Page 3 of S'more of Silas
I hesitate a beat too long, caught between truth and the lie I'm committing to. Then I mutter, "Margot. With a T." My mom's name. She's never touched a mystery novel in her life. She's strictly a romance reader, especially liking the ones with shirtless dudes on the cover.
Cassie pulls the book toward her, flips it open to the title page, and scrawls something across it in looping, cheerful handwriting. I watch her hand move, the way she bites her lower lip in concentration, the small smile that plays at the corners of her mouth.
Then she slides the book back toward me, and her smile shifts into something more conspiratorial. She leans forward slightly, lowering her voice like she's about to tell me a secret.
"Tell her I'm plotting a new one," she says. "Something set at a campground. I’m thinking there will be a sticky situation involving a melted marshmallow and a deadly bonfire secret. I haven't worked out all the details yet. But I could use some advice from someone who actually knows how to build a campfire. I like to get the little details right in my books.”
The words are out of my mouth before I can think them through, before I can talk myself out of it. "Come by my place. I'll show you."
Her head tilts, surprise flickering across her face, chased by something that might be interest. "Really?"
I shrug, trying to play it casual even as my pulse kicks up a notch. "If you want it to sound real, yeah. I can show you how to build a proper fire, the right way to roast marshmallows, whatever else you need for your book."
For a moment, she just studies me, like she's trying to figure out if I'm serious or if this is some elaborate setup. Her eyes search my face, looking for something. I don't know what. Then slowly, her expression transforms into a smile that's bright enough to make me forget where I am.
"Okay," she says. "Yeah. When?"
"Tomorrow evening? Around six?"
"Perfect." She's already pulling out her phone, opening a notes app. "I'll need your address.”
I rattle off the directions, watching her type them in, and realize what I've just done. Invited Cassiopeia Sinclair to my cabin. To my space. The place I've kept separate from the rest of Maple Ridge, from everyone.
And somehow, I don't regret it at all.
Chapter 3
Cassie
Ishouldnotbedriving up this gravel road.
The thought runs on repeat the whole way to Silas Whitaker's cabin, a loop in my head keeping time with the crunch of leaves under my tires. My little sedan wasn't built for mountain roads like this—narrow, rutted, climbing steadily through trees that arch overhead and filter the late afternoon light into something golden and hazy.
It's not like I don't have other things to do. Important things. My festival schedule still needs finalizing. I'm supposed to do a reading tomorrow afternoon, and I haven't even decided which passage to use. My most recent manuscript needs anotherpolish before I send it back to my editor. I should probably eat something with actual nutritional value, too, instead of subsisting entirely on caramel apples and kettle corn and whatever free samples the vendors are handing out.
But the second Silas Whitaker invited me out here, I was already mentally rearranging my entire day to make it work. For story research.
Yeah, right.
Like my characters care about the precise angle of a marshmallow skewer or the proper way to arrange kindling. My readers want dead bodies and red herrings and cozy settings with quirky characters. They don't care about technical accuracy in fire-building.
But I wanted to see him again. I wanted to see him up close, away from the crowd, in his own space. I wanted to understand what makes Silas Whitaker tick, this man everyone knows but no one knows.
And maybe, justmaybe, I wanted to see if the way he looked at me yesterday was real or something I imagined.
His cabin comes into view through the trees, and I have to slow down to take it in. It's not what I expected, though I'm not entirely sure what I expected. Something rough and temporary, maybe. A hunting cabin with peeling paint and a sagging porch.
Instead, it's solid. Tucked into the hillside like it grew there naturally, all clean lines and river stone, smoke curling from a chimney. The kind of place that will be standing long after both of us are gone.
He's outside by a firepit, sleeves shoved up his forearms, and I can see the muscles in his arms shifting as he works. He's stacking split wood with the same precision most people reserve for surgery or art—each piece placed with purpose, creating a structure that's both functional and somehow aesthetically pleasing.
He looks up when I park, and that steady gaze finds me through the windshield. Even from here, I feel the impact of it.
I grab my tote bag—the one I threw together in a rush before leaving, stuffed with a notebook and pens and my phone and a water bottle I forgot to fill—and climb out of the car. The air up here is different than down in town. Cleaner. Sharp with pine and wood smoke.
"You came," he says simply.
Not a question. Just a statement of fact, like he knew I would.
