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)
All right.
He wasn’t that bad.
“See? You were scared for nothing.” Max’s lips tugged up before he quickly schooled his expression back to one of no emotion. “And there’s something on the hay bales that you’ve been looking for.”
I jerked my head around to the bales. “Winston, you little bastard!”
He raised his head sleepily to look at me, then turned away and curled up again.
“How am I supposed to get him down from there?”
Max sighed and crossed the barn to the storage area in the back corner. The bales were stacked in a staggered way, and he wiped his hands on his shorts before he climbed up onto the first one. Winston either didn’t know or didn’t care—I’d go with the latter—because he didn’t move as Max continued hauling himself up the huge hay bales to get closer to him.
He, was, naturally, on the highest one. About ten feet off the ground.
Classic Winston.
“I got him,” Max said, reaching out.
Winston, ever the slippery little git, bounded off the top of the bales to the ground, where he landed perfectly on all four paws.
“You little sod!” Max shouted down at him.
Winston bounded over to me and rubbed himself against my leg, then circled my ankle in that way cats did that said, “Hello, I’m here, I require your attention.”
I bent down and picked him up. It was a little begrudgingly, I admit. I didn’t want to reward this behaviour, but I also didn’t want to give him a chance to escape again.
Max jumped off the second level of hay bales with a huff. “Can you get him a GPS tracker or something?”
“I might have to,” I replied warily. “At least we found him.”
“With the goats, though?”
“Cats like to be up high. The bales are high.”
“At least we know where to bloody look next time he escapes.” He met my eyes. “Don’t tell me there won’t be a next time. He’ll fucking escape again, and you know it.”
I pressed my lips together into a thin line.
Yeah.
He was right.
“I’ll order a GPS collar,” I muttered.
“And find out where he’s getting out. He’s doing it somehow.” He brushed his hands off on his shorts again. “Bloody cat.”
On that note, he left me standing in the barn with the bloody cat in my arms, staring after him.
Well.
One had to agree with his sentiment.
• • •
All right.
I was doing it.
No matter what I did or how many times I tried to rewrite this blasted book, the only acceptable muse was Max.
It was really quite annoying. I’d changed the description of my hero three different times, but no words flowed unless he was based upon the very real duke I was, undoubtedly, irritating on a daily basis. Even down to his grumpiness and hatred of my escapee cat—it was all there, being written by my very own fingers that I apparently had absolutely no control over.
I hated it.
I hated that I was going to immortalise him in the pages of my book.
I hated that my dashing, swoony hero was a blue-eyed, black-haired duke with an intense gaze and a firm body and a gentle hand with goats.
I hated that my heroine was a curvy, slightly overweight blonde with an ornery cat who escaped at every given opportunity.
I hated that I was going to make her kiss him and fall in love with him and the goats on his estate.
I hated that her happiness would ultimately wear him down and they’d have wild, satisfying sex while he struggled to admit his true feelings for her.
I frigging hated it all.
If only I had any semblance of control over the people in my head, my life would be so much easier.
Nobody ever said writing books was easy, but they also failed to mention just how difficult it was.
I stared at the screen.
I could do this.
I could write the moment they saw each other again after she unknowingly booked a stay at a lake house on his estate.
I wished it was in her point of view.
I blew out a long breath, cracked my knuckles, and got to it.
‘Sam recognised that dark, wavy hair and tantalising curves. He’d thought of little else since she’d bumped into him and he’d replaced her coffee six weeks ago. His biggest regret from that day was that he hadn’t even gotten her name, never mind her number, but now, she was here. In front of him. At the very least, he could get her name.’
Damn it.
Was that cheesy?
It sounded cheesy to my brain.
I copied and pasted it into a second document and tried again.
‘It was her—the girl who’d crashed into him and spilt her coffee all over him a few weeks ago. He hadn’t seen her face, but he was almost certain that he recognised her wavy dark hair and voluptuous hips.’
Ugh.
Voluptuous.
That was a dreadful word.
‘He hadn’t seen her face, but he was almost certain that he recognised her wavy dark hair and full hips.’