“Well, you have to take a break from writing at some point. Why notenjoythose breaks?”
“Because my editor was just lecturing me on how urgently I need to finish this book.”
“Righto. Get to it, sir,” Zach says.
“Yes, yes, I will,” I answer, suddenly dreading the next scene. “There’s just one problem. The next chapter isthe oneeveryone's been waiting for since the series started.”
Zach gasps. “You mean Oona and Luc are finally going to do it?”
“Yes, and it's not like it's a scene I can exactly skim over. Not after making people wait for over seventeen hundred pages for them to consummate their relationship.”
Zach lets out a puff of air, then says, “Well, shit. That's going to be a little awkward, no?”
“More than a little. Maybe I'll just type one-handed and give Emma the evening off.”
“I'd say tackling that one alone would likely be one of the smarter decisions you’ve made since you left Valcourt,” Zach says.
“As opposed to picking a fight with a Komodo dragon over breakfast?”
“I thought it was an iguana.”
“Iguana, unusually large Komodo dragon…who's to say?” I ask.
“You are, if you're telling the truth.”
“Look at the time. I really should be running to get this book finished.”
* * *
When I walk back inside, Emma is coming out of the bathroom in a lovely white sleeveless sundress, her hair leaving drops of water on her tanned shoulders. She no longer wears her chef’s uniform now that she’s no longer cooking for me. She doesn’t take the time to put on makeup either (not that she needs it) so she won’t delay my work in any way. Alfred and Phyllis have been making trips back to the resort to bring back ready-made meals that Emma can heat up in the oven or stovetop in the villa.
God, but she's pretty. I find myself staring at her longer than I should—an embarrassing habit I seem to have developed over the past couple of weeks of working with her. Her cheeks develop a pinkish glow and she looks down for a moment, then clears her throat. “I was thinking I should put that lasagna in the oven, then we can get started on the next scene while it cooks.”
I watch as she turns to the kitchen and sets to work, opening a bottle of red wine Alfred chose to go with our dinner.
Our dinner.
How strange a thought. Since I left boarding school, I have never lived in such close proximity to anyone. I've had a couple of somewhat serious relationships in the past, but never with anyone to whom I suggested they leave so much as even a toothbrush at my flat.
And I know this isn't a relationship. I'm not delusional or wishful, so you can get that out of your mind right now.
It's just oddly intimate to not only share every meal with someone, but to share my work before it’s ready to be seen by another person. She’s seen it all over these past days—the frustrations and highs, the frantic pace, the dreadfully slow moments when ideas simply won’t come. She's heard me stumble over a sentence repeatedly until I get it right. She's erased entire paragraphs when I go down the wrong path. Emma waits patiently, never making suggestions or asking questions, for which I’m grateful.
And even though I wish it didn't matter, I can't help but watch for signs that she's enjoying the story. Will she smile or laugh at the right moment? Does she look horrified when I want her to or disgusted when I write something disgusting? Do her eyes fill with tears when we reach a particularly emotional passage? Somehow her reaction has replaced my own instincts in knowing if I'm on the right track or not, which sounds pathetic, I know. But in a way, maybe having the immediate sort of feedback that I'm getting from her would be useful for every writer.
Forcing myself not to watch as she bends to put the tray of lasagna in the oven, I busy myself looking over the outline I've painstakingly scratched out with my left hand for this next scene. My heart thumps loudly as I stare down at the page.
“Okay, now, where were we?” Emma asks, seating herself next to me at the table and powering up the laptop. God, she smells good. Whatisthat shampoo she uses? It's like every heavenly scent blended together. Or is that just her?
Okay, dumbass, forget about how amazing she smells. “We're just about to start chapter twenty-eight, I believe.”
Placing her hands on the keyboard, Emma smiles over at me. “I'm ready when you are.”
Rubbing the back of my neck, I give her a sheepish look. “The thing is, this next bit might be a little awkward.”
She immediately starts to type what I'm saying, and then gives me a questioning look because that indeed would be a strange way to start a chapter.
“Oh, no need to dictate this part,” I say, smiling at her for a second before avoiding her gaze so I can get this next sentence out. “I’m afraid this chapter is a rather steamy, intimate scene, so if you'd prefer not to assist me with it, I completely understand. I wouldn't want you to have to do anything that would make you in any way uncomfortable.”
