Page 17 of Cabin Fever
Kat smiles hesitantly.
“I like to cook,” she murmurs, wrapping her arms across her waist. “I mean, I’m not great at it. But my mom taught me some basics.”
I picture the mother: probably still pretty, probably single, probably had Kat at eighteen and raised her with a mix of hard rules and nervous laughter. I bet the mom still has the same body type, but softer at the edges, and yells about TikTok being the devil.
“You don’t have to be great,” I say, “just not afraid to make a mess.” I let my eyes linger on her hands—small, strong fingers, a little red from the heat. “You ever work in a restaurant?”
She laughs. “God, no. Just coffee shops. Cafés. I always envied the kitchen people though because they had this secret language, like, I don’t know, pirates or something.”
I chuckle. “It’s all screaming and sexual harassment, trust me. At least, from what they broadcast on cooking shows.”
Kat bites her lower lip, making it appear even more plush than before. There’s a fragility to her that isn’t weakness. There’s strength in there, and I want to get to know her. More specifically, I want her to know that I want to know her. It’s a tongue-twister, but it’s also true.
She’s cleaning the table, gathering up the wine glasses and her little dessert plate. I catch her wrist as she moves by, not hard but enough that she stops. Her pulse flutters under my thumb. For a second, she goes completely still, waiting for the next move.
“Sit down, Kat.”
She nods and folds herself into the chair across from me, hands in her lap. I watch her face, the nervous smile she’s trying to kill, and wonder how many men have ever just *looked* at her, instead of what they think they’re supposed to see.
“You know why you’re really here?” I say. My voice is gentle and deep, which is a trick I learned from my own father. You don’t have to shout if you’re strong enough to make them want to listen.
The young girl blinks, unsure if this is a joke.
“You’re my assistant,” I say, “but I think we both know there’s something more than just admin work. After all, why would there be the insistence on discretion? The need for a woman? The Polaroids?”
Kat bites the inside of her cheek, but doesn’t break eye contact. I like that about her. She’s nervous, but not weak.
“What are you saying?” she says. Her voice is just above a whisper, and I get a little high off it.
I drum my fingers on the table, letting the question float. I could spell it out, but I want to see how long it takes for her to put it together.
“You ever read romance novels, Kat?”
She nods, a little too quickly. “Sure. I mean, who hasn’t?”
I lean back, a man at ease. “Ever read the ones that are a little more explicit?”
Her lips part. I can see her weighing whether to lie. She’s not a good liar. “Yes,” she says, after a beat. “The usual stuff. SomeFifty Shades, some Harlequin, that kind of stuff.”
“Good,” I say, my eyes on her mouth. “Because, actually, I’m working on a romance novel. A new book. It’s not public yet, but it’s a—let’s say, an experiment for me. And I want it to be real. Authentic. So I need someone to help me.”
Kat is confused.
“Help you how? I’m happy to proofread scenes, and even act as a sounding board, but that’s normal, Mr. McKnight. I’d be happy to do that no matter what kind of book you’re writing.”
This is where the going to gets tricky. I arch an eyebrow.
“Well, actually, the kind of help I need is a bit more specific. This is my first romance novel ever, so I need someone to act out scenarios, test dialogue, and help improvise. You’d be surprised how many writers get it wrong, even when they think they know what they’re doing.”
Kat stares at me.
“Okay, sure, I can act out scenes. I’m not a professional actress, but I was in drama club in high school.”
I nod, my expression calm.
“Great, because there’s going to be a lot of drama. I need help with all sorts of scenes, you see, including the ones … ah, below the belt, I might say.”
Kat stares at me.
