Untethered

Hey, thanks for being here. Seriously.

Untethered is one of those stories that takes its time, the romance doesn't hit you all at once, it sneaks up on you the way real feelings tend to do. There are some twists ahead, a few turns I think you won't see coming, and the tender parts are woven through the whole thing rather than saved for one big moment.

Stick with the story, it goes places!

If you want to explore more of My books and the world were building around these books, everything lives over at kiralorneromance.com. No obligation, just more stories waiting if you want them.

Bobbie was late.

It was her second date with Dylin.

Bobbie Lynn Brien, she muttered under her breath. Jesus. You had all day to get ready, all day to leave on time—and now you’re fifteen minutes late?

She readjusted the strap of her bag and picked up her pace, not quite jogging but close. Her boots thudded on the sidewalk, her heart already ahead of her.

Her date was with Dylin Montgomery.

In her head, it was always: Dylin, oh-my-god-the-cutest-guy-ever Montgomery.

They’d met two weeks ago.

She could still feel that moment. The line at Barker’s Coffee had been brutally long. Her patience cracked just enough for her to sigh—a big, fed-up, theatrical sigh.

She hadn’t realized anyone was behind her. But someone was.

And not just someone—him.

“I know, right? Taking forever,” he’d said.

She turned—and saw the face that would reroute her entire week. His smile was easy. His eyes, amused. Like he’d been waiting for her to notice him.

Connection: instant.

He suggested they try the shop across the street—shorter line. She’d hesitated, said the coffee wasn’t as good, and instantly regretted it.

He just grinned. “Yeah, but the company would be perfect.”

Yep. That line. It slid straight under her ribs.

They stayed in that dingy little shop for three hours. Talking. Laughing. Forgetting everything else.

And now—finally—she crashed through that same door again, cheeks flushed, breath catching.

Dylin was sitting in the exact same spot.

He hadn’t seen her yet.

Bobbie slipped into the little seat by the door, just far enough to watch him without being noticed. He wasn’t on his phone. He wasn’t checking the time. He was just… watching the street. Waiting for her.

God, he made it look easy.

Easy to imagine him in her life.

Funny, cute, polite, smart.

And dreamy—dangerously dreamy.

And then the weight hit her.

That familiar punch of shame followed by the voice that lived in the back of her skull.

You need to tell him today, Bobbie. Today. It’s getting to be that time. Maybe tonight. He should know.

Her inner countervoice pushed back, fierce:

Shut up. I know. Just—let me have a moment, okay?

But the voice didn’t stop.

Bobbie, Dylin needs to know you spread your legs for money. For the camera. Just last week—another guy. What was his name? Jake? Yeah. Jake was right there, inside—

“OKAY!” she blurted.

Dylin jumped in his seat, head whipping toward the door.

Bobbie froze, face flaming.

“…hi.”

Dylin stood so fast his chair scraped the floor. He rushed over.

“Are you okay? You yelled.”

Bobbie swallowed. “Yeah, I’m fine… recovering. Just happy to see you.”

He didn’t hesitate—he took her hand right there by the door and guided her back to the table. When they sat, he held on for a beat longer.

“Wow. You look great.”

Bobbie blinked. Great?

She didn’t look great. She looked tired and flustered and like she’d sprinted the last block. But Dylin was sweet. Sweet in a way that made something in her chest twitch. Dylin had no idea that the last time a man told her she looked great, he’d been inside her twenty minutes later. Directors always said she looked great. Pretty. Sexy. Marketable.

It hit her then—she didn’t have a plan to pull this off.

Bobbie wasn’t really an actress. Not the kind with scripts and trailers.

She was… more of a prop.

She fucked, screwed, sucked, and fondled men for money—technically for the art, if she wanted to lie to herself. She got paid to be filmed doing whatever the scene called for. The bed paid the bills. Two years of it kept her rent up, kept her lights on, kept her life moving forward in ways the grocery store never did.

And then the voice was back.

And you don’t mind it. Not really. Sometimes they hit that little spot. Make you moan. You know the one—right when your thighs—

Shut up, she hissed inside her head.

“Bobbie?” Dylin leaned in, concerned. “You okay? You seem a little distracted. Hey, let me just get our coffees, all right? I’ll be right back. You want whipped cream?”

The voice chuckled.

Whipped cream. This kid is going to be destroyed when you tell him. Look at him. Oh my god, he’s half the size of Jake, shoulders and—

“Yes, please,” she said.

“Oh—one thing.” Before she could prepare or smile, Dylin took out his phone and snapped a picture of her.

She probably looked completely bewildered and scared.

“For my wallpaper,” he said. “I want to see you every day, not just once a week.”

He smiled.

Bobbie melted.

He walked to the counter.

“Fuck,” she whispered, pressing her hands to her eyelids.

She sat alone at the table, breathing shallowly.

Dylin was just a few feet away—ordering coffee like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like she was the kind of girl you ordered coffee for.

She tried to calm her heart, but it wouldn’t slow. It wasn’t nerves, not really. It was the crash—the collision between who he thought she was and who she really was.

How do you even say it?

Hey, by the way—I get paid to moan.

I fake orgasms so real they make editors cry.

You’ve probably heard my voice bouncing off someone else’s laptop speakers.

Jesus.

She watched the back of his neck as he waited in line. He was so relaxed. So unruined.

She hated how beautiful that made him.

Bobbie turned toward the window, thinking fast, thinking badly.

What did she even lead with?

I’m in adult film.

Too clean. Sounds like she writes scripts.

I do porn.

Blunt. Bracing. Too much.

I’ve done some work in entertainment.

Ugh. That’s the kind of shit she tells landlords.

I fuck people for money.

True. Brutal. But not fair.

Because it wasn’t just that.

It wasn’t just bodies and cameras and squeaky bed frames and studio moans.

It was her.

The way she breathed when she was pretending to feel something real.

The way she smiled afterward, touched a shoulder, asked the guy if he was okay, even though he’d never ask her the same.

It was how she held onto herself afterward—just enough to remember who she was before makeup, before lighting, before the director said action.

And Dylin didn’t know any of that. He didn’t know the version of her that wiped down sets, cried in Ubers, budgeted around bruises, or felt the weird ache of being both watched and unseen.

And still, he was buying her coffee.

With whipped crème.

Like she was someone sweet.

She blinked fast. Her hands were shaking.

Maybe I won’t tell him today. Maybe one more hour. One more cup. One more chance to be someone else. Maybe I let myself be the girl he thinks I am—for ten more minutes. Then I ruin it.

She looked back toward the bar.

Dylin was smiling at the barista.

He had no idea.