“Well, the football player was here,” Kate says, breaking me out of the memory.
“Here?”
“And he’s a braw-looking man. A real snack.”
I let out a breath. “You’ve been watching too much Kardashians.”
Kate narrows her eyes. “You don’t seem surprised. Oh, hold on a second… He’s here for the movie at the castle, isn’t he?”
“Yes. Miles came before the rest of the crew, for research.”
“Ahh, Miles, is it? Miles looked good in that movie, but he looks even better at thirty-five.”
“He’s not thirty-five.” I can see his Wikipedia page in my head, the one I’d read and reread about four times since Miles showed up on my doorstep. “He’s twenty-nine.”
“Is he now? What else do you know about Miles?”
Born in Brooklyn. Never been married, no kids, never a serious long-term relationship to speak of, but is always dating glamorous women. A little like young George Clooney before he met Amal. But I don’t want to admit—even to Kate—how much I know about him, so instead I ignore the question completely and get up to grab some coffee from the pot.
Margie comes back out of the kitchen, “I could’ve got that for you.”
I wave her away, knowing full well she would’ve brought me another foul, flowery tea.
“You missed your lad.”
I sip my coffee so I don’t huff in frustration. She’s trying to get a rise out of me, and I won’t give her the satisfaction. “He’s not mine.”
She winks at me. “Not yet, hen.”
As Pippiand I go for a ride in the afternoon, I take in the landscape with fresh eyes. The sky is a blanket of clouds in quiltwork patches of gray. The farther they recede into the horizon pops of robin’s egg blue poke through.The blue of her eyes—the heroine in my book, Sorcha. I make a mental note to put that in the scene. The air smells fresh and just a little sweet, as if the rain is not yet done with us today. I entertain the idea of pulling out my phone and filming some content for my now sizable following, but I feel Pippi beneath me, raring to go. I give her a swift kick to let her know she can run to her heart’s content. The wind blows my hair back, and I grip the reins tighter. It feels like I’ve traveled back to a simpler time, where there is no TikTok, Facebook, or Instagram. Where I would write my books at night by firelight with a quill and ink pot, my fingers stained in the morning just like Joe inLittle Women.
The rest of the evening passes uneventfully. I want to ask my dad when Miles said he’d come back. I also don’t want him to know that I care, so I don’t.
This morning,there’s no hum buzzing through me. There’s no desire to put words on the page. There’s only habit and routine. It’s empty, but I do it anyway. Fire in the hearth, coffee in hand, candle lit, arse in chair, laptop open.
I try to write a heartfelt, sexy scene with Miles—yes, my male main character has his name, but I’m going to change it later—and Sorcha riding horses through the countryside. But all I get down is a paltry description of the hills and, of course, “Her robin’s egg irises shone brighter than the sky peeking through the gray clouds.”
It’s awful. A right load of shite. The sun is already rising, and I get all of one hundred words done. At this rate, my novel will be published when I’m eighty.
The tiny voice echoes in my chest.It’s because he’s not here—your muse.
I try to drown it with more coffee. Twenty more minutes. I’ll do a timed sprint, get a mess of words in, and then do my chores. I set a timer on my computer, wiggle my fingers as if I’m casting a spell on my keyboard, and I’m off.
Twenty minutes and fifty words later, I click my laptop closed. I want to slam it, but clearly, I won’t be able to afford a new one anytime soon…or ever.
The next morning, it’s the same, and the day after that, and the day after that. On the sixth day of Miles being gone, the writer’s block has fully settled in, and I don’t write a word. Not one new word down. The voice in my chest whispers to me.
Call him. Text him. Ask him to come back.
While I’m dressing, while feeding the demons with beaks, while cooking dinner, even at the dinner table.
“Pet, are you okay?”
“Fine, why?”
“I’ve been asking you to pass the salt for a good three minutes.”
I hand him the salt.
