Page 37 of The Outpost (Jamison Valley 4)
I’d slept my way to a story.
Had I screwed him to get evidence to stop his criminal empire? Yes.
Had I had sex with him because I’d known it would advance my career? Unfortunately, the answer to that question was also yes.
I’d slept with Anton—a man I loathed—for months because I’d wanted to become the next Diane Sawyer or Barbara Walters.
I doubted I’d ever forgive myself, but writing my book had helped.
It had given me a chance to write the ending I wanted.
My heroine had moved past her former transgressions. She had found a new life where she could feel good about herself.
Maybe someday I’d find a piece of her happy ending for myself.
Regardless, the writing had given me an outlet. Not only had writing been therapeutic, it had given me a purpose. I was working toward something, not just sitting idle. I was finding the driven, ambitious woman that had been missing since I’d arrived at the outpost.
I was finding me again.
A tear rolled down my cheek and dropped on my shirt. I didn’t try to blink it away, I just let it, and the ones that followed, fall.
They weren’t sad.
They were full of hope.
I smiled, bringing a hand over my mouth to laugh.
I wrote a book.
Closing the lid on my laptop, I set it aside and stood. The room was too small for how big I felt so I rushed outside. By the time I hit the tree line into the meadow, I was running with Boone nipping playfully at my heels.
I bounced and twirled into the open sunlight, the scent of pine needles and green grass filling my nose, the smell intoxicating and wonderful. It was light and clean, sweet and full of promise.
“Woo-hoo!” I yelled into the open air, tipping my head back to the sky as I twirled with my arms out at my sides. Boone barked and jumped at my feet. “I wrote a book!” I laughed and shouted again.
Spinning and dancing, I let my smile shine. I was going full-on Sound of Music, “The hills are alive.” Julie Andrews had nothing on the pure joy I felt for the first time in . . . far too long.
And then it hit me.
An idea for novel number two.
I smiled, yelled for Boone and dashed back to the outpost.
The words on my first book were barely dry, metaphorically speaking, but I didn’t care.
Hours later, I had crafted chapter one of my second novel and it felt amazing.
I wasn’t a reporter anymore. I was an author.
And I wasn’t ever looking back.
I stowed my laptop and rushed to the door when the noise of an approaching vehicle sounded outside.
Just like I always did, I cracked the door and peered through the small opening to make sure it was Beau. It hadn’t been a week yet since his last visit so my heart was pounding faster than normal. When his truck, Green Colossus, came into view, I relaxed and let out the breath I’d been holding.
I had no idea what I’d do if someone other than Beau came to the outpost. Probably freak the fuck out, then hide in the bathroom.
Beau parked and got out of his truck, rounding the hood my way. I sucked in a couple short breaths as my heart skipped a beat. The sight of him affected me every damn time just like the first.
