Chapter 1

All Sarah wanted that Sunday afternoon was a latte and some peace and quiet. She should have known that she was the one person destined to not get her wish.

She stared at the pastries in the Starbucks display case, chewing her lip absently, hugging her denim blazer closer around her slender frame to protect against the chill of the shop’s air conditioning. She had already been in San Francisco for four days and had yet to see anything in the city except a few restaurants and the route to her hotel. Now that the writers’ conference was over, she relished standing in line and not having to strike up a conversation with someone. The woman in front of her moved up to the counter, and Sarah automatically took a step forward, still staring into space.

“Excuse me, ma’am, what are you having?”

Sarah jumped. The warm baritone had come from directly behind her. She turned around and was confronted with a tall, lean, muscular man in faded blue jeans and a white T-shirt. His blue eyes crinkled in an easy grin, and sandy hair fell in tousled curls almost to his chin. She blinked. With his height—she was staring straight at his nose, so he was at least six feet tall, maybe more—and stubble-covered cheeks, he looked like he had walked right out of a poster from one of the shop windows in Union Square in order to pop in here for a lunch break. Or maybe out of the pages of one of her novels. She took mental notes—he had the perfect look for her next male lead.

Sarah realized she was staring and dropped her gaze. She brushed aside a wavy blond lock that had worked itself loose from her ponytail, trying to think of an answer to his question. She couldn’t even remember what he’d said.

“Pardon me?” She swallowed nervously.

“I never know what to get here. What are you having?”

She frowned. “Haven’t you ever been to a Starbucks before?”

The man chuckled. “Not often. There isn’t a Starbucks where I live. Well, I guess there are a couple now, but I never go there. What do you recommend?”

“Hmm. I see.” She didn’t. No Starbucks? Did he live in Antarctica? “I’m having a latte. I like mine sweet, so I add a little sugar and I’m good to go.”

“Sounds great. Thanks.” He searched the menu for her suggestion.

“Sure.” Sarah looked down, then glanced back up, curiosity getting the better of her reticence to make conversation. “Where on earth do you live?”

She couldn’t imagine anyone in North America who wasn’t familiar with Starbucks. It seemed you couldn’t turn a corner in San Francisco without running into another one of the ritzy coffee shops. Sure, there were only a handful in her home city of Edmonton by comparison, and she knew of plenty of places in Alberta without one—but it seemed strange that this man had no idea what to even try.

The man’s eyes crinkled more deeply. Did that smile ever leave his face? “Mumbai.”

“As in, India?”

He nodded. “Yep. But originally, I’m from Canada. A little town called Miller, in Alberta. No Starbucks there, either.”

She gaped. “Really? What are the chances of that?”

He gave his head a confused shake, but his grin didn’t disappear. “What do you mean?”

Sarah became aware that the girl behind the till was trying to get her attention. She turned and placed her order, then moved down to the opposite end of the counter to wait while Mr. Tall Blond Stranger placed an identical one. The name the barista jotted on his cup was “Steve.”

He came and held up the wall beside her. Sarah focused on the activity behind the counter as she pondered whether to let the conversation die a natural death or risk being friendly. The idea of conversing with this stranger made her throat dry up, but he seemed like he expected her to be the friendly type.

That’s what she got for asking a question. She should have known better. This guy wasn’t a conference attendee—she was in a coffee shop on one of the busiest tourist corners of San Francisco. This guy could be anyone, from anywhere, with any kind of intentions. He could have stalked her online and was now stalking her in person. Stranger things had happened to people in her profession.

However, he seemed harmless enough. And it’s not like they were in a back alley at night. Geez, Sarah, get a grip.

She took a deep breath and turned toward him. “I live in Edmonton now. But my mom still lives in Miller. I lived there until I was eighteen.”

Now it was his turn to gape. “What are the chances, indeed?” His grin was back with a little snort of amusement. After a moment, he shook his head and laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“I was wondering how we managed to grow up practically next door to each other and yet never meet until the first time I’m in San Francisco. Life is full of funny surprises, isn’t it?”

She gave a weak smile. “I guess. I, um, didn’t get out much as a kid.” She eyed him critically, trying to match his face to any of her former schoolmates. He looked like he was maybe a few years older than her thirty-two years—but she had barely made friends with people her own age when she was in school, never mind a boy several grades ahead of her. And she wasn’t at all surprised that he hadn’t noticed the awkward girl hiding behind a curtain of greasy hair that had been her junior high school persona.

“Tall caffè latte?” The barista placed the cardboard cup on the counter. Sarah took a step to claim her order, murmuring thanks.

“So what brings you here . . . Sarah?” Steve read her name on the side of her cup. “I’m Steve, by the way. Steven McGuire.” He offered his hand.

Sarah shifted the hot beverage to her left hand so she could shake with the other.

“Sarah Daniels. I was at a writers’ conference this weekend. Thought I’d catch a bit of the city before heading back home tomorrow.”

The barista put a second caffè latte on the counter. Steve grabbed it and followed her as she moved toward the prep station to add her sugars. She grabbed two.

He grabbed five.

Steve laughed when he saw her look. “Coffee gets in my mouth.” He wrinkled his nose to emphasize his point. “Unless it tastes like dessert.”

She blushed when she realized that she had raised her eyebrows at him, like she had a right to say anything at all.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, refusing to ask why he’d ordered a drink he wouldn’t even like. She focused on stirring in the light brown sugar crystals. The sooner she finished, the sooner she could escape this conversation. It hadn’t been going badly until now, which is why she had to leave before she botched it up even worse.

But he wouldn’t stop talking.

“Daniels, Daniels. . . . I don’t know any Daniels.”

“That’s my married name. It used to be Sinclair.”

“Hmm. That name’s a little familiar, but I got nothin’. Sorry, I’m not great with names.”

“Yeah, well, as I said—we didn’t get out much.” She picked up her cup, gave him a tight-lipped smile that was meant to be a farewell, and turned to leave.

“So, a writer, eh? What do you write?”

He popped a plastic lid onto his latte and followed her out of the coffee shop. Who does that? Shouldn’t he just let her walk away?

Sarah looked around, getting her bearings on the busy street corner. Kitty-corner across the intersection a pair of life-sized cement Chinese lions gaped in an open-mouthed roar from either side of the famous Dragon Gate, one paw each held high in warning. She craned her head back and gazed up at the Asian-style arches armoured with columns of verdigrised tiles that marked the entrance to Chinatown. A crowd of tourists of various ethnicities risked their lives on the edge of the curb, holding smartphones on selfie sticks with their backs to the landmark. Cars rushed by only a foot behind them.

Down the street to her right, she saw her salvation in the form of a bright red double-decker tour bus making its way toward them. It was in the opposite lane, so she was going to have to cross the street to board.

Steve was still waiting for an answer.

“Uh, romance. Excuse me, it was so nice to meet you, Steve, but I have to cross. I’m catching that bus.” She indicated the crosswalk signal and joined the crowds streaming across the street.

“No worries. Me, too, actually.” He stepped off the curb beside her.

Her heart rate jumped again and she took a calming breath. Her friend Erica’s voice rang in her head. If you look like a victim, you’ll be a victim. Of course, no one would ever mistake Erica—beautiful, assured Erica, with her perfect mocha skin, halo of dark, springy curls, and I-dare-you attitude—as a victim. Sarah cleared her throat and kept her voice steady as a rock, trying to emulate her friend.

Confident. Friendly. Interested.

Right.

“You’re taking the city tour?”

“Yep!” He flashed her a quick smile. “Excuse me for a moment.”

They had stopped beside a row of outdoor tables lining the sidewalk in front of a French-style cafe. Steve pulled his phone out of his pocket and started swiping around the screen, sunlight glinting red in the stubbly growth on his dimpled chin.

Brakes squealed and a man’s voice squawked over the bus speaker, calling for people to board and depart. Sarah pulled her own phone out of her purse and opened the lock screen to show the driver her emailed ticket receipt. He squinted at the device in her hand, then grunted and nodded. Steve was only a step behind her.

The bottom of the bus was moderately full, but she hoped the passengers descending from above meant that there was room on the open second deck. By the time she reached the top step, the bus was lurching forward into a right turn. She swayed, almost afraid that Friendly Steve would try to steady her. Almost.

He didn’t. She breathed a little easier, felt annoyed at the same time, and wondered what was wrong with her.

There were two seats available—one next to a beefy man with skin the colour of espresso, and another a couple of rows behind him and across the aisle beside a skinny Latina girl with wires trailing from her ears. She sat next to the girl.

As she rotated into the seat, Steve gave her another quick grin and a wave, then slid into the other empty seat. Within seconds, Steve and his seatmate were chatting like old friends.

Sarah grimaced, then tuned in to the tour guide. The short man had a handlebar moustache and was dressed in a 1920s-style straw hat and red striped vest. “Karl,” as he introduced himself, was telling a funny story about some celebrity or other, complete with vocal impressions and gestures. The tourists laughed, and Karl grinned back in appreciation.

“Thank you for that. Now, get your cameras ready, folks, and direct your attention to the right where you will be seeing the Transamerica Tower in just a few moments . . .”

Sarah chuckled politely and glanced at the girl next to her. The teen stared over the stainless steel side rail, ignoring everything and everyone on the bus. That suited Sarah just fine.

After four days stuck mostly indoors at the conference, the fresh air and warm sun was invigorating, especially for early October. When she had gone to her doctor’s appointment on Tuesday morning, her car had been covered in frost.

Thinking of the doctor reminded her of the outcome of that appointment, and she felt her heart start to squeeze.

No. She wasn’t going to go there right now. Today, she meant to forget. Tomorrow, she would be going back home, back to normal—whatever that meant now. She would figure out how to tell Craig what the doctor said, and they would deal with it. She wasn’t sure which was more disturbing—the diagnosis or her husband’s potential reaction to it. Shaking her head, she took a deep breath, hoping to relax, but her gut remained clenched tight.

Sarah tried to focus on the tour guide, but her gaze kept falling on Steve’s blond head. She studied his rugged profile as he chatted with his seatmate or tilted his head to listen to the guide.

Karl pointed out a landmark skyscraper behind them. Steve turned to look at it and caught her staring at him. He cocked a questioning eyebrow at her.

Her eyes darted to the building beside him as though that was where she had been intending to look all along. She was sure he was only being friendly, but she was afraid to encourage him in case he got the wrong impression. She casually draped her left hand over the seat rail ahead of her to display her wedding band and wished again that Craig had agreed to come on the trip. Then she wouldn’t be in this situation.

She frowned as she thought of her husband. Other than a few exchanged texts, she hadn’t been able to get a hold of him since she’d arrived in San Francisco on Wednesday night. Typical. He worked so much, and had been coming home so late, she wondered if she was going to have to text the doctor’s news to him even after she was home.

About half an hour after she had climbed on, the bus pulled into its “home base” on a street near the wharf. The guide explained that they would need to transfer to one of the other buses if they wanted to continue to tour the city, or sit tight until they started their next round of the downtown loop.

Most of the bus emptied out, and by the time Sarah scrounged up a tip for the driver and guide and stepped onto the shady sidewalk, the crowd was migrating elsewhere. She noted with relief that Friendly Steve was nowhere to be seen.

Sarah hesitated and peered down the tree-lined street toward the ocean, wondering what she should do next. A quick check of her map app reoriented her, and she decided to wander along the wharf to take in some of the sights before hopping on the bus tour that crossed the Golden Gate Bridge. She adjusted her purse strap and set off downhill at a quick pace.

*

Steve McGuire browsed the displays in the athletics store next to the wharf, trying to ignore the feeling in his gut—the feeling that he was supposed to be doing something but wasn’t doing it. His thoughts kept circling around to the beautiful woman with the serious blue eyes he’d met in Starbucks over an hour ago.

Sarah. He had gone into Starbucks following a hunch, and when he’d gotten into line he’d sensed that the woman in front of him was the reason he was there. He’d felt that tweak in his gut too often not to know what it meant. He knew—in no way he could explain except “God told me”—that he was supposed to talk to her. And he also knew that the conversation wasn’t over, despite the fact that he had fled the bus hoping not to have to see her again.

He’d been having an argument with God ever since.

This isn’t why I’m here, God. She doesn’t look like she needs any help. And she’s married. What if she thinks I’m hitting on her? Are you sure this is a good idea?

He felt ashamed to realize that he was merely making excuses for his own hesitation. If he’d met a woman in the slums of Mumbai and felt this quiet prompting, he wouldn’t have rested until he’d felt he’d accomplished the mission he’d been given. But Sarah was different—she was accomplished, and seemingly-well-off, and completely unlike the women he normally worked with. What could she possibly need from him? And how could he know that—whatever it was he was supposed to do—he wouldn’t screw it up?

Guilt and shame needled him as his ex-fiancée’s face appeared in his mind. Despite all he’d accomplished since that long-ago disaster, he still felt Vanessa’s condemnation and judgement with every new task the Lord set before him.

But he also knew that fear of failure was no reason to run from his duty.

He stared at a display of boxer shorts with “I heart SF” plastered all over them, but wasn’t actually looking. He ran his hand through his hair and scratched the back of his neck.

“Okay, God, if this is you, give me another chance. I don’t know what I’m supposed to talk to her about, but I’ll keep the conversation going until you show me.”

“Can I help you?”

Steve jumped at the friendly greeting and glanced toward the male clerk with unruly spiked black hair and large grommets through his ear lobes that had appeared beside him, feeling sheepish. He shook his head.

“No, thanks. I was just looking.”

“Mm-kay.” The clerk smiled and backed off.

Steve moved toward the door. He wasn’t going to go look for Sarah—if he was meant to talk to her, God was going to have to make it abundantly clear.

As he approached the display window, he froze, his breath catching in his throat. Through the logo screened onto the glass and past the life-sized pirate statue he could see the blond ponytail and slender figure of the very woman he was hoping he wouldn’t run into again.

“That was fast,” he muttered.

*

The smell of fish and chips mixed with salt water permeated the air. Sarah meandered up and down the street for the better part of an hour, navigating between tourists and buskers and gazing wistfully at small children who trailed along after their parents. A line of those ridiculous Segways being ridden by people in bright orange vests made her giggle. They reminded her of nothing more than ducklings following their mother.

In front of one little shop, a life-sized replica of a pirate that bore a striking resemblance to Captain Hook snarled at passersby. She snapped a selfie next to the rogue and texted it to Craig.

The captain’s taking me to dinner tonight.

She feigned interest in the window display while she waited for a reply. As the minutes stretched, her jaw tightened, and she was about to move on when her phone cheeped.

As long as he pays the bill and keeps his hands to himself.

Sarah took a deep breath and smiled to herself. Craig had texted her back.

Don’t worry, I’ll slap him silly if he starts to get fresh.

Good girl. You tell him that you’re MY wench, so he better not get any ideas.

Sarah scowled a little at being referred to as a wench by her husband, but decided to keep running with the joke. He would like that. And it was nice to have him flirt with her. It felt a little like the old days.

You know that we wenches don’t care if a customer gets a little handsy as long as he tips well. Maybe he’ll lend me his hat for you to wear tomorrow night. ;-)

Her phone tweeted once more.

Gotta run. I’ll call you later.

Sarah frowned. That was abrupt.

Okay. Xoxo.

Sarah’s brow remained furrowed as she tucked the phone back into her purse.

“Ms. Sinclair?”

Sarah glanced up. Three women stood in front of her, two with hopeful smiles on their faces, the third hanging back, looking distinctly annoyed.

“Yes?”

“You’re Devon Sinclair, the writer, right?” asked the redhead in front.

Sarah wasn’t sure if she had a “typical” reader, but if so then this was exactly the type of woman she expected her to be—a slightly heavyset housewife who had kissed the freshness of youth goodbye, and who Sarah imagined never got much excitement outside the pages of books like hers. The woman held a copy of Sarah’s latest book in her hands. The look on her face was slightly awestruck.

Sarah repressed a sigh and pasted on a smile. “Yes, that’s me,” she said, claiming her pen name. “Would you like an autograph?”

The woman’s face lit up and she nodded, then handed Sarah the book and a pen. One of her companions rolled her eyes and went to study a nearby shop window, but the other surreptitiously eased another copy of Black Knight out of her bag.

“So, were you at the conference this weekend?” asked Sarah as she wrote Devon Sinclair in a flowing script on each title page in succession.

“Yes, we were. But there was so much to see! I never seemed to be at your booth when you were there signing.”

Sure, you didn’t.

In recent years, most sales of her book were digital—she figured it was because an e-reader was much less conspicuous than a brown paper slipcover to hide what you were reading. She was a little surprised that these women had approached her at all, even if the setting allowed more anonymity than the conference crowds.

“Thank you so much for doing this. I’m a huge fan!” The redhead examined the signature as though trying to memorize it.

“My pleasure.” Sarah handed the second book back to a mousy-looking brunette, who smiled shyly and thanked her. Sarah wondered what it was like to be her—to be the one reading her dark fiction instead of writing it. To be someone who could enjoy it.

As the two women went to collect their dismissive friend, Sarah guessed what judgemental thoughts were going through the third woman’s head—their echoes reverberated in her own skull every moment that she was Devon Sinclair, erotica writer. She bit her lip to keep the grimace of disgust off her face and watched the trio disappear down the boardwalk.

This is the bed I’ve made. Literally.

She just wished she could have found a more comfortable mattress.