Page 12 of Reckless Flames

His words, blunt as they were, struck a chord. The simplicity of his outlook, the straightforward approach to what I’d built up in my mind as an insurmountable hurdle, was both jarring and eye-opening.

We continued to talk, the conversation meandering through various topics, but Jake’s advice lingered in the back of my mind, a beacon of clarity in the fog of my uncertainties.

I was grateful for the distraction, the camaraderie, and the unexpected counsel. Jake, in his straightforward way, had offered a perspective I’d been too close to see.

By the time he left, my mind was alive with possibilities, with the idea of integrating the separate parts of my life into a cohesive whole.

Chapter seven

Sophie

“Damn it,” I muttered under my breath in a moment of sheer frustration, my fingers hovering above the keyboard. The blank document on the screen seemed to mock me, a stark reminder of the creative block that had taken hold ever since that last time with Ben.

I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my temples in a futile attempt to coax inspiration from the tangled mess of thoughts crowding my mind. It was no use; every time I tried to focus, my thoughts drifted back to him, to the warmth of his touch, the intensity of his gaze, and the abrupt, cold ending that had left me reeling.

I glanced around my makeshift workspace: a small desk by the window, cluttered with notes of half-formed ideas. Early-morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room, a stark contrast to the turmoil within me.

I tried again, typing out the beginnings of various intros, each one faltering before it could truly catch hold of my imagination. Then I typed: Sophie Wright, renowned author, struggles to find her muse. I let out a bitter laugh and deleted the line. If only it were as simple as a lost muse.

My thoughts wandered, unbidden, to my last book. The words had flowed effortlessly from my fingertips, each sentence a steppingstone on the path to a climax. The characters had been vivid, alive, their stories intertwining in a dance of plot and passion that had captivated my readers and satisfied my creative soul.

I remembered the satisfaction of typing the final words, the sense of completion that came from having told a story worth telling. It had been exhilarating, a stark contrast to the muddled attempts that now littered my desktop.

With a heavy sigh, I pushed away from the desk, the chair scraping against the floor in a sharp, jarring sound that echoed my internal discord. I needed to clear my head, to escape the confines of these four walls and the oppressive weight of my own expectations.

Madi and my dad were at work, and my mom was out running errands, so I was on my own. Pulling on a jacket, I stepped outside, the fresh air a welcome relief from the stifling atmosphere of my room. The neighborhood was quiet, the early hour lending a sense of peace and solitude that I increasingly found elusive within myself.

As I walked, the rhythmic sound of my footsteps on the pavement provided a simple, grounding beat, a counterpoint to the chaos of my thoughts. The familiar houses and yards passed by in a blur, my mind still ensnared by the events of the past few days, by the unresolved tension and the unanswered questions that Ben had left in his wake.

The frustration with his seeming indecision, the anger at being left vulnerable and exposed, warred with the undeniable pull I still felt toward him. It was a maddening, intoxicating mix of emotions that I couldn’t seem to shake, no matter how hard I tried.

I walked without direction, my steps leading me on a winding route through the neighborhood, each turn taking me further from my desk and the unwritten words that awaited me there. It was a temporary escape, a break from the demands of my personal chaos.

I halted in surprise when I saw the woods looming ahead of me and stood there indecisively as I remembered my promise to Ben. There was an easy path that led back in the direction of my parents’ house, and it didn’t go deep into the trees. I could probably call out and be heard by anyone outside in the yard of any of the houses along the edge of the woods. Heck, I could even see a house through the trees from that path occasionally. How dangerous could it possibly be to go back that way? Not dangerous at all, I decided, and it would be a nice change from the residential area I had been walking in.

I stepped happily onto the path when I reached it, glad to be among the trees, their leaves dappling the sunshine that penetrated to the ground which hosted a multitude of ferns, shrubs, and the occasional shade-loving wildflower.

My worries and frustrations disappeared as I let the lush growth around me, the birdsong in the tree branches above me, and the scent of fir fill my senses. Oh, how I had missed these woods in New York!

Knowing that I was completely alone, I stretched my arms out wide, as if to embrace the forest, and twirled around in a circle like a happy child. I had gone into the motion so swiftly that I made a full circle, even though I had seen something behind me that would have frozen me in place if I hadn’t been twirling so fast. Someone was behind me on the path—someone who had ducked behind a tree when I spun around. A neighbor who happened to be taking the same path at the same time would never have done such a thing.

My first thought in the rush of fear that filled me was to act as though I hadn’t seen anyone, and I forced my feet to begin walking again at the same pace. Ever so slightly, I lengthened my stride—just enough so the increased speed wouldn’t be noticed, swinging my arms as though I were strolling along.

My mind was frantically trying to remember the exact route of the path, while I listened hard for the sound of footsteps behind me. Nothing yet.Oh dear God, please, please keep them as far back on the path as you can.

When I saw the path curve to the right ahead—a curve that memory told me was leaving the woods and returning a walker to my neighborhood—just two blocks from my parents’ house, in fact, I gave up all pretense and ran for my life.

I arrived home, completely out of breath but unharmed. A ten-minute collapse on my bed restored me sufficiently to get back to my laptop. I decided to check my email accounts and then try again to make some progress with the new book. Yes, I had been scared shitless, but I resolved to keep my promise to Ben in the future and never go into the woods alone again.

I responded to a couple of emails in my personal account and went to check my author account. There was an email from my agent, asking about my progress so far, which I ignored for now. Hopefully, I will have written something by the time she really starts pestering me for a response.

I opened another email, one whose source I didn’t recognize, but this was my business account, and I often heard from strangers on topics related to writing and publishing. The fear I had felt in the woods returned in spades when I read:

Sophie,

You belong to me and to me alone. Do not spend any more time with the

man I saw you with at Grumpy’s or I will be forced to punish you. Besides,

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