He flipped the covers back, pulled on a pair of pajama pants over his boxers and went to the kitchen. Lack of sleep made his stomach sour. Ignoring that, he made a pot of coffee, finding some comfort in the ritual of it. As it brewed, he leaned against the counter and hung his head. What in blazes was he going to do? He couldn’t live like this.
He wasn’t living like this. He was barely existing.
Leaving the coffee to do its thing, he walked to the windows and looked out. The horizon was faintly lighter than the rest of the sky. He yawned, but there was no going back to bed. He’d sleep on the couch tonight, like he’d been doing.
He walked into his office and turned on his computer. He checked email while he waited on coffee. Mostly junk, but there was one from Harper, thanking him for sending the signed NDA back and letting him know she’d see him at six this evening.
Wasn’t much point in that now. He wouldn’t have anything to discuss with her tonight. He already knew that. Wasn’t him being pessimistic, it was just the reality of his situation. He started to compose a response when he heard the coffee maker sputter out the last few drops.
The email could wait. Coffee was more important.
He got up and filled a mug, then brought it back to the office. He went to stand by the windows again, checking the horizon as he took a few tentative sips of the scalding liquid. He was frustrated beyond words. How was he supposed to write like this?
Instead of returning to his desk, he went to the couch and sat, putting his cup on the side table. He leaned back and closed his eyes, trying to force his mind to return to its formerly creative state.
Fat lot of good that did.
He lay down on the couch, attempting to ignore the fresh grief the dream had caused. Focusing on that, as easy and tempting as it was, produced nothing good. He might be in mourning, but he at least understood that much.
The sound of puttering opened his eyes. It was light outside. He’d fallen asleep on the couch. No dreams, though, so that was good.
Still, he felt like hot garbage.
Joyce would find him soon. He sighed. There was no avoiding her. He got up, retrieved his cold, half-cup of coffee and went into the kitchen.
She was unloading the dishwasher. “Morning. How are you?”
He grunted, dumped the coffee and refilled his cup with fresh from the pot.
Her brows rose as she continued her work. “That good, eh?
“I didn’t sleep,” he muttered. He started back to his office.
“Breakfast?
“No.”
“I could do an egg or two, any way you like them.”
“No.”
“Just some toast and jam then?”
“Nothing.” He frowned and went into his office. The browser remained open on Harper’s email. He hit the Reply button and stared at the blank space awaiting his words.
He should just tell her she didn’t need to come today, but seeing her would mean getting a break from the way he was feeling. It would be a little humiliating to tell her he hadn’t written anything, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t discuss the book.
Did he really want to, though? He shook his head at the screen. Talking about the book would just highlight how little he’d done. How his two days of writing would probably be all he had to show for the month.
He started typing.
No need to meet today as I—
Joyce came in with a small plate. On it was a scone that had been split, toasted, buttered, and spread with the jam he liked. “You have to eat something.”
He actually didn’t, but for once, he was in no mood to argue. He went back to the email.
“Speaking of eating, will Harper be here for dinner? I was thinking about doing stuffed peppers. Would that be all right?”
