Page 18 of Kissing the Wrong Mountain Man

I place it against my torso and hook the curve over my thigh. Sliding my left hand up the neck, my right hand hovers over the strings. My chest swirls with painful memories, so I squeeze my eyes shut and begin to strum.

I feel myself getting dragged into the darkness that's been with me ever since it happened. Sometimes it feels like drowning, other times it's like I can't breathe. Every time, it's an all-consuming black wall I can't escape, climb over, or push out of the way.

But tonight…tonight, that same ferocious pull that usually swamps me isn't as strong. Isn't so unbearable.

Tonight, for the first time, it feels like there's a small opening. A tiny crack in the wall. A possibility to not go down the well-worn path and choose another way. A way that allows me to open up instead of pulling back.

Because tonight, I'm not alone.

I keep strumming and reopen my eyes. Schapelle is sitting next to me, her head tilted and a soft smile playing on her lips. She's swaying gently, her hair loose and falling around her shoulders.

A jolt of electricity shoots up my spine as it suddenly dawns on me.

Schapelle said she was done with emotionally damaged men. Yeah, well, maybe it's about time for this emotionally damaged man to finally deal with his issues.

9

Schapelle

"Okay, okay," I mutter to myself, madly flicking through a pile of papers because I'm old school and still like to write down my notes with a pen before converting my ideas into my laptop.

"So, I've got his backstory sorted out, hers is still a little vague. I need to re-read a few sections of the previous book to ensure plot line continuation is consistent," I mutter to myself. "Oh, and that reminds me, what secondary characters do I want to introduce in this installment?"

Gah, writing my first series of related books is so much harder than writing stand-alones. Everything needs to be connected, continuing plotlines need to make sense and flow, and you have the added burden of keeping track of all the secondary characters.

My mind is swimming in details.

I'm so grateful for the peace and quiet I have here. Living with my parents was starting to drive me nuts. Mom doesn't understand the concept of a closed door meaningplease do not disturb, and Dad would give gorillas in the wild a run for their money when it comes to making noise the way he stomps about the house.

I scoop up a handful of nuts and dried fruit and munch down on them noisily. They make my mouth go dry, so I wash them down with some chilled water.

Wait a minute.

I clearly remember draining the last of my water bottle because I had to get up and use the bathroom. I did that, but forgot to get a refill when I came back.

I look up.

Brock is placing the rafters on top of the support beams out on the deck. I would've thought putting up a pergola would require at least two people, but nope, he's been doing it all on his own.

I glance back at the table. Come to think of it, I didn't get the snacks, either. Or the cup of steaming hot decaf.

Oh.

My.

Goodness.

Not only have I taken over his dining nook, he's also been keeping me fed and hydrated all this time, and I haven't even noticed, much less said thank you.

Not even once. Yikes.

I take a break from my fictional romance world to focus on the pieces of the puzzle that is Brock Palladino.

There are the things about the man I've married and am roommates with that I've learned these past two weeks.

He's kind and considerate, like insisting on resting my feet on his lap and treating me to heavenly foot rubs every night. He's a great cook, even if he prefaces each nightly meal with, "Nonna would do it better." He's handy and capable and self-reliant, no mama's boy here.

And he's sweet to indulge me in my love ofDawson's Creek, watching it with me every night. I doubt he'll ever be a superfan, but I hope he's enjoying it a little.

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