solution.

Immersing myself in work meant I’d been able to block out everything but the story, but now my time was free, and Katrina constantly invaded my thoughts. I wanted to be selfish and have her until I’d worked her out of my system, but I cared for her. I didn’t want to hurt her more in a month or two when I finally ended it, when the way she blushed, the way she did cute stuff with Buster, hell, the way she simply existed, no longer gave me that surge.

I needed the surge. I lived for the surge, and I’d wither up and die without it. Or I’d become a nasty fuck, worse than my parents, if I got stuck in a situation that bored me. Then I’d turn deliberately antagonistic to get the different surge, the baiting and fighting, just so that I could feel.

I opened the fridge, eyed the Cristal, and pulled out a beer. Katrina would be here in three hours. Probably in exactly three hours because she was reliable like that.

It should have bored me, that routine she stuck to, but instead, it had settled me, brought about some calm so that my needs for a buzz weren’t so insistent. I hadn’t finished the book because of some strict routine I’d stuck to. I’d merely written until I was ready to drop, in which case, I slept for a couple of hours, or until Buster needed a walk, or until my ass was so numb I needed to hit the gym to get my blood circulating again.

That wasn’t dedication to a routine. That was madness.

I finished a second beer, checked the clock, and poured myself a whiskey. What the hell, I had a reason to celebrate. I could hit the bottle for a day, then make a decision between Fiji and Rarotonga.

I pulled all the shot glasses from the cupboard, lining them up along the counter. Five glasses. I stood in front of the liquor cabinet for a while, twirling bottles around, checking labels, and recalling the events responsible for lowering the contents. Fuck, I’d done some crazy shit. I pulled a bunch of them from the cabinet and went back to the line of glasses, waiting like parade soldiers ready to do battle with me.

Tequila, a very special Gin with a skull and crossbones etched into the squat bottle, and a Pappy Van Winkle’s Family Reserve Whiskey that someone had jokingly given me to ‘toast the new baby’ when I was going through a drama with a girl who claimed I’d gotten her pregnant.

I hadn’t.

From the freezer, I grabbed the Grey Goose vodka, which was always a favorite. Then I had one more choice. I went for the Dragon’s Breath, a chili schnapps that should top off the first round of shots with some eye-watering zing.

I poured the shots, at the last minute switching the order of the Grey Goose with the Dragon’s Breath, deciding the icy vodka after the fiery schnapps would be the bar-room equivalent of a polar plunge after a sauna. Something to slam into my heart.

“Watch carefully, Buster, as the master has his fun.”

Buster whacked me on the knee with the tug toy he was optimistically following me about with.

The tequila, quite frankly, made me shudder. It was some cheap stuff left behind after a party. The gin was top shelf, and I was sober enough to enjoy the aromatics that lingered once I swallowed.

Pappy Van Winkle’s was almost worth having a baby for. Pappy was a whiskey craftsman.

Then came the schnapps. Holy shit, that stuff burned on the way down and left me gasping long after I’d swallowed. The vodka was relief for the short time it stayed in my mouth, then the burn roared back like an inferno.

“Stick to beer, and stay away from women,” I told Buster as I wiped the tears from my eyes. My lips had gone numb, but the start of a buzz in my brain felt good.

“You win, Pappy,” I said, lifting the bottle, where Van Winkle grinned back at me from the label. I took the bottle back to the liquor cabinet, found a deserving whiskey glass, and half-filled the tumbler. Or was it half-empty?

I spun the bottle around so that Pappy would stop watching me. The guy unnerved me now, making me think about toasting a baby. Just like back in Newport, I couldn’t get the image of Katrina, swollen with my baby, out of my head.

I wished Poppins was here, getting drunk with me late in the afternoon. No, I didn’t. If she were here, I wouldn’t be behaving like this. I finished the whiskey, ticking off all the reasons asking Katrina to stay would be a bad idea.

We’d turn out like Mom and Dad. Except we wouldn’t, because Katrina would be incapable of behaving the way my mother did. So, I guess we’d be half like that.

But, what if we weren’t? What if Katrina found something in me I’d been too afraid to nurture, instead putting up this barrier of being a loathsome jerk just to put the women off expecting anything more from me than my cock?

And what if that goodness truly wasn’t there, and I simply used Katrina to prove what I’d always feared? But what if I was wrong? Or right? I laughed because I was half-pissed and I couldn’t even assemble my thoughts properly.

Katrina would be here soon. I couldn’t let her see me like this, but I could see her...if I climbed onto the roof. I’d be able to watch her come down the road. I took Pappy with me, but I left the glass behind.

“Stay here and guard the house, Buster, and whatever you do, don’t let that gorgeous girl inside. It’ll just make both of us sad when she leaves.”

I went to the tower, out the window, and climbed along the peak of the roof, settling in against the chimney. In minutes, Katrina came out of the Myers’ house and made her way along the road, towing her wheelie bag. She looked like a sad kid running away from home, dragging her favorite toy behind her.

My heart surged, and happy hormones flooded my system. All of me wanted her and none of me could have her. She faltered at the edge of my driveway, glancing around. My heart galloped faster with every step she took along the drive until she disappeared beneath me, onto the porch.

I wanted to slide down the roof and drop to the ground beside her. Instead, I took another swig of whiskey. I guessed she was returning the keys and whatever else she might have, and pretty soon, she’d realize she’d have to leave them on the porch and be on her way.

Her front door key wouldn’t work. I’d changed the locks.

Right now, I regretted that decision to the depth of my soul. I wanted to be in the house with her in my arms. Instead, I was half-drunk on the roof, hiding like some fucking schoolboy.

I closed my eyes and leaned against the chimney. Buster was going off his head because his precious Katrina, our precious Katrina, stood outside the door and we couldn’t have her.

Soon, Buster. Soon, all the temptation will be gone.