Page 11 of Healing Hearts
The soft glow of my laptop illuminates the darkened room as I settle into my favorite armchair, feet propped on the worn leather ottoman. The mellow tones of an obscure indie jazz saxophonist float through the early morning air, a soothing counterpoint to the rapid tapping of my fingers on the keys.
I pause, reading over the paragraph I just wrote:
Alessandra, a bold and confident woman, was not one to shy away from what she desired. She had her sights set on the rugged cowboy who had caught her eye at the local saloon. With a toss of her dark hair, she fixated her smoldering gaze on him and purred, "I know what I want, and I always get what I want."
The cowboy was taken aback by Alessandra's boldness but couldn't deny the pull he felt towards her. He was intrigued by her confidence and couldn't resist the challenge she presented. Without a word, he took her hand and led her out into the cool night air.
They wandered through the streets of the small western town, their steps in sync as they talked and laughed like oldfriends. As they reached a secluded spot by the riverbank, Alessandra turned to face the cowboy with an intense look in her eyes.
"I want you," she whispered, before pulling him into a passionate kiss.
Their bodies pressed against each other as they lost themselves in each other's embrace. The river flowed beside them as their desires flowed freely between them.
God, I wish I had half of Alessandra's confidence. My protagonists are always so bold, so sure of themselves. I, on the other hand, am not – even in the slightest.
I sigh, shaking my head. "Get it together, girl," I mutter to myself and to Pickles my cat, who only ignores me as he cleans himself in inappropriate places. "You're Sophie Quinn, bestselling romance author. Act like it."
Even as I say the words, though, I know they’re not completely true. Sophie Quinn may be bold and fearless on the page, but in real life, I'm just me - a small-town school librarian who can barely work up the nerve to talk to an attractive guy, let alone seduce one.
Flashes of last night at Hooplas talking to Trevor, a trauma surgeon no less, pop in my head. He is so handsome and easy to talk to about anything. He was funny and I never felt like I needed to carry the conversation alone. We laughed and ate, sharing the offending burger and talking for a few hours. And then he even asked for my phone number…and I gave it to him without a second thought.
Maybe I do have some game…or maybe he’s a serial killer. With my luck, it really could go either way, although I didn’t get ‘serial killer’ vibes from him last night. It doesn’t matter though, I’m pretty sure I’ll never hear from him again, and that’s okay. For one night, last night, I had a good time talking to a hot guy. More fodder for my books, is how I see it.
I lean back, letting the music wash over me as I try to recapture Alessandra's sultry confidence with the cowboy once again. The saxophone wails a plaintive melody, stirring something deep inside me. For a moment, I let myself imagine I'm the kind of woman who could walk into a bar, lock eyes with a handsome stranger, and...
"No," I groan, shaking off the fantasy. "Focus, Brooke. This book isn’t going to finish itself just by wishing it was done."
I force my attention back to the screen, determined to lose myself in the world of my characters - the only place I truly feel bold and free. As my fingers fly across the keys once more, I push away the nagging voice that whispers how much I wish I could be more like the women I write.
My phone buzzes, startling me out of my writing trance. The morning sunrise off the ocean is filtering through the windows, blinding me. I’ve been writing for a few hours and lost track of time. I glance at the screen, my heart skipping a beat when I see an unknown number. It couldn't be... could it?
With trembling fingers, I answer. "Hello?"
"Brooke? Hi. It's Trevor. From Hooplas last night. I hope I’m not calling too early."
His deep voice sends a shiver down my spine. I can't believe he actually called. "Hi. No, not at all. I’m just waiting for my coffee to finish brewing. It’s nice to hear from you." I lie right through my teeth. Can’t very well tell him I’m writing a sultry sex scene between the cowboy and Alessandra as they’re riding a horse while I’m still in my nightshirt, now, can I?
He chuckles, the sound warm and rich to my ears. "I couldn't stop thinking about our conversation. I was wondering if you’d like to grab coffee sometime. Maybe continue where we left off? I’d love to see youagain."
He wants to see me again? Holy shit! He wants to see me again!
"I’d love that," I say, struggling to keep my voice steady and channel my inner Sophie Quinn. I run through all the things I need to do this weekend and when I can get them done and come up with a strange time for coffee, but it’s the best I can do. "How about tomorrow afternoon? There’s a great little café, Java Hut, in town. I could meet you there around four?"
"That sounds perfect. I’m looking forward to it, Brooke."
We say goodbye and I can't help but grin.
Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.
I take a deep breath as I toss my laptop onto the ottoman, and I go to the kitchen to make the coffee I just lied about. As the one pod machine starts brewing, I do a little happy dance in the middle of my cozy cottage kitchen. Pickles is watching me and clearly concerned for the state of my mental health, but I don’t care. I’ve got a date with a doctor – a hot and sexy doctor that’s funny and kind.
Still riding the high of Trevor's call, I return back to my laptop and write like there’s no tomorrow, getting so many words written, I lose track of time again. Taking a break to stretch my fingers, a notification catches my eye - a new editorial review for my latest novel was just posted online. My stomach flutters as I click the link. The review overflows with praise for Sophie Quinn’s latest masterpiece.
This is Sophie Quinn’s most captivating and sensual work yet, igniting intrigue and desire in all who read it. The words on the page seemed to come alive, pulsing with untamed energy and raw emotion. This book is a testament to Quinn’s mastery of storytelling, transporting readers into a world of passion and beauty unlike any other.
Pride swells in my chest. This isn’t why I write, but it certainly doesn’t suck, either, to hear that people love what I write.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing thoughts as the‘what ifs’start to invade my thoughts. "You're fine," I whisper to myself. "No one suspects you to be a bestselling romance author, Brooke. Leave the‘what ifs’at the door."
