Page 50 of Playing With Fire

My hand stills.

No.

No dimples.

I scratch it out.

Strong jaw.

Better.

Blue eyes.

I stare at the words.

“Oh, come on.”

A woman at the next table looks over. I smile tightly. “Writing problem.”

She nods like that makes perfect sense and goes back to her laptop.

I scratch out blue so hard the pen nearly tears through the paper. Brown. His eyes are brown. Definitely brown.

And he doesn’t play hockey. Obviously, in fact, he probably hates sports. And cats.

Actually, no. The cat thing feels a little too on the nose.

I drop my forehead into my hand. This is pathetic.

One morning. I’ve spent one morning living under the same roof as Bishop, and apparently my subconscious has decided every fictional man now needs blue eyes, dimples, and shoulders broad enough to⁠—

“You okay over there, bestie?” Avery stands beside my table with a clean cloth in one hand.

“Oh, uh. Yeah, great.” I snap the notebook shut and lie with a smile.

“Is that a composition notebook?”

I flatten my palm protectively over the pink cover. “Maybe.”

“I haven’t seen one of those for a hot minute.”

“Don’t disrespect the creative process.”

“I'm not disrespecting it.” Her eyes dance. “I’m impressed you found one.”

“They still make them. But they aren’t easy to find.”

She wipes down the empty table beside mine. “What are you writing?”

My hand tightens on the notebook.

“Ideas.”

“For?”

“Things.”

“Very mysterious.”