Page 8 of Claiming His Muse

Miranda hums thoughtfully, pursing her lips together and drumming her fingers against her thighs. Then, her face lights up as an idea hits her, and she says, “What if you didn’t have to have a conversation?”

“I don’t follow.”

“You’ve been writing poems about him, right?” she asks, waiting for me to nod before continuing. “Just show him one of those. I think he’ll get the idea.”

“Maybe,” I say, finally digging into the fries properly.

Miranda seems satisfied with her work and doesn’t press any further. Instead, she clicks the TV on and takes her ponytail out, officially in the decompression portion of her night. Neither of us speak, but I welcome the silence. It gives me time to think about her suggestion.

Spoken words have never really been my strong suit. I’ve gotten better at expressing myself verbally as I’ve gotten older, but telling someone I’ve developed feelings for them is uncharted territory. Just the thought of saying it out loud makes my stomach turn even though I’m almost positive that the outcome will be good.

Showing him one of the poems I’ve written is something I hadn’t considered before now. I’ve spent the last few years honing my craft, and now it’s the way I’m most confident in expressing myself. Miranda might be onto something. Maybe I should invite him over tomorrow and offer up one of my poems.

As I’m considering which one would be best and most succinct in describing the way I feel, my phone vibrates on the coffee table. I jump forward to grab it while Miranda watches me with interest. A smile blooms on my face when I read the text that just came through.

“You gonna share with the class,” she asks, unamused by my silence, “or is it a secret?”

“It’s Blake,” I say, looking away from the screen. “He says he wants to see me tomorrow.”

“Jenny, that’s perfect!” she exclaims, clapping her hands together. “Invite him over. Show him your poem. Make that boy yours!”

“Oh my god, you’re insufferable,” I giggle as I start typing a reply.

“I guess if you feel that way about me, I’ll excuse myself and take a shower,” she says, getting up and patting my head as she leaves the room. “I’ll be back, and I want to hear about how excited you are to see him and spend some alone time with him when I do.”

“Get out of here,” I say, hitting send on my invitation.

Blake’s reply comes almost immediately, and he asks for my address. After sending it to him along with a time, I lock my phone again and reach for my bag. If I’m going to tell him how I feel with a poem, I have to make sure it’s perfect. If I have to, I’ll write another, but I’m pretty sure one that I’ve already written will get the job done.

Chapter 7

Blake

When I talked to Jenny last night, I wasn’t expecting her to invite me over. My intention was to ask her on a date. I figured we could go to a coffee shop or grab brunch at one of the off-campus cafes, but I’m definitely not going to complain about our meeting happening somewhere a little more private.

In the hours following her abrupt departure from the studio, I realized that I need to tell her how I feel. Keeping it inside is killing me, and I can’t risk her falling even harder for her mystery man. I’ll do anything to keep her from slipping through my fingers.

So on the way over, I stop by a florist to grab her a bouquet of roses. She deserves nothing but the very best. Then, with a renewed spring in my step, I finish the short journey to her place.

At her door, I take a moment to primp myself a little. I fluff my hair, straighten my eyebrows, and smooth all of the wrinkles out of my shirt. Then I raise my fist and knock. It takes her about thirty seconds to answer, and when she does, she takes my breath away.

She’s wearing an emerald green dress that makes her two-toned eyes pop. Her gorgeous blonde curls hang loose around her shoulders with a singular strand tucked behind her left ear. There’s makeup on her face, but it’s light – nothing more than a little bit of mascara and a light pink gloss on her lips. It takes all of my self-control not to kiss her right there.

“Are those for me?” Jenny asks, her gaze landing on the flowers in my hand.

“They are,” I confirm as I hand them over. “Can I come in?”

“Oh, yeah,” she replies, stepping back to grant me entry. “Of course.”

“Thank you,” I say as I cross the threshold, taking in the well-decorated apartment. Framed prints are carefully arranged on the walls, and the furniture has the delicate-yet-comfy allure of a Parisian cafe. The smell of sweet pea flowers lingers in the air. “Your place is just as gorgeous as you are.”

“Thank you,” she giggles as she shuts the door. “I’m going to put these in water. If you want to come with me, I can show you the kitchen.”

“Gladly,” I say, following her through the apartment. The kitchen is equally chic and homey, littered with little bits of bumblebee decor. It’s so charming and cute, so perfectly Jenny.

“I was actually going to invite you over before you messaged me last night,” she says, pulling a plain glass vase from the cabinet above her sink.

I lean against the wall and watch her. Every movement is so graceful. “Missed me already?” I tease.

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