Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 130255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
MEGAN: You should write a book about me and how I stomp on my boss’s head.
ME: You do know I write romance, right? Not thrillers or murder mysteries.
MEGAN: Then make my hot boyfriend stomp on her head for me. That’s romantic.
ME: You need to spend less time watching Netflix.
MEGAN: It’s not my fault I like a bad boy.
ME: Your boyfriend plays Dungeons and Dragons three times a week. Forgive me, but that doesn’t scream a man who needs to be saved from his wayward path into illicit activities.
MEGAN: That’s why I like the bad boys. Keeps it fresh, you know?
ME: Does Dan know that?
MEGAN: What do you think I watch while he plays D&D? It’s not the bloody Discovery channel.
An excellent point.
MEGAN: That’s enough about me. What’s wrong with you? Are your words broken?
ME: So broken. It’s been eight days, and nothing is coming out.
MEGAN: Have you tried porn?
How did I know that was going to be her first question?
ME: More than once.
MEGAN: Then something is coming out, but it’s not your words.
ME: MEGAN. THAT’S NOT HELPFUL.
MEGAN: Bet the porn was, though.
ME: Do you have a real suggestion to help me????
MEGAN: You need a change of scenery. All you do is sit in your house and write. Occasionally you surface for food and drinks with the girls. Why don’t you get away?
ME: On… like… a writing retreat?
MEGAN: Or just a short break. It’s not like you have to book time off. You can take your job with you.
ME: That’s true.
MEGAN: So just book a house or something somewhere you’ve always wanted to go that’s totally different from here, take that arsehole cat of yours, and get away from it all. I bet you’ll find something to inspire you.
That really wasn’t the worst idea in the world.
I hadn’t spent any time away from my computer in about three years, and even if I was going to take it with me… A change of scenery might not hurt. Sometimes I had to write in a coffee shop or in the garden or even the living room instead of my office, but none of those options had worked.
Was it a little drastic? Sure. But Meg was right—I didn’t have to ring in sick from a job, so there was nothing stopping me.
Well.
That wasn’t strictly true.
My arsehole cat was somewhat of a stumbling block. If I were to go somewhere and write an entire book, he’d have to come with me. It wasn’t fair to send him to a cattery for so long, none of my neighbours in their right mind would look after him, and honestly, I was really quite attached to the little sod.
Who was currently climbing through the window with a dead bird in his mouth.
“Winston!” I exclaimed, jumping up. “What are you doing? We’ve spoken about this! No animals in the house!”
He looked up at me with all the innocence that his Maine Coon arse could muster.
Spoiler: it was none. Fucking en-oh-en-ee none.
He dropped the bird on my armchair in front of me and pounced down, trilling as his paws hit the carpet. I glared after him, but he was entirely unbothered by my annoyance as he strutted out of the office towards the kitchen with his huge, fluffy tail in the air. The tip was even flicking.
And I had a dead bird on my chair.
I stared at it. How in the fuck did he catch a crow? I knew that Sir Winston Purrchill was a little bloody savage, but a crow? Those things were huge. This thing was huge. And dead.
Very, very dead.
Look, I got it. He thought I was a helpless human who was incapable of eating without his divine intervention, but I really didn’t need him to bring me the results of his efforts to control the nuisance that was the local bird population.
I sighed and got up, shoving my phone in my hoodie pocket. I wasn’t touching that animal with my bare hands. What did I even do with a dead crow?
Christ, this was a nightmare.
I was going to rehome this cat.
No, I wasn’t. I was about as likely to do that as Megan was to get a new job. I loved the stupid animal, even if his gifts left a lot to be desired.
Why couldn’t he fetch me something useful? Like, oh, a bottle of wine? Or a packet of crisps? I’d even take a packet of custard creams.
I side-eyed him as I walked to the cupboard to fetch my bag of carrier bags, also known as the staple of every kitchen ever. I pulled out one of the thicker ones and walked back to my office, where the distinct sound of flapping could be heard.
Oh, no.
Not again.
This was an all too often occurrence with Winston’s deliveries.
My brother was going to kill me if I called him to come and get it.