Page 25 of A Not So Merry Rescue
Why has this guy got me all tangled in knots?
Why am I so enamored by him?
I don’t want him to know how much the name affects me, so I school my features. “Be safe out there. Text me.”
“Happy writing.” His salutation given, he trudges out the back door. I watch through the window as he fights the still falling snow to the garage. He slides in through a side door, and one of the three—I swear there’s more square footage in the garage than the cabin, probably space for more than three cars—doors opens. There’s a plow attached to a truck in the bay, the headlights illuminating the snow.
Within a minute, he pulls out, the door closes, and the taillights of an unfamiliar truck disappear down the driveway.
“Happy writing,” I mumble, pouring myself another mug of coffee, daring myself to stay out of the pantry to determine what flavor is tantalizing my taste buds. It’s piping hot thanks to Beckett brewing a full pot before he set out on his way. He took two to-go mugs and left the rest for me.
If he ever decides the bachelor life isn’t for him, he’s going to make some special woman very happy.
He cooks, cleans, is neat, considerate, and charming, even to strangers. The only flaw is his staunchness for Christmas.
Ugh.
Dealbreaker.
It doesn’t have to be,a voice from beyond whispers.Give him a chance.
“I’m not here looking for love,” I shout to the empty room.
This week is about getting my writing mojo back.
My skin crawls at the mere thought of staring at a blank page.
At having to come up with a plot.
Of having to type cohesive sentences and paragraphs.
Of editing.
Forget the first draft.
It’s the round of revisions I’m dreading the most. It’s what’s causing the writer’s block. I’m one hundred percent convinced.
For shits and giggles, I dig out my laptop and make myself comfortable at the kitchen table. It’s not my desk at home—or the coffee shop I work at on occasion—but it’ll do. At least for this test of sorts.
Ignoring emails and social media, I start a blank document and type “Chapter One.”
My fingers hover over the keys, frozen in place, the words of the story locked in a part of my brain I don’t have the key to. The one Elias took with him . . .
Slamming down the top of the laptop—thank goodness it’s only a travel one—I push it away, frustration rolling off in waves.
Waves that knock a person down, the undertow so strong, the person is swept away.
“Ahhhh!” I yell, trying to clear the tension, the anger, the huge emotions dragging me down, attempting to sweep me away with the current.
This is possibly the worst writer’s retreat slash vacation slash escape I’ve ever had.
First, the accident.
Next, stranded in a town of the North Pole’s vomit.
Third, being stuck in this cabin alone, being mocked by the tree and ornaments in the corner.
My eyesight catcheson the half-full mug, the Grinch staring back at me.
