Page 39 of Yours To Take
Typical Clint. If it’s not a major metropolis, he has no interest. Even though I’ve told him every single time he’s called.
“What’s going on?”
“How’s the writing going?”
“You mean the writing you forced upon me?” I save the document and close my laptop.
One can never be too careful with saving your work.
“Don’t be so dramatic.”
I lean back onto the couch, grabbing my wine and taking a long sip. Damn, that’s good.
I didn’t have the first clue what the food would be like here, but every meal is better than the last.
“It’s going.”
“Do you have something I can look at?”
“Not yet.”
“Listen, Blake. You know I love you like a son, but I need more than that. You’re like a dried-up ocean these last few months.”
“Ouch.”
“I say it with love.” Even over the phone, I can picture that placating look he gives me.
“I’m hoping to have something to you in the next few weeks. I’m writing.”
“And it’s good?”
“Jesus. Give me a little more credit.” I scrub a frustrated hand down my face. This is always part of the problem with Hollywood. You can’t just write something.
It has to be good.
I don’t want to tell Clint what I have right now—almost as if showing him might jinx the flow of ideas.
There’s a soft knock at the door.
“Clint, I have to go.”
“Got a hot date?”
Glancing through the peephole, that’s exactly what I’m hoping to have. “Something like that.”
I don’t wait to hear his response before ending the call. Gemma’s smile greets me as I swing open the door.
“Gemma. What are you doing here?” I sweep my arm out, welcoming her in.
“Sorry to bother you.”
“It’s no bother.” I walk back into the living room and grab my wine, eyeing her carefully.
I shouldn’t be so taken in by Gemma. My time here is limited.
“I was told that the kitchen forgot your wine and thought I’d bring it over.”
“You mean this wine?” I swirl the glass I’m holding.
