Page 12 of Rescuing the Writer

Melbourne had proven me wrong. That had been the single most intense orgasm I’d ever had in my life, and it had been purely physical, at least on his end. I wasn’t saying I was in love with Melbourne—that would be ridiculous after such a short period—but I was drawn to him for more than physical reasons.

I loved talking to him. He had a curious mind and knew a little bit about a lot of things—the curse of a writer, he told me. His mind was wonderfully creative and chaotic, and mess inevitably followed in his trail, but I didn’t mind. I liked seeing his socks in the hallway or his forgotten coffee on the counter, the butter he forgot to put back in the fridge, and the trail of cookie crumbs to his table. All reminders that I wasn’t alone, that I was sharing my life with someone, however temporary.

So yeah, for me, it was about more than physical attraction. But was it so bad if all he wanted was sex? If I allowed myself to get some experience so that when I met my future husband, I knew what I was doing?

I turned off the shower and grabbed my towel. Melbourne was right that we were both consenting adults, so why should it be a problem? The man was grown—forty-three, full of life experiences that could fill a book—yet here I was, questioning his offer as if it were something illicit or forbidden.

Yes, he was staying with me, but that didn’t make it a power imbalance. My guess was that he had quite a bit more money at his disposal than I did, so no, I wasn’t taking advantage of him. Or he of me.

I needed…more. More than the routine of my job and the safe confines of this town. More than the theoretical understanding of what it meant to be with a man. I craved the touch, the taste, the heat—the vibrant, messy reality.

“More experience,” I whispered, as if voicing the words might make them tangible, might solidify the nebulous desire coiling in my gut.

The mirror was fogged, and I used my towel to clear a spot. My reflection stared back at me, blue eyes clouded with uncertainty, but I felt a shift, a tectonic realignment within the fault lines of my being. If Melbourne was willing to be my guide, to share his wild, untamed world with me, then who was I to turn away from the lesson?

By the time I’d dressed and stepped back into the living room, Melbourne was behind his laptop, his fingers dancing over the keys. I wasn’t about to interrupt his writing flow, so it could wait.

Since it was Saturday and thus my day off, I’d better get my ass in gear and get some household chores done. While Melbourne clattered away at his keyboard, I changed the sheets on my bed, ran a load of laundry, unloaded the dishwasher, made a menu and a shopping list for the week to come, and mopped the kitchen floor. Once that was done, I did a quick grocery run.

In between, I refilled Melbourne’s water, which he didn’t even notice, and put fresh snacks within hand reach every hour and a half. An apple, some almonds, some homemade granola. He ate without even looking or saying anything. His concentration was amazing.

Four hours later, when I’d parked my butt in my favorite chair in front of the window that looked out over the front yard and was reading a book, he looked up. “Waylon?”

It almost sounded like a child looking for his parent. Why I found that endearing, I had no clue. “I’m here.”

He got up, looking dazed, then walked over to me. His eyes were clouded, and alarmed, I put my book down. “Is everything okay?”

“Can I have a hug?”

He looked like he’d just gotten horrible news. I rose and wrapped my arms around him. “What happened?”

“She died.”

“Who died?”

“Detective Lewis.”

Detective Lewis? Why did that name sound familiar? Then it hit me. He was talking about his books, about Detective Valerie Lewis, one of his recurring characters. “You killed her off?”

He leaned back, looking at me with accusatory eyes. “I didn’t kill her. The Kiss-Me Killer did.”

Oh. My. God. He was crying over a fictional character. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh, cry, or hug him even harder, so I did the last, holding him closer. “I’m sorry. I really liked her.”

He sniffled. “I loved her. I can’t believe he got to her.”

But…if he was the writer, wasn’t that his choice? What was I missing here? He held on for a while, then let go, wiping his eyes. “I know I look and sound ridiculous, crying over a fictional character. But I’d really grown attached to her.”

“I’m more baffled that you don’t seem to be in control of your own story.”

“You’d think the author would be able to prevent that, right? I couldn’t. The Kiss-Me Killer was too smart and outsmarted her. Or me, depending on how you look at it.”

“Right.” Okay, this was probably something I’d never understand. Maybe it was a creative thing?

He looked sheepish. “Doesn’t make sense to you, huh?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean it’s wrong or weird. I don’t have your brain.”

“Be glad you don’t. It’s not fun up there.”

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