Chapter 3

Millie

I head home to my apartment above my shop and flop onto my cozy sofa. I kick my shoes off and grab my phone, ready to read another spicy book. Seriously, there must be something wrong with me.

A notification for a new email catches my attention. It’s from Tripp, and I sit up straighter, and open the email, blinking at the attachment.

My heart pounds in my ears as my nerves race. He sent me a few chapters, and I can’t wait to read it. I settle in, making a quick cup of chamomile tea before I open the document on my phone.

Her laugh is infectious, a melodious sound that cuts through the tension in the air like a balm. And her eyes—God, those eyes—are the kind of blue that could put a sapphire to shame, framed by lashes that seem almost too perfect to be real. She’s got this way of looking at you, like she can see right through all the walls you’ve built up, right into the heart of who you are.

The first time I saw her, I was struck by how effortlessly beautiful she was. Her hair, a cascade of blonde waves, danced in the wind like it had a life of its own. She wore a simple sundress, the kind that clung to her in all the right places, accentuating her curves without being overly revealing. There was a natural grace to her movements, a confidence that was as intoxicating as it was intimidating.

And then there's her smile. It's not just any smile; it's the kind that lights up her whole face, making her eyes sparkle and her cheeks dimple. It's the kind of smile that makes you forget, even if just for a moment, all the reasons you’ve sworn off love. The kind that makes you believe, maybe, just maybe, that this time could be different.

But what really gets me is the way she looks at me. There's no judgment there, no expectation. Just a quiet curiosity, a gentle probing that makes me want to open up, to let her in.

I set my phone down, my eyes widening. I never would have expected Tripp to write something this beautiful. When he told me he was writing, I figured probably sci-fi, or a thriller. I never expected he’d write such romantic prose.

It makes me yearn to be the woman who could have a man’s attention like this. Nobody has ever looked at me this way, studied me. It almost makes me sad.

I open up his doc, and write an email back to him.

Tripp,

Read a bit of what you sent and it’s really great! I never thought you’d be this talented.

I stop typing, wondering if I’m underestimating him. I erase my email, and start over.

Tripp,

Just read what you sent, and it’s amazing! I’d love to read more.

Millie.

There. Quick and professional. A part of me wants to ask about his inspiration. Is there somebody he’s picturing when he writes these words? What a lucky woman.

I know I’ve read countless romance novels where I’ve envisioned having the love like what’s portrayed between the pages.

I know it doesn’t exist.

Not really.

Men like book boyfriends just don’t exist, and reading Tripp write these words I need to remember he’s writing fiction, not fact.

I dated his older brother, Brock, and believe me the Atwood’s wouldn’t know romance if it slapped them in the face.

Because Brock was not romantic. I recently heard him and Willow are dating, and it makes me wonder if he’s always had a small thing for her. Because they used to bicker back and forth at the Atwood weekly dinners. I only went to a few of them while dating Brock, and I try to remember Tripp there.

I vaguely remember. I was so nervous being in such a large group, that I sort of kept to myself. Except the one night. I lie back on my couch, remembering the way Tripp smiled at me when he and I ran into each other in the hallway of his parent’s home.

I was coming out of the bathroom, and Tripp was moving toward it. We ran right into one another, and Tripp’s hands caught me by my hips, and I remember the feeling that coursed through me was so intense.

It was as if he could see right through me. Like straight into my soul. It was a mere blip on his radar, I’m sure, but for me it was unlike anything I’d ever felt before.

I broke up with Brock the very next day, telling him there was no spark.

Honestly, I’ve only felt that spark twice in my life. Once when Tripp held me in the hallway that night at family dinner. The second time was tonight when he touched my arm to stop me from bagging up his book, asking me not to tell anyone about his writings.

What is happening here?

I’m not attracted to Brock’s little brother. No . I’m just not.

I open up the document and continue reading Tripp’s words, and when I fall asleep that night, I’m dreaming about the world he’s created. The one where a man adores a woman who has no clue he exists.