Page 38 of Sing it, Sam

Chapter Thirteen

Wheelchair beside chair, Sam and I finish the last of my homemade sandwiches. I’m guessing by the speed with which he’s devoured it that he liked it.

“Do you reckon we start another book?” Sam asks, and eats the last bit of crust.

I snap shut my plastic lunchbox, then take the napkin from Sam’s lap, folding it up to contain the crumbs before disposing of it.

“Actually, I was hoping to talk to you about something.”

“I’m all ears,” he says.

“’Kay. Here goes.” I grit my teeth and take a deep breath. “I’m trying to write a book,” I say with a huff.

“That’s awesome,” he says and smiles. He blinks repeatedly, an expectant look on his face.

“It doesn’t look that awesome right now. Trust me.”

“Like I said, I’m all ears, Janie. Sounds like you need to get something off your chest.”

Relief washes over me. “I really do,” I say and nod repeatedly.

“Why don’t you start at the beginning? What made you wanna write?” he asks, giving me direct eye contact. He’s really interested in what I have to say. Something I haven’t found in the opposite sex to date.

“My nan was a historical romance author. She helped me discover my love of reading. I’ve always wanted to be able to create something like she did, something more modern day, of course, but I really suck at the whole writing part.”

“I’m sure you’re not that bad.”

“Well, I definitely know it’s not good. I recently joined a local writers’ group. The girls are all doing so well; they’re successful in what they do. They know their craft. I have ideas, but getting them to form into some sort of well-thought out story? It’s just not in me. Sometimes I can sit at the computer for hours, and then when I read back what I’ve written I think it’s complete rubbish.”

“I’m sure that, like anything, it takes practice. You need a plan and an understanding of what you’re trying to achieve. Once you know where you’re going, you have a starting point and an ending point.”

My brows pull together as I regard him. “You know about writing?”

“I know stuff,” he says and puffs up his chest. “Can’t give away all my secrets, though.”

“Fine,” I say in a soft voice. “The thing is, I don’t want to share something with the group that’s mediocre. I just know they’ll rip it to pieces; I get the feeling that Janice won’t be one to hold back. I’m too stubborn, and I take stuff to heart. So, whatever it is that I end up writing, it has to be perfect. The perfect novel—the perfect romance.”

“This world ain’t perfect, Janie.” Sam points to his chest with his thumb. “Prime example.”

“Sam,” I huff and shake my head.

“You know what a perfect world—well, a perfect anything would look like to me?” he asks before I get a chance to say anything else.

“How about you tell me?”Please. Let me in.

“I sure as shit wouldn’t be in a nursing home. I’d be lying on the sand, watching you strut along on a beach. You’d be wearing a bikini and your hair would blow in the breeze as the sun kissed your skin from your head down to your toes.”

My breath hitches, and my heart? It does a somersault in my chest. Sam Marshall has a way with words. I don’t even think he has to try.

I clear my throat, trying to act cool as if his wishful words didn’t just turn me to goop. “Maybe one day you will. I’ll have to learn to strut first.”

“I saw you walk out of here yesterday,” he teases. “Youtotallyswayed that cute butt of yours.”

I reach out and playfully slap his knee, trying to ignore the fact he was looking at my arse. “I did not,” I protest. “You must have been doped up on pain meds.”

I regret the words as soon as they come from my mouth.Way to remind him of his medical issues. “Sorry.”

“I’ve been off them for a few days, so you’re wrong. You can be comforted by the fact that I’m thinking about you and me on a beach with a clear head.”

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