Page 60 of The Bodyguard's Fall

“Next time?” I breathed.

His gaze flitted across my face. “Yeah. For research.”

A smile lit my face as I nodded. “For research.”

Will: Anything? You’ve been quiet.

Tate: Nothing yet. You?

Will: Me and my partner sat in cars last night at her apartment. Nothing. It’s like he vanished.

Tate: He didn’t vanish. He’s scrambling. He’ll be here.

Will: Can you still fit a bible between you in that tractor?

Tate: She’s got a cattle prod between us.

Will: Atta girl.

The fall festival started next week, and it was a last-minute scramble to finish the maze in time for the grand opening. Jaxon and Luke had put together most of the maze, but now Tate was working on the loader, adjusting bales for a tighter fit and reworking the ends of the maze. Tate proved efficient at his work while wearing a backward hat and with forearms to write home about, while I was proving efficient at conjuring endless romantic farm scenes exploding in my head.

All fictional scenes, I should add.

But when Tate caught me staring at him one too many times, with what I can only imagine was some dreamy and faraway look on my face that writers sometimes get, I forced myself to stare at my screen.

Over the past week, I’d gotten pretty good at writing while being jostled around in whatever tractor we were driving. I’d all but claimed Tate’s unused donut pillow, with my headphones pumping out enough white noise to block out just about anything.

The visit to the library had unlocked a part of my creative brain that I’d been missing, such as allowing myself to use things and…people…around me for inspiration.

And once I started, it was hard to stop.

My male main character wasn’t just a cop. He was a cop and a part-time hobby farmer. With a tractor. The idea of it had just enough small-town quirkiness that it worked. I had an attractive, albeit bossy, cop to teach my female main character how to look after herself, and he had muscles and owned a tractor. It was almost too hot to handle. And I had first-hand experience. Elaine would love it. Tate could never know.

He caught me watching him again.

I flushed, yanking my wandering eyes back down to my computer, only to find a new email from my boss. I checked the connection from the hotspot on my phone to my computer and opened the email, grateful for something else to concentrate on.

How’s the screenplay? I feel like I haven’t done my job as your boss in pressuring you as I should. Do I need to give you a hard-and-fast deadline to get me a rough draft? Or are you confident in your abilities to produce what we need?

Also, thank you for your address, but after seeing your images on social media, per our contract, I need the details of your current living arrangements. You are still living alone. Correct?

Elaine had just sent it. There was a good chance she was still online. I shot her a quick reply.

Consider me properly scolded and extremely pressured. So much so that you don’t need to worry about any more pressure. I could get you a rough draft in another week or two. I think you’ll love it.

My current living situation is…complicated. And extremely temporary. My bodyguard (this sounds more dramatic than it is…he’s my brother’s friend who is a cop) is certain we are getting close.

I was less certain, but no need to bring that out. Before I could attempt to write another scene, another message came through.

Remember, I gave you approval for a LIGHT layer of suspense. No bodies and no murder. Get your rough draft to me by mid-October, so if changes are necessary, we can get it fixed before it goes to Daniel two weeks later. How’s that for bossy and pressure?

I have to know the exact details of your living arrangement, or HR will have my head. The contracts you signed are very much in effect here, and we all have to do our part to keep everything fair. If word gets out that someone isn’t living up to the agreed standards, there will be a mutiny. And the company can’t have a mutiny right now. I need to be kept in the loop.

I closed my laptop. That was enough emails for one day.

I was taking my notebook out of my bag when the flyer of fall activities from the library came out with it and fluttered away, landing on Tate’s boots.

“What’s this?” he asked, plucking it up with his fingers before I could grab it.