Page 24 of Ever Mine

Rosie.

As in Rosie Thorne. The bestselling romance author whose books have been my comfort reads for the past three years.

No. That’s absurd.

I open my laptop anyway. Search: Rosie Thorne author bio.

The first result pops up instantly. Born in London, lives in Texas with a ridiculously large personal library and too many notebooks.

My stomach twists.

British. Texas.

I scroll further, clicking through interviews, blog posts, fan pages, and fan theories of who Rosie truly is. There’s a photo, a partial one—a shadowed author shot that hides most of the face but still shows a tall frame, a broad shoulder, a hint of red hair.

“Oh my God,” I whisper.

No. No, no, no.

I click the preorder listing for the upcoming release: The Virgin’s Bargain.

Underneath, the tagline reads: A powerful man. An innocent heroine. One night that changes everything.

My pulse stutters.

I don’t need to read the excerpt. I already know what it’s about.

It’s us.

Or at least, his version of us.

The room feels too small, too bright. I can’t breathe past the knot in my throat.

He’d told me this was for me. My research. My comfort zone. My choice.

And all along, I was material. Inspiration. Content.

I grab my bag, my laptop, anything within reach, and bolt.

Mia calls my name as I pass her doorway, but I can’t stop. I mumble something about needing air and push through the front doors, sunlight hitting me like a slap.

Outside, the world keeps turning. People laugh. Cars hum.

But all I can hear is Ford’s voice echoing in my head:

“As long as you’re not just using her for research for your own novel, Rosie.”

And the worst part?

I’m not even sure which lie hurts more—the one about the book, or the one I told myself about us.

chapter

twelve

Thorne

The text from Ford lights up my phone while I’m still reviewing a contract, and for one stupid second, I think it’s just another sarcastic meme.