Page 79 of The Fire Captain's Unexpected Baby
I blink, taken aback. “That’s… an interesting selection.”
There’s that smile again, slyer than before, a glitter of amusement coming into those beautiful eyes a second before she bursts out laughing. “I’m kidding.” She grins, and moves so that if she wants to be any closer to me, she’ll have to spread her thighs. “I write romantic thrillers. Which, if you knew me better, you’d find hysterical and oh-so bitterly ironic.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Trust me, it’s tragic,” she insists, and her thighs do part a little, as if she wants me nearer.
“I still don’t believe it.”
“Buy me a few more of these, and I might tell you why youshouldbelieve it,” she says, drinking down the rest of her first glass.
I should make my excuses and head back to the hotel alone. I should wish her well and leave it at that. But she’s smiling and she’s warm and she’s a piece of home, right here in this godforsaken city. So, I catch the bartender’s eye and order another round.
* * *
Summer
My mind slowly unfurls from the dream of Zachary Murphy in my bed, his skin hot against mine as his ragged breaths meet mine in a slow, lazy kiss, my hands wandering over the inked marks of his tattoos while he’s still hard inside me, my body trembling from a third orgasm. I haven’t had sex in months. I haven’t had sex likethatin years, if ever.
It was exactly what I needed, at the moment I needed it the most.
I remember falling asleep in his arms, teasing him a little by shifting my backside against him, certain that once we’d both rested awhile and slept off some of the whiskey sours, there would be more where that came from.
But there’s no heat there now as I emerge from sleep and roll over in the hotel bed.
“Zach?” I call out quietly, trying to spot a light coming from the bathroom door.
No one answers, and there’s no telltale glow, just a barrage of reasonable explanations that rattle in my head. Desperate.
I sit up and pull the covers to my collarbone, suddenly shy, which seems stupid considering what he and I have done already. “Zach?”
I reach for the bedside lamp, and as the hotel room solidifies in the soft amber glow, I see it: a note on the pillow where he should be. It’s folded, my name on the top, keeping whatever’s inside from my view. Schrödinger’s note: whatever Zachary has written can be both good and bad, the romance of tonight both dead and alive, so long as I don’t open it.
But I do. Of course, I do.
Something came up,it says in neat handwriting.I had a great time, little dove.
My tattoo burns where he kissed it, and my face burns right along with it. I thought he was safe. Considering our history, I didn’t think he, of all people, would do this to me. But he’s dined and dashed, and any hope I had of getting some inspiration for my new book has darted out of the hotel room with him.
When I told him my romantic life was tragic, I wasn’t just talking about myactualromantic life, but that of my characters, too. When my well runs dry, so does theirs and, right now, there’s a drought.
For a moment, I thought he might be the one to get the creative juices flowing again, becoming exactly the sort of protagonist that my readers would gobble up, giving me the means to write what I know, and all that.
But as I stare at the note, it feels like he’s just poured a ton of cement on that writer’s block instead, becoming the very last thing that I needed. Typing‘The End’on my hope of inspiration.
Chapter One
Summer
“It’s been almost three years, Summer.” My boss, Connor Hughes, perches on the edge of the desk, hands folded in his lap, head bowed as he takes a weighted breath.
“I sent chapters last month, Connor,” I cut in quickly, the chair making it impossible to sit with any sort of dignity. I look and feel like I’m in the Principal’s office.
He’s got that pitying smile on his face and there’s a cup of the good coffee steaming away in front of me. It feels like my entire fate is stirred into those premium beans like creamer, and if I just don’t take a sip, things won’t unfold the way I know they’re about to.
“You sent bullet points,” Connor replies flatly. “I can’t do anything with bullet points, Summer. I can’t publish vague ideas. It’s been almost three years since you actually wrote anything.” He finishes the sentence I was trying to stop him from saying, as if I’m not painfully aware of my meager output.
“I’ll have something by the end of the week, I promise.” My voice is pathetic, and I gain another pitying smile that makes my heart sink further into my writhing stomach.
