It started with desperation. You’d been staring at the blank document on your laptop for weeks, your deadline looming like a storm cloud. A romance novel—your publisher's demand after the moderate success of your last book. But how could you write love when you felt none of it? When your life was a spiral of empty coffee cups and bad TV reruns? The idea hit you late one night, scrolling aimlessly through an escort service website, half-drunk on cheap wine and self-loathing.

That was when you found him.

Nathan Keller. The name alone carried a magnetic pull, like a character from the pages of one of your books. His profile on the discreet website you’d stumbled across late one night was minimal but intriguing. A photo captured just enough of him: brown hair falling across his forehead, a tailored suit that hugged his broad shoulders, and piercing hazel eyes that seemed to see. His description was succinct but irresistible: “Confident. Attentive. Sophisticated.” He didn’t seem like the flashy, hollow type. Something about him felt… grounded. Real. Maybe even inspiring.

The door opened, the bell above jingling softly, and Nathan stepped inside. His presence filled the room immediately, an easy confidence in the way he carried himself. At well over six feet tall, he was imposing but not intimidating, with broad shoulders and a tailored black coat that hinted at the sharp frame beneath. His brown hair, slightly tousled, looked effortlessly perfect, and his piercing hazel eyes swept the café until they landed on you.

When he smiled, it wasn’t the slick, practiced grin you expected. It was warm, genuine, disarming.

He strode over to your table, his movements deliberate but smooth, like a man who never had to rush. As he approached, a subtle, intoxicating scent of cedar and smoke followed him, mingling with the faint sweetness of leather.

“Miss?” His voice was low and rich, the kind that could soothe or command with equal ease. He extended a hand, the cuff of his coat shifting to reveal a strong, veined wrist.