She looks off in the distance, her eyes focused on the water. “I want to write. I get paid to write instruction booklets, mostly for appliances. But one day I’d like to get paid to write my novels.”
“I’m sure you will. Are you working on anything right now?”
She pauses, her apple halfway to her mouth. “I’ve been tinkering with something new.”
“I’d love to read it sometime, whenever it’s ready for outsiders.”
She turns her blue eyes on me, and there is a softness to them that I want to pause and look at for hours.
We finish our lunch and ride back to the castle. Skye hurries away once we get there, not even turning to look at me when I try to thank her for the ride. She just throws a hand up over her shoulder. Disappointment is bitter in my mouth. I had hoped, imagined, that after the ride, while we were tying up the horses, she might lean over to help me with my knot like she did on the picnic. But this time, I would tilt her face to mine and kiss her soft rosebud lips. Not this time.
I check my phone and see I have more missed calls and a couple of texts. I click on the first one.
Natalie: Call me! NOW!
Oh no. This can’t be good.
I dial her number while moving around the field, trying to get the best service.
“Miles! I’ve been trying to reach you for days! Where have you been?”
“Sorry. Service is spotty out here to begin with, and I was way out there. I have some great ideas for my character, though.” Natalie is an old friend and the director of the movie we’re about to film.
“That’s great. Really, it is. We can hash all that out later. I’m calling about theYHFpost. The redhead in the photo, that’s the owner’s daughter, isn’t it? Of the castle where we’re going to shoot for eleven weeks. You’re not dating her, are you?”
I think back on our trip to the bookstore, our conversations in the car, our horseback ride, and our picnic. Are we dating?
“Miles. It’s a yes or no question.”
“No…not really.” We hadn’t technically called any of them dates, and it seems like the answer Natalie wants to hear. A relieved sigh on the other end of the line tells me I’m right.
“Good. You can’t.”
“What do you mean?” Not that I want a serious relationship or anything. But a nice dinner with a woman I enjoy spending time with doesn’t sound half bad. I can have dinner and still focus on the film.
Natalie speaks clearly through the phone, shattering my imagined candlelit table, my fingers brushing Skye’s as I pass the wine. “Under no circumstance can you date Skye Ainslie.”
SKYE
Ipractically run to my laptop. It’s very unlike me to write in the afternoon. But I’m feeling inspired. So inspired, I don’t even light my candle before opening my computer. My fingers soar over the keys. The words come out as if they are already written.
After I finish up a scene, I write another, then another after that. I introduce some side characters. Then I finally get to the scene that’s been trying to burst onto the page since I sat down.
A picturesque horse ride under a Technicolor blue sky. It’s fiction. Not everything has to be gray. Sorcha and Mickey stop on a hillside for a picnic with a breathtaking view of the glittering loch below. They have crackers, cheese, grapes, and wine. A small drop of wine lingers on Sorcha’s lips. Miles takes a gentle finger and wipes it off, his skin hot and firm on her lip. His hand moves to the back of her neck, finding the sensitive flesh under her hair. He leans in…
“Skye, dinner is ready.”
No. Who needs food when they are about to kiss?
He leans in, his eyes smoldering in the sunlight, and…
“Skye, we’re waiting on you, pet.”
I let out a long, low breath and close my laptop. It’s best to stop inthe middle of the scene, right? Didn’t Murakami say that? Because then you can come back and jump right into the world.
I head downstairs to the dining room, and the table is set with a beautiful roast chicken. My mouth waters as I sit down. I must be hungrier than I realized. Miles is sitting across from me, looking just as scrumptious as the chicken. Scrumptious? Oh Lord… Romance writer brain. But he does look good, in a fitted dark-green sweater that seems to barely contain his biceps as he passes me the potatoes.
I reach for them. “Thank you.”
