Page 141 of Without a Clue

Without a goal.

At least, I guess, I had a goal the past few days we’ve been on the ship.

If the story had been about me these crazy past few days . . .

I suck in a breath so sharply that Nash says, “What?” from the other side of the room.

I just shake my head.

The pieces are coming together, the ideas falling into place better than this old trash heap of a working manuscript I’ve wasted so much time on.

I’m too scared to say anything out loud, my hope rising like a rocket from its launching pad, and so I don’t say anything.

I open a new document.

Type a word.

Two.

Precisely eighty-six minutes of nonstop typing later, I sit back against the pillow and headboard of the bed. I can’t believe it.

My fingers are bent with overuse and probably destined to be so for some time. They need icing. My brain needs icing. Everything needs icing.

But for the first time in my entire life, I did something I didn’t know was possible.

I wrote.

I . . . as it turns out . . . can write.

I can write.

I had to finally let go of that old, dead-end story and be willing to give my mind a fresh start—as Hugh always said.

I’ve got a first chapter fleshed out, and better than that, even, an outline—nothing as good as Gordon’s but far more polished than Hugh’s—that’ll guide me through the rest of the book to a complete end.

I just needed a push.

A rather big push, as it turns out.

One from a friend who . . . quite possibly . . . was willing to fake his own death to give it to me.

“Congratulations. How did it feel?”

The bed dips down as Nash sits beside me. His arm wraps around my shoulders. His gaze shifts from me to the computer.

He looked over my shoulder at some vague point, but when it was clear what I was doing, he pulled back and gave me some space. Eventually he pulled out his own computer and for some time the room was silent but for the typing on our computers.

It was quite cozy in fact.

Quite . . . special.

I’d like nothing more than a thousand more nights, ten thousand more nights, together, like this.

I’m grinning from ear to ear. “Great. Too great for words, actually. How was your writing time?”

“I just finished. Thank you for asking.”

My brow rises. “You finished your book?”