“I think I’m going to change the premise of the book,” I blurt out, the thought of causing him any pain making me second-guess everything.
“So, tell me about this book,” he says at the same time.
I giggle awkwardly, not knowing how to act. He leans back in his chair, shoving the sleeves of his flannel up his tattooed forearm, and I have no brain power. It’s like all productive thoughts flee my head because his delicious forearms have distracted me.
“Don’t change the book, Will. I’m fine, I promise. Tell me what you’re working on.” His words take a minute to register.
“So, I really only have a half of an outline, and I’m not even sure if I’m keeping it. But so far, I have a CIA agent as the main character, and he’s forced to work with … someone not in the field.” I cringe at the lack of information. “The main thing I’ve come up with is the CIA agent is the killer,” I say bluntly. Hearing the premise and just how little of the main plot I have makes my cheeks heat, and I feel embarrassed at how lame it all sounds.
I make my living off of this, and I sound like I have no idea what I’m doing. But that’s exactly how I feel with this book. It’s been so unlike my usual process that I’m not sure how to get back on track. But that’s why I’m talking to Oakley, because he sparked the inspiration I was desperate for.
“That’s different.” He leans in closer, appearing interested.
“Umm, yeah. Maybe that’s why I’m struggling with it so much.”
“What else do you have?” he asks, excitementin his eyes.
I jolt back, wide-eyed. “That’s it,” I whisper. My outline consists of how the two characters meet and the details of how the CIA agent kills, but as far as the story is concerned, I have nothing.
“Gotcha. Well, I don’t really know the process of writing a book, but you’re more than welcome to stay after closing at Grind Time, or we can meet somewhere once it closes, and you can pick my brain about processes and cases.”
“Just like that?” I ask.
“Just like that. I’d like to help, Willow. If this helps you, I’m in.” He shrugs, but he doesn’t realize the amount of relief I feel right now.
Sure, I still have a shit ton of work to do, but I think this will help.God, I hope it helps.And his sheer selflessness makes me need for this all to be worth it.
“Okay, then. Let’s plan on me being at Grind Time when you close up. I seem to have a clearer head when I’m there for this project.” I won’t tell him it’s only clearer because I’m imagining him doing all sorts of things to me when the coffee shop closes up.
Jesus, I need to focus. This is why my deadline is up my ass and I’m begging Oakley for help.
“Sounds great. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” He stands up, wiping his hands on his jeans.
I scramble to follow him, remembering to be polite. “Thank you. For helping me, I mean.”
Our eyes lock, and I see so many emotions in his—understanding, fear, and some heat that makes goosebumps pop up on my arms.
“Anytime, Will.” With that, he turns around and walks back to Main Street.
It’s one in the morning, and I’m wide awake. Not just wide awake but horny as hell.
After Oakley left, it took a while for my head to clear and realize that he said yes to helping me. I felt uneasy the entire conversation, and I am still genuinely shocked he wants to help my introverted ass.
The overthinking began when I first lay down. I was thinking about how to keep all the personal stuff out of it, so it was easier for Oakley, before moving to what kind of details he could give me on other cases he’s worked—the closed ones that aren’t an open investigation. Would they be super gory? I kind of want to hear all the gross details. I like that kind of stuff. And then my head took a drastic turn, wondering what he looked like in uniform. Did he wear a uniform? Would he roll up his sleeves like he does at Grind Time? Show off the tattoos on his forearm? Where else did he have tattoos, I wonder? Do they have any symbolism to them?
And now, I’m here thinking about stripping him out of his clothes in order to study the intricate artwork on his body while also examining his well-built muscles.
I am a writer; it’s only natural that my imagination is top-notch. What it’s not helping is my resistance to get off to thoughts of Oakley—James.
I should start calling him James.
Fucking overthinking. Maybe I should just cave and have an orgasm in the hopes it knocks me out.
I watch the ceiling fan create a pattern as it goes around, trying to get my brain to quiet.
It never works. I’ve tried everything in the book. And usually, I just get up and write when I feel like this, except I have nothing to write. Because I’m stuck, and Oakley is the only one who helps.
What an absolute clusterfuck.
