Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 91820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Sit back down and stare at the blinking cursor.
Pick my coffee up and drain it.
Then, I go make another coffee and get some crisps—or chips, as they call them here. Pour half the bag into a bowl so that I don’t eat them all and take them and my fresh coffee back to the table and sit down.
The document is still blank. The cursor is still blinking at me.
For Christ’s sake, why is this hard?! I love writing, and I’m a good writer.
I can do this.
Grabbing my phone, I select the Music app and put some songs on at random. “Cruel Summer” by Bananarama starts to play. I love this song. Hearing it play gives me a warm feeling in my chest, and for some reason, it makes me think of West and being in the Maldives with him. Maybe I heard it playing when I was there with him.
Holding on to that warm feeling, I close my eyes and try to think of some of the ideas that I wrote on my laptop back home. I shift through them in my mind, but nothing sticks. Maybe it’s because I’m still in the holiday mood. This song definitely has me feeling that way.
Ooh. Maybe I should write a book where the heroine is on holiday, like I just was.
Maybe she meets a guy while she’s there. Like I met West.
They hook up. Have lots of sex. Like West and I did …
Wait.
Holy shit. I think I have it.
No, I don’t think. I definitely do have it.
My mind starts to spin with ideas. My heart beating with the excitement of a new story.
I think I can do this. I really do.
Then, I blink open my eyes, press my fingers to the keys, and start typing.
twenty-seven
Dillon
“Honey, I’m home.” He’s all freshly showered after coming back from training.
My eyes flick to the clock on West’s laptop. It’s after four p.m. Bloody hell, I’ve been writing pretty much all day without a break.
That’s never happened to me before.
I notice that my hands are aching. But it’s a good kind of ache. The I achieved something today ache.
Feeling happy to see him, I pop out of my seat, run over to him, and jump into his arms. He catches me with an oomph, my legs going around his waist, his hands cupping my butt. My fingers thread into his hair, and I plant a kiss on his lips. He moans and dives into the kiss without hesitation.
When our mouths break apart, we’re both breathing heavier.
“Hey.” I smile at him.
“Hey yourself.” He gives my butt a squeeze.
“I wrote today,” I tell him, unable to contain my excitement.
“That’s great.”
“Like, I wrote all day! I was struggling at first, but then I got this idea, and bam! I couldn’t stop writing.”
While I’ve been saying all of this, West has carried me into the kitchen. He sets me down on the countertop, goes to the fridge, and gets a bottle of water.
“Want anything?” he asks me.
“No, I’m good.”
I watch him twist the cap off the bottle and then take a drink. Is it weird that I’m getting turned on from watching the way his throat works when he swallows?
“How was training?” I ask when he lowers the bottle from his mouth.
“Brutal. Coach had us running drills for hours. I’m tired. Even my ass muscles ache.”
“Aw, poor baby.” I pout. “No sex for you tonight then.”
His eyes snap up to mine. “I said I was tired, Double D. Not dead.”
I laugh softly. “I can give you a massage if you want?”
“I want.”
“But before the massage, I need to ask you something. Well, run something by you.”
“How about massage while you run something by me?”
“Deal.”
I hop off the counter and follow West to the sofa. He sits down, and I move to sit next to him. He’s obviously not happy with this seating arrangement because he picks me up and moves me to sit in his lap, facing him. Then, he takes hold of my hands and places them on his shoulders. He’s tired, yet he still has the strength and energy to pick me up and move me around. I wish I had that kind of energy left when I was tired. When I’m tired, I struggle to pick up the remote control to turn the television on.
I start to massage his shoulders, and he groans, laying his head back against the sofa and closing his eyes.
“This pressure okay?” I ask as I knead his muscles with my fingers.
“Perfect.”
I run my fingers up his neck, pull the tie from his hair, and then slide my fingers into the dirty-blond strands, massaging his scalp.
“That feels good,” he groans.
“So, this thing I need to ask you …”
“Uh-huh?”
“Well, my book idea, the one I’ve spent all day plotting out and writing?” I feel a frisson of excitement inside me at the mere thought. “It’s kind of about me and you.”