Page 120 of Driven Daddy

I wasn’t sure what had clicked in place for her, but ever since we’d had the Asher meeting, she’d been in full-on writing mode. I understood the fugue state and facilitated it as much as I could.

I was actually a little jealous, since my characters had been suspiciously silent. Thankfully, I was too busy with Larsen and Asher figuring out how to make a newspaper office work with four-color offset printing.

Finding parts and people who wanted to run the machines was the first hurdle. Asher’s old printer had retired years ago. The young guy who had taken over knew the bare minimum for how to do the weekly community paper, not how to do the very intricate color work that came with my graphic novels, as well as Ryan’s book.

And if this was going to work with future comics, we needed to hash out the details now.

I was pretty sure Asher was fueled by problems. He was a freaking beast about details, as well as full of ideation for future volumes and special editions. I was exhausted every damn night.

But it was the good kind of tired.

The kind where I saw things coming together for Larsen and our people. That maybe there was a win coming for us.

And with what little energy I had left, gave it to Rita.

Instead of sapping her energy, when Rita was in a good writing groove, she had a light inside of her that followed us into the bedroom at night.

She was inventive, and goddamn if that yoga didn’t make her as bendy as hell. She was even wearing me down about doing it with her in the mornings.

As forty was coming at me like a bullet train, I was coming around to the idea of it. Especially with the amount of time I was crouched over my art boards.

Well, normally, I was crouched over them.

I’d ordered in a desk, and it was sitting in the corner of the room, unused. I had panels taped up and all my inks lined up.

And yet, there was just a void in my mind for my stories.

Everything was looking up for the future of Duality Press, except for the founding artist.

But that was a problem for another day.

Today, we’d had a meeting with the library about the workshop. Colette and Darby Morse, the librarian, needed us to let them know what we needed for the classes.

Cripes, classes.

I was no teacher. Hell, I’d been a shit student, to be honest. I hadn’t cared about classes. Instead, I’d been holed up in the art studio as I figured out just what kind of medium worked for me.I’d gone through all of them, and eventually, I’d landed on ink to my mother’s long-held consternation.

That was when I started wearing black all the time. At least that didn’t usually show the stains that were often all over me.

“Duchess, c’mon!” I pounded on the bathroom door in our—her—bedroom. It was feeling far too much like ours these days. And as a guy who’d never wanted to share my space before, that was scary as fuck. “Get out of the shower, you’re probably pruny at this point.”

She turned off the water and came out, leaving a plume of steamy air floating behind her. “I almost fell asleep in there.”

I frowned. “You slept for like ten hours last night.” I cupped her face. “You’re steamed like a lobster, so I can’t tell if you’re hot.”

She batted my hand away. “I’m not sick. I guess I overdid it this week with the photo shoot, writing, and helping Colette with her plans for the expansion.”

“We’ve both been burning both ends of the proverbial candle.”

She padded over to the closet and began the long process of picking out her clothes for the day.

Another win for the all-black column—everything I had matched.

“I’ll go make us some coffee. Want eggs or something? Maybe a bagel?”

She wrinkled her nose. “I’ll just grab some fruit. Coffee would be amazing, though.”

“Got it.” I was on my way out the door when I backtracked, peeking my head in. “I’m partial to that fluffy sweater that looks like sorbet if you care about my opinion.”

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