He smiles and makes a lazy circle in the air, sketching my outline in midair. "You've got that glow today."
I frown, skeptical. "Really? After the day I've had?"
He looks at me curiously. Loves a good gossip, our fox. "What day?"
I shake my head. No way I'm telling Carl about my ex-best-friend-could-have-been-love-I-might-write-about being back. "I'll tell you when we do the Roman Holiday."
"Deal. And whatever you're doing, keep doing it," he says and there is that fox grin. "Just send me those chapters."
My eyes catch sight of the framedYou Don't Know Thiscover with my name printed beneath it.
I know it's still there, that thing I used to have. I just have to dig it out.
The next morning, I brush my teeth, fall into my chair, and start. First one line. Then another. Then a paragraph. Then I'm flying.
By the end of it, I've written two and a half chapters of something that actually deserves to be weighed against Tod fisting bread dough.
Tessa is a law student, dating Simon, a nice guy who means well, but will never understand her. He grew up on steady ground. She comes from fracture and chaos, and that kind of history has to be let loose, set free, so she can soar.
Then Damien walks in. Her old friend. Old-soul wisdom spoken through a smug smirk, scars stitched beneath denim.
He's trouble—the messy, liberating kind that doesn't try to fix you, but wants to touch every broken piece until it starts to hum again.
Both Tessa and I fall in love with him instantly.
It's inevitable that an author falls for their characters, but Damien... I think I love Damien.
Reading the lines back, my mouth aches from that stupid, post-orgasmic smile.
That's what my first draft always feels like: you let it burst out of you, raw and ecstatic, still buzzing with life, and then the rush fades, and you realize it's also a beautiful mess that needs a good clean up, but that excitement? That's what I live for.
The hours of peeling my insides open come at a cost, though.
By dusk, I'm slumped across the sofa, clutching my head, the migraine drilling straight between my eyes.
Richard comes home not long after, cheerful because the deal with Piper is moving forward and it'll be big.
He booked that French cooking class I mentioned once inpassing—his apology. Not the cost, but the remembering.
I blow him a kiss for it, and he leans over, pressing a real one on my lips as his hand lands on my shoulder, tentative at first because we fell out of habit, then firmer.
"Richard." I push back gingerly and give him a tired smile. "I have a horrible headache."
He frowns, caught between disbelief and, if I read it well, frustration. "Really? We haven't been physical in weeks."
I give him a pointed look. "I know that. And it'snotjust on me. You're constantly at work."
His lips purse, but he doesn't say anything.
So I sigh, softening slightly. "Richard, I'm not faking it."
He studies my face, the raw want obvious behind his eyes for once.
"I miss you. I'm working so hard for us. Not because I don't want to be with you." He straightens and glances down, pride stung. "Are you shutting me out?"
"What? No. I just told you," I snap, then sigh again. "I need to rest a bit, sleep. That's all."
Another beat.
