Ten
Jemma sat at the small table in the sitting room, her laptop open, and watched the rain. Was this how it was going to be? Rain one day, followed by glorious sunshine the next, and then torrential rain again. But it was Monday, so she shouldn’t be surprised. Wasn’t there a song about rainy Mondays?
She had typed the grand total of fifteen words so far, and she’d been sitting there since five a.m. so it wasn’t looking good as far as word count went, because the church clock had just struck seven, and Jemma’s mind was a total blank.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Her mind was full of thoughts and ideas – but none of them had any connection to the book she should be writing. They were all about Greg.
Yesterday in the pub, when he had said he wasn’t sure he’d be able to find a way to thank her, but he promised her he would think of something, all sorts of crazy ideas and thoughts had popped into her head.
But asking someone to kiss you when you’ve only known them for one day, and you weren’t even on a date, probably wasn’t appropriate. And asking someone to take you out on a date,wasn’t fitting either. If he wanted to take her out, surely he would ask her?
He had asked to take her to lunch.
Oh, wait. He hadn’t. What he’d actually said was, “I’m having lunch in the pub today. Would you like to join me?” That wasn’t the same as, “Jemma, will you go out to lunch with me?”, was it?
As for the other things going round in her head, yesterday at lunch, all afternoon, last night in bed, and again this morning, well, they had come as a shock to her, so she couldn’t possibly say any of those aloud. ‘Take me to bed and ravage me,’ might be something a few of the women in The Fitzglover Legacy books might say, but it wasn’t a sentence Jemma Granger would blurt out, however much she might want to.
Did anyone say the word ‘ravage’ these days?
Did modern men rip women’s bodices … or blouses, or whatever, in the throes of passion?
None of the men she had dated had ever ripped off her blouse, or dress, or anything. It had been so long since Jemma had been in a relationship, she couldn’t actually remember who had taken off her clothes. Had she undressed herself? Or had any of her men undressed her? She hadn’t had many so it should be easy to remember. Yet she couldn’t. Clearly, none of those relationships had been memorable.
All the men in her books frequently undressed the women, and often whilst experiencing a surge of uncontrollable passion. Her men had wanton desires and insatiable lusts. They were fervent, ardent, impetuous, impulsive, fiery, and impassioned. They were driven by their need for the woman they’d end up with. Nothing would get in the way of them possessing her, of making the woman theirs. And, of course, these men would fall deeply, earnestly, and passionately in love, and would forsake all others for her. They would fight battles for her. They’d slay dragons for her. Okay, not dragons, exactly. There were nodragons in Regency England, and so there were no dragons in her books. Although she would quite like there to be. She rather liked dragons.
Did Greg like dragons? He had told her yesterday that fantasy fiction was his own favourite genre, and that his bookshop stocked the largest number of fantasy fiction titles in the entire south east of England. So maybe he did. That would be yet another thing they had in common.
He had also told her that his bestselling books were cosy crime novels, romance, and fantasy fiction. He hadn’t specified where historical romance came in his sales rankings, but he had already told her that her books were displayed in his window, and that her books flew off the shelves, so that must mean they sold well. She might see for herself on Tuesday.
Tuesday! That was tomorrow, and she hadn’t done a thing to prepare for her talk.
Greg had given her some pointers, as she had requested, and after they had left the pub, she had said that she intended to write out what she planned to say, but she’d spent most of the afternoon daydreaming in the sunshine in the garden.
Greg had gone to visit Laurence in the hospital, and he had said he might pop by to say hello when he returned. But then he quickly changed his mind and had said he had taken up too much of her time already and that, as she was here to write her next book, he should let her do that instead.
‘I’ve got quite a lot of admin I need to catch up with,’ he’d added, ‘so as much as I’d rather spend more time talking with you, I suppose I should do that after visiting Laurence. It won’t do itself, after all.’
She had been tempted to ask if she could help, but as admin wasn’t her strong point and she had to force herself to do her own, she thought better of it. She was here for an entire month;she didn’t need to be with him every hour of the day … as much as she would like that.
Had they really only met yesterday? They had both said it was as though they had known one another for ever. She had always struggled to make friends, and yet here she was, after just one day in Betancourt Bay with not just one new friend to whom she already felt incredibly close, but two. Assuming she and Molly did become friends after they spent Wednesday together.
First, she had to ensure that Tuesday was a great success. Or at the very least, not a complete disaster. So she really must concentrate on writing out her talk. Unless she just read a chapter from her book and threw the floor open for questions and discussions. That might work better, considering the ticket holders had been expecting to hear from Laurence Lake who wrote cosy crime novels. Her historical romance novels had a different target audience, although many readers read books across a number of genres, so some might read both her books and Laurence Lake’s.
She would run her idea by Greg and see what he thought. He knew his customers far better than she, and if he thought it was a good plan, it would mean she wouldn’t have to write out a talk that some people might not want to listen to.
Greg had given her his email addresses, both for his personal and his business accounts. He had also given her the telephone number for the bookshop, as well as his mobile. She considered calling him, but then remembered it was early on a Monday morning. He might be busy, either at work or at home. He might be in the shower.
Ooooh! Greg in the shower. A whole boatload of images now flooded her mind and it took her some time to compose herself. What on earth was happening to her? She had come here to write her book. Not to fall in love.
Fall in love! She couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. Things like that only happened in the movies.
And in her books.
‘Arghh!’ she shrieked, trying to bring some clarity to her thoughts. She must stop this nonsense right now. She was here to work.
She was here to work.
She was here to … oh who was she kidding?
