She had a sudden vision of her neighbor storming out onto the deck a few nights ago. Definitely alpha behavior. She had no idea if he was protective, but he was certainly assertive. And he was the strong, silent type, wasn’t he? Had hardly said twenty words to her in five days.
Did she dare use Sam as her alpha prototype? She glanced down at her blank document, desperation knotting her stomach. Why, yes, she would.
She jotted a few notes:swarthy-skinned, muscular frame, black hair, rugged, facial hair.She remembered those lion eyes and wrote that down too. Her hero would be staying at the beachtoo. On vacation? Could a romance develop in a week or two? That sounded challenging, not to mention unlikely.
Maybe he could be taking a leave of absence—or he could be independently wealthy. Those billionaire books appealed to some women. But not Sadie, so maybe not a billionaire romance.
Perhaps she should consider the heroine. She could be—Sadie glanced back at the house—sharing a duplex with the hero? A little familiar, yes, but everyone advised writers to “write what you know.” And this she knew—she was living it after all. Maybe her living situation would even spark ideas for her story.
She read her notes. Okay, great. She was getting somewhere. At least the page wasn’t blank anymore.
The slide of a door alerted her to Sam’s presence. He stepped out onto the deck, still wearing his work uniform. The pale gray tee sported the same logo as the truck and trailer in his driveway. The shirt was paired with khaki shorts and dirty tennis shoes.
“Howdy, neighbor.” When he glanced over she gave him a big smile and a wave.
“Hi.”
“Finished working for the day?” She glanced at her watch. “Oh goodness, it’s dinnertime already.” She’d wasted almost the entire day.
She hadn’t seen much of him lately. He’d been gone—working, she presumed—from dawn to dusk. And he tended to stay inside once he returned home.
He lowered himself into a chair and pulled off his shoes and socks. At least, that’s what she thought he was doing. It was hard to see around those trees. And more was the pity, because she could get ideas just by observing him. (Not exactly a burdensome proposition.)
He cupped the back of his neck—was he stressed, or were his muscles strained from work? She’d also seen him rub his temples a time or two. Did he have chronic headaches? And then there was that low, throaty voice of his. And let’s not forget the biceps. She wasn’t likely to.
“Did you see my library?” She pointed toward her masterpiece. “People have been checking out books already.”
He grunted and settled back in his chair.
Hmm. The alpha male grunts. She noted that in her document. Then she got up, wandered over to her library, and took a peek inside. She straightened the books. Someone had placed a newer beach book inside. Looked like her next romance read. She pulled it out and shoved the door closed. Time to think about dinner.
Dinner took longer than expected. She decided on spaghetti and Caesar salad, which required a quick grocery run. Once home, she washed and chopped the romaine, shredded a block of parmesan, and whipped up a dressing with a recipe she found online. She browned the beef, boiled the pasta, and cheated on the sauce with a jar of Prego, which she spiced up with fresh herbs.
By the time she finished eating, the sun was setting. “Wanna go outside, Rio? Gotta go potty? Mommy’s favorite girl, aren’t you? Yes, you are.” Sadie rubbed her ears affectionately, then slipped outside and set her down.
The dog took off, nose sniffing the air.
Surprisingly, Sam was still reclining in the same chair, feet propped on the railing, eyes closed. Sleeping, perhaps.
Sadie followed Rio into the yard. The beach had emptied while she’d been inside, everyone going home for their own meals.
Leaving Rio to do her business, she wandered over to the library and checked inside again. She felt quite possessive of the structure, like an actual librarian.
“I’m a little librarian.” She snorted.
Ah, a new book. She pulled out the title—a hardcover edition ofChristy,which sported a nice burgundy cover featuring nothing but the title and author’s name, Catherine Marshall. The book was either old or made to appear old, she couldn’t tell which.
She’d never actually read the novel, but she’d heard of it. She was tempted to give it a read, but no. She needed to stick to contemporary romance if she was ever going to get this book finished.
Still, curious, she opened the cover, taking a moment to smell the pages, because why not? She flipped through and frowned. Something was wrong. The middle pages were cut out and something was...
Something nested inside of a hidden compartment.
A black velvet box.
Seven
Telling the story from the hero’s and heroine’s points of view allows the reader to view the story through two pairs of eyes.
